Sidney Henderson fairly broke into a run in order to catch up to the three girls. They heard him coming, and turned around, while Tom and Phil, some distance off, were spectators of the scene.
“I say!” burst out poor Sid pantingly, as he came to a halt, “I’m awfully sorry, Miss Harrison, but—er—I can’t take you to the theatricals to-night, after all. I’ve just received bad news.”
“Bad news? Oh, I’m so sorry!” and the blue eyes of the pretty girl, that had been merry and dancing, as she chatted with Ruth and Madge, took on a tender glance.
“Oh, it isn’t that any one is sick, or—er—anything like that,” Sid hastened to add, for he saw that she had misunderstood him. “It’s just that I have received a message—I have got to go away—I—er—I can’t explain, but some one is in trouble, and I—I’m awfully sorry,” he blurted out, feeling that he was making a pretty badmess of it. “I’ve arranged for Tom Parsons to take you to the theatricals, Miss Harrison.”
“You’ve arranged for Mr. Parsons to take me?” There was no mistaking the anger in her tones. Her blue eyes seemed to flash, and she drew herself up proudly. Madge and Ruth, who had shown some pity and anxiety at Sid’s first words, looked at him curiously.
“Yes, Tom will be very glad to take you,” went on the unfortunate Sid.
“Thank you,” spoke Miss Harrison coldly. “I don’t believe I care to go to the theatricals after all. Come on, girls, or we will be late for tea,” and without another look at Sid she turned aside and walked on.
“Oh, but I say, you know!” burst out the second baseman. “I thought—that is—you see—I can’t possibly take you, as it is, and I thought——”
“It isn’t necessary for anyone to take me!” retorted Miss Harrison coldly. “It’s not at all important, I assure you. Good afternoon, Mr. Henderson,” and she swept away, leaving poor Sid staring after her with bewilderment in his eyes. It was his first attempt at an affair with a maiden, and it had ended most disastrously. He turned back to rejoin his chums.
“Well?” questioned Tom, as Sid came up. “Isit all right? Am I to have the pleasure of two young ladies to-night?”
“No, it’s all wrong!” blurted out Sid. “I can’t understand girls!”
“That’s rich!” cried Phil. “Here you have been despising them all your life, and now, when you do make up to one, and something happens, you say you can’t understand them. No man can, old chap. Look at Tom and me, here, and we’ve had our share of affairs, haven’t we, old sport.”
“Speak for yourself,” replied the pitcher. “But what’s the row, Sid?”
“Hanged if I know. I told her I couldn’t possibly go to-night——”
“Did you tell her why?” interrupted Phil.
“Well, I said I had received word that I had to go away, and—er—well I can’t explain that part of it even to you fellows. I’ve got to go away for a short time, that’s all. It’s fearfully important, of course, or I wouldn’t break a date with a girl. I can’t explain, except that I have to go. I tried to tell her that; and then I said I’d arranged with you to take her, Tom.”
“You what?” cried the amazed pitcher.
“I told her I was going to have you take her.”
“Without asking her whether it would be agreeable to her?”
“Of course. I didn’t suppose that was necessary, as you and Miss Clinton and Miss Tyler were all going together. I just told her you’d take her.”
“Well, of all the chumps!” burst out Phil.
“A double-barreled one!” added Tom.
“Why—what’s wrong?” asked Sid wonderingly.
“Everything,” explained Phil. “You ask a pretty girl—and by the way, Sid, I congratulate you on your choice, for she is decidedly fine looking—but, as I say, you ask a pretty girl to go to some doings, and when you find you can’t go, which is all right, of course, for that often happens, why then, I say, you coolly tell her you have arranged for her escort. You don’t give her a chance to have a word to say in the matter. Why, man alive, it’s just as if you were her guardian, or grandfather, or something like that. A girl likes to have a voice in these matters, you know. My, my, Sid! but you have put your foot in it. You should have gently, very gently, suggested that Tom here would be glad to take her. Instead, you act as though she had to accept your choice. Oh, you doggoned old misogynist, I’m afraid you’re hopeless!”
“Do you suppose she’ll be mad?” asked Sid falteringly.
“Mad? She’ll never speak to you again,” declaredTom, with a carefully-guarded wink at Phil.
“Well, I can’t help it,” spoke Sid mournfully. “I’ve just got to go away, that’s all,” and he hastened on in advance of his companions.
“Don’t stay out too late, and get caught by Proc. Zane again,” cautioned Phil, but Sid did not answer.
Tom and Phil lingered in the gymnasium, whither they went for a shower bath, and when they reached their room, to put on clothes other than sporting ones for supper, Sid was not in the apartment. There was evidence that he had come in, hastily dressed, and had gone out again.
“He’s off,” remarked Tom.
“Yes, and it’s mighty queer business,” remarked Phil. “But come on, we’ll get an early grub, tog up, and go get the girls.”
“What about Miss Harrison?”
“Hanged if I know,” answered Tom. “I’d be glad to take her, of course, but I’m not going to mix up in Sid’s affairs.”
“No, of course not. Well, come on.”
In spite of hearty appetites Tom and Phil did not linger long at the table, and they were soon back in their room, where they began to lay out their dress suits, and to debate over which ties they should wear. Tom had managed to borrow a dress shirt, and so did not have to buy one.
“I say, Phil,” remarked the pitcher, as he almost strangled himself getting a tight fifteen collar to fit on the same size shirt, “doesn’t it strike you as queer about Sid—I mean his chasing off this way so suddenly?”
“It sure does. This is the second time, and each time he scoots off when he’s had a note from some one.”
“Remember when he came back last night, smelling so strong of tobacco?”
“Sure; yet he doesn’t smoke.”
“No, and that’s the funny part of it. Then there’s the fact of him having no money to-day, though he had a roll yesterday.”
There was silence in the small apartment, while the clock ticked on. Tom, somewhat exhausted by his struggle with his collar, sank down on the ancient sofa, a cloud of dust, like incense, arising around him.
“Cæsar’s legions! My clothes will be a sight!” he cried, jumping up, and searching frantically for a whisk broom.
“Easy!” cried Phil, “I just had my tie in the right shape, and you’ve knocked it all squee-gee!” for Tom in his excitement had collided with his chum.
They managed to get dressed after a while—rather a long while.
“Come on,” said Tom, as he took a final lookat himself in the glass, for though he was not too much devoted to dress or his own good looks, much adornment of their persons must be excused on the part of the talented pitcher and his chum, on the score of the pretty girls with whom they were to spend the evening.
“I’m ready,” announced Phil. “Shall we leave a light for Sid?”
“I don’t know. No telling when he’ll be in. Do you know, Phil, it seems rotten mean to mention it, and I only do it to see if you have the same idea I have, but I shouldn’t be surprised if old Sid was gambling.”
“Gambling!”
“Yes. Look how he’s sneaked off these last two nights, not saying where he’s going, and acting so funny about it. Then coming in late, all perfumed with tobacco, and getting caught, and not having any money and—and—Oh, well, hang it all! I know it won’t go any further, or I shouldn’t mention it; but doesn’t it look queer?”
Phil did not reply for a moment. He glanced at Tom, as if to fathom his earnestness, and as the two stood there, looking around their common home, marked by the absence of Sid, the fussy little alarm clock seemed to be repeating over and over again the ugly word—“gambler—gambler—gambler.”
“Well?” asked Tom softly.
“I hate to say it, but I’m afraid you’re right,” replied Phil. “Sid, of all chaps, though. It’s fierce!” and then the two went out.
Tom and Phil called at the residence of Miss Harrison’s relatives for Madge and Ruth. Tom tried, tactfully enough, to get Miss Harrison to come to the theatricals with himself and Ruth, but the blue-eyed girl pleaded a headache (always a lady’s privilege), and said she would stay at home. Sid’s name was not mentioned. Then the four young people went off, leaving a rather disconsolate damsel behind.
Sid was in bed when Tom and Phil returned, and he did not say anything, or exhibit any signs of being awake, so they did not disturb him, refraining from even talking in whispers of the jolly time they had had. There was a strong smell of tobacco about Sid’s clothes, but his chums said nothing of this.
The next day Sid was moody and disconsolate. He wrote several letters, tearing them up, one after the other, but finally he seemed to hit on one that pleased him, and went out to mail it. Amid the torn scraps about his desk Phil and Tom could not help seeing several which began variously “My dear Miss Harrison,” “Dear Miss Harrison,” “Dear friend,” and “Esteemed friend.”
“Trying to square himself,” remarked Tom.
“He’s got it bad—poor old Sid,” added Phil. “It will all come out right in the end, I hope.”
But it didn’t seem to for Sid, since in the course of the next week, when he had written again to Miss Harrison asking her to go with him to a dance, he received in return a polite little note, pleading a previous engagement.
“Well,” remarked Tom one afternoon, when he and his crowd of players had thronged out on the diamond, “we’re getting into some kind of shape. Get back there, Dutch, while I try a few curves, and then we’ll have a practice game.”
“And pay particular attention to your batting, fellows,” cautioned Coach Leighton. “It isn’t improving the way it ought, and I hear that Boxer has some good stick-wielders this season.”
“Yes, and they’ve got some one else on their nine, too,” added Bricktop Molloy. “Have ye heard the news, byes?” for sometimes the red-haired shortstop betrayed his genial Irish nature by his brogue.
“No, what is it?” asked Phil.
“Fred Langridge is playing with them.”
“What? Langridge, the bully who used to be here?” cried one student.
“That same,” retorted Bricktop.
“Have they hired him?” inquired Holly Cross.
“No, he’s taking some sort of a course at Boxer Hall, I believe.”
“A course in concentrated meanness, I guess,” suggested Tom, as he thought of the dastardly trick Langridge had tried to play on Phil during the previous term.
“Well, no matter about that,” came from the coach. “You boys want to improve your batting—that’s all. Your field work is fair, and I haven’t anything but praise for our battery.”
“Thanks!” chorused Tom and Dutch Housenlager, making mock bows.
“But get busy, fellows,” went on the coach. “Oh, by the way, captain, what about a manager?”
“Election to-night,” answered Tom quickly. “The notice has been posted. Come on, we’ll have a scrub game. Five innings will be enough. There ought to be——”
“My uncle says——” began a voice from a small knot of non-playing spectators.
“Fenton’s wound up!” cried Dutch, making an attempt to penetrate the crowd and get at the offending nephew of the former coach.
“Can him!” shouted Joe Jackson.
“Put your uncle on ice!” added Pete Backus.
“Leave him out after dark, and Proc. Zane will catch him,” came from Snail Looper.
“Well, I was only going to say,” went on Ford, but such a storm of protesting howls arose that his voice was drowned.
“And that’s the chap they talk of for manager,” said Phil to Tom disgustedly.
“Oh, I guess it’s all talk,” remarked the pitcher. “We will rush Ed Kerr through, and the season will soon start.”
The scrub game began. It was not remarkable for brilliant playing, either in the line of fielding or batting. Tom, though, did some fine work in pitching, and he and Dutch worked together like well-built machines. Tom struck out three men, one after the other, in the second inning, and repeated the trick in the last. Sid Henderson rather surprised the coach by making a safe hit every time he was up, a record no one else approached that day, for Rod Evert, who was doing the “twirling” for the team opposed to Tom’s, was considered a good handler of the horsehide.
“Good work, Henderson,” complimented Mr. Leighton. But Sid did not seem particularly pleased.
“Everybody on hand for the election to-night,” commanded Tom, as the game ended, the pitcher’s team having won by a score of eight to four.
There was a large throng assembled in the gymnasium that evening, for at Randall sports reigned supreme in their seasons, and the annual election of a baseball manager was something of no small importance. For several reasons no manager had been selected at the close of theprevious season, when Tom had been unanimously selected as captain, and it now devolved upon the students who were members of the athletic committee to choose one.
As has been explained, among the players themselves, or, rather, among the majority, Ed Kerr, the catcher of the previous season was favored, but, of late there had been activity looking to the choosing of some one else.
There were vague rumors floating about the meeting room, as Tom Parsons went up on the platform, and called the assemblage to order. It was noticed that Bert Bascome, a freshman who was said to be quite wealthy, was the center of a group of excited youths, of whom Ford Fenton was one. Ford had tried for the ’varsity the previous season, had failed, and was once more in line. As for Bascome, he, too, wanted to wear the coveted “R.”
“Politics over there all right,” observed Phil Clinton to Dutch. “Any idea of how strong they are?”
“Don’t believe they can muster ten votes,” was the answer. “We’ll put Ed in all right.”
Tom called for nominations for chairman, and Mr. Leighton, who was in the hall, was promptly chosen, he being acceptable to both sides.
“You all know what we are here for,” began the coach, “and the sooner we get it over withthe better, I presume. Nominations for a manager of the ball nine are in order.”
Jerry Jackson was on his feet in an instant.
“Mr. Chairman,” he began.
“Are you speaking for yourself or your brother?” called Dutch.
Bang! went the chairman’s gavel, but there was a laugh at the joke, for Jerry and Joe, the “Jersey twins” were always so much in accord that what one did the other always sanctioned. Yet the query of Dutch seemed to disturb Jerry.
“Mr. Chairman,” he began again. “I wish——”
“Help him along, Joe,” sung out Snail Looper. “Jerry is going to make a wish.”
“Boys, boys,” pleaded the coach.
“My uncle says——” came from Ford Fenton, indiscreetly.
“Sit down!”
“Put him out!”
“Muzzle him!”
“Silence!”
“Get a policeman!”
“Turn the hose on him!”
“Don’t believe he ever had an uncle!”
These were some of the cries that greeted Ford.
Bang! Bang! went the gavel, and order was finally restored, but Fenton did not again venture to address the chair.
“Mr. Chairman,” began Jerry Jackson once more, and this time he secured a hearing, and was recognized. “I wish to place in nomination,” he went on, “a manager who, I am sure, will fulfill the duties in the most acceptable manner; one who knows the game from home plate to third base, who has had large experience, who is a jolly good fellow—who——”
“Who is he?”
“Name him!”
“Don’t be so long-winded about it!”
“Tell us his name!”
“He’s going to name Ford’s uncle!”
Once more the horse-play, led by Dutch, broke out.
Bang! Bang! went Mr. Leighton’s gavel again.
“I nominate Ed Kerr!” sung out Jerry.
“Second it!” came from his brother in a flash.
“Mr. Kerr has been nominated,” spoke the chairman. “Are there any others?”
“Move the nominations be closed,” came from Tom quickly, but, before it could be seconded, Bert Bascome was on his feet. He had a sneering, supercilious air, that was in distinct bad taste, yet he seemed to have a sort of following, as, indeed, any youth in college may have, who is willing to freely spend his money.
“One moment, Mr. Chairman,” began Bascome, and so anxious were the others to hearwhat was coming that they did not interrupt. “When I came to Randall college,” went on the freshman, with an air as if he had conferred a great favor by his act, “I was given to understand that the spirit of sportsmanship and fair play was a sort of a heritage.”
“So it is!”
“What’s eating you?”
“Who’s the goat?” came the cries. Bert flushed but went on:
“Closing the nominations before more than one name——”
“The nominations have not been closed,” suggested Mr. Leighton.
“Then am I out of order?” inquired Bascome sarcastically. He seemed to know parliamentary law.
“No,” answered the coach. “You must speak to the point, however. Have you a name to place in nomination? Mr. Parsons’ motion was lost for want of a second.”
“Ihavea name to place in nomination,” went on Bert deliberately, “and in doing so I wish to state that I am actuated by no sense of feeling against Mr. Kerr, whom I do not know. I simply wish to see the spirit of sport well diversified among the students, and——”
“Question! Question!” shouted several.
“Name your man!” demanded others.
“I believe Mr. Kerr is highly esteemed,” continued Bascome, holding his ground well, “and I honor him. I believe, however, that he belongs to a certain crowd, or clique——”
“You’re wrong!” was a general shout.
“Mr. Chairman!” shouted Kerr, springing to his feet, his face strangely white.
“Mr. Bascome has the floor,” spoke Mr. Leighton quietly.
“Name your man!” was the cry from half a score of youths.
“I nominate Ford Fenton for manager!” shouted Bascome, for he saw the rising temper of some of the students.
“Second it,” came from Henry Delfield, who was the closest chum of the rich lad.
“Move the nominations close!” cried Tom quickly, and this time Phil Clinton seconded it. The battle was on.
“Two students have been nominated,” remarked Mr. Leighton, when the usual formalities had been completed. “How will you vote on them, by ballot or——”
“Show of hands!” cried Tom. “We want to see who’s with us and who’s against us,” he added in a whisper to Phil and Sid.
“I demand a written ballot,” called out Bascome.
“We will vote on that,” decided the chairman, and it went overwhelmingly in favor of a show of hands.
“We’ve got ’em!” exulted Tom, when this test had demonstrated how few were with Bascome—a scant score.
A moment later the real voting was under way, by a show of hands, Kerr’s name being voted on first. He had tried to make a speech, but had been induced to keep quiet.
It was as might have been expected. Possibly had the ballot been a secret one more might have voted for Fenton, but some freshmen saw which way the wind was blowing, changing their votes after having declared for a secret ballot, and all of Bascome’s carefully laid plans, and his scheming for several weeks past, to get some sort of control of the nine, came to naught. Fenton received nine votes, and Kerr one hundred and twenty. It was a pitiful showing, and Fenton soon recognized it.
“I move the election of Mr. Kerr be made unanimous!” he cried, and that did more to offset his many references to his uncle than anything else he could have done. Bascome was excitedly whispering to some of his chums, but when Fenton’s motion was put it was carried without a vote in opposition, and Kerr was the unanimous choice.
“Well, I’m glad that’s over,” said Phil with a sigh of relief, as he and his chums drifted from the gymnasium.
“Yes, now we’ll begin to play ball in earnest,” added Tom. “Come on, Sid, I’ll take you and Phil down to Hoffman’s and treat you to some ice cream.”
“I—er—I’m going out this evening,” said Sid, and he blushed a trifle.
“Where, you old dub?” asked Tom, almost before he thought.
“I’m going to call on Miss Harrison,” was the somewhat unexpected answer.
Tom and Phil stood staring at each other as Sid walked on ahead.
“Well, wouldn’t that get your goat?” asked Tom.
“It sure would,” admitted Phil. “He must have made up with her, after all.”
How it came about Sid, of course, would never tell. It was too new and too delightful an experience for him—to actually be paying attentions to some girl—to make it possible to discuss the matter with his chums. Sufficient to say that in the course of two weeks more there was another photograph in the room of the inseparables.
Baseball matters began to occupy more and more attention at Randall. The team was being whipped into shape, and between Tom, Ed Kerr and the coach the lads were beginning to get rid of the uncertainty engendered by a winter of comparative idleness.
“Have you arranged any games yet?” askedTom of Ed one afternoon, following some sharp practice on the diamond.
“We play Boxer Hall next week,” answered the manager. “And I do hope we win. It means so much at the beginning of the season. How is the team, do you think?”
“Do you mean ours or theirs?”
“Ours, of course.”
“Fine, I should say,” replied Tom.
“You know who’ll pitch against you when we play Boxer, I dare say,” remarked Mr. Leighton, who had joined Tom and Ed.
“No. Who?”
“Your old enemy, Langridge. He’s displaced Dave Ogden, who twirled for them last season. But you’re not frightened, are you?”
“Not a bit of it! If there’s anything that will make our fellows play fierce ball it’s to know that Langridge—the fellow who almost threw our football team—is going to play against them. I couldn’t ask a better tonic. Will they play on our grounds?”
“No, we’ve got to go there. But don’t let that worry you.”
There was sharp practice for the next few days, and Tom and his chums were put through “a course of sprouts” to quote Holly Cross. They did some ragged work, under the eagle eye of the coach, and things began to look bad, but it wasonly the last remnant of staleness disappearing, for the day before the game there was exhibited a noticeable stiffness, and a confidence that augured well for Randall.
“The batting still leaves something to be desired,” remarked Mr. Leighton, as practice was over for the day. “I have great hopes of Sid Henderson, though.”
“Yes, if——” began Tom.
“If what?” asked the coach quickly.
“If he doesn’t go back on himself,” finished the pitcher, but that was not what he had intended to say. He was thinking of Sid’s queer actions of late—wondering what they portended, and what was the meaning of his chum’s odd absences, for, only the night previous, Sid had gone out, following the receipt of a note, and had come in late, smelling vilely of tobacco. Fortunately he had escaped detection by the proctor, but he offered no explanation, and his manner was disturbed, and not like his usual one.
As for Sid, well might his chums be puzzled about him. He seemed totally to have changed, not only in manner but in his attitude toward Tom and Phil. There was a new look on his face. Several times, of late, since his acquaintance with Miss Harrison, and the reconciliation following his little “de trop faux pas,” as Tom termed it, Sid had been caught day dreaming. Phil or Tomwould look up from their studying to see Sid, with a book falling idly from his hands, gazing vacantly into a corner of the room, or looking abstractedly at his side of the wall space, as though calculating just where would be the best spot for a certain girl’s picture.
It was a most enthralling occupation for Sid—this day dreaming. It was a new experience—a deliciously tender and sweet one—for no young man can be any the worse for thinking and dreaming of a fine-charactered girl, albeit one who is amazingly pretty; in fact he is the better for it. In Sid’s case his infatuation had come so suddenly that it was overwhelming. In the past he had either been shy with girls, or had not cared enough for them to be more than decently polite. But now everything was different. Though he had seen her but a few times, he could call to mind instantly the very way in which she turned her head when she addressed him. He could see the slight lifting of the eyebrows as she asked a question, the sparkle that came into the blue eyes, that held a hint of mischief. He could hear her rippling laugh, and he knew in what a tantalizing way a certain ringlet escaped from the coils of her hair, and fell upon her neck.
Often in class the lecturer would suddenly call his name, and Sid would start, for he had senthis thoughts afar, and it required a sort of wireless message to bring them back.
The day of the Boxer game could not have been better. There had been a slight shower in the night, but only sufficient to lay the dust, and it was just cool enough to be delightful. The Randall players and their supporters, including a crowd of enthusiastic “rooters,” a number of substitutes and a mascot, in the shape of a puppy, fantastically attired, made the trip to Boxer Hall in special trolleys, hired stage coaches and some automobiles. Bert Bascome owned an automobile, and he made much of himself in consequence.
There was a big crowd in the grand stands when the Randall players arrived, and they were received with cheers, for the sporting spirit between the two colleges was a generous one.
“My, what a lot of girls!” remarked Tom to Sid and Phil, as the three chums looked over toward the seats, which were a riot of color.
“Yes, all the Fairview students are here to-day,” spoke Phil. “Ruth said she and Miss Tyler were coming.”
“I wonder if——” began Sid, and then he stopped, blushing like a girl.
“Yes, Miss Harrison is coming with them,” replied Phil, with a laugh. “We’ll look ’em up after the game—if we win.”
“Why not, if we lose?” asked Sid quickly.
“I haven’t the nerve, if we let Boxer Hall take the first game of the season from us,” was the reply.
Fast and snappy practice began, and it was somewhat of a revelation to the Randall players to note the quick work on the part of their rivals. In getting around the bases, batting out flies, getting their fingers on high balls and low grounders, Boxer Hall seemed to have improved very much over last year.
“We’ve got our work cut out for us,” remarked Phil in a low voice to his two chums. “Say, Langridge has some speed, too. Look at that!”
The new pitcher of Boxer Hall was throwing to Stoddard, the catcher, and the balls landed in the pocket of the big mitt with a vicious thud.
“Don’t worry. Sid, here, will knock out a couple of home runs,” said Tom. “Won’t you, Sid?”
“I only hope I don’t fan the air. How are his curves?”
“Pretty good, for the first few innings,” answered Tom. “After that you can find ’em easy enough. He wears down—at least he did last year.”
The practice came to an end. The preliminaries were arranged, and, with the privilege of the home team coming last to the bat, Randallwent in the initial inning. The two teams were made up as follows:
RANDALL COLLEGE
Sid Henderson,second base.William Housenlager,catcher.Phil Clinton,first base.Tom Parsons,pitcher.Dan Woodhouse,third base.Jerry Jackson,right field.Bob Molloy,shortstop.Joe Jackson,left field.Holman Cross,center field.
BOXER HALL
Lynn Ralling,second base.Hugh McGherity,right field.Roy Conklin,left field.Arthur Flood,center field.George Stoddard,catcher.Pinkerton Davenport,first base.Fred Langridge,pitcher.Bert Hutchin,third base.Sam Burton,shortstop.
“Now, Sid, show ’em what you can do,” advised Mr. Leighton, as Sid selected a bat, and walked up to the plate. He faced Langridge,and noted the grim and almost angry look in the eyes of the former pitcher on the Randall ’varsity.
“Make him give you a nice one,” called Bean Perkins, who was ready to shout for victory.
A ball came whizzing toward Sid, and so sure was he that he was going to be hit that he dodged back, but he was surprised when it neatly curved out, went over the plate, and the umpire called:
“Strike One!”
There was a howl of protest on the part of the Randall sympathizers, but it died away when Mr. Leighton held up a warning hand.
Sid struck viciously at the next ball, and felt a thrill of joy as he felt the impact, but, as he rushed away toward first he heard the umpire’s call of “Foul; strike!” and he came back.
“Wait for a good one,” counseled Phil, in a low voice. “Make him give you a pretty one.”
Langridge sent in another swift curve and Sid struck at it. Another foul resulted, and he began to wonder what he was up against. The next attempt was a ball, for Langridge threw away out, but Sid saw coming a moment later, what he thought would make at least a pretty one-bagger. He swung viciously at it, but missed it clean, and walked to the bench somewhat chagrined.
Dutch Housenlager, with a smile of confidence,walked up next. He was cool, and Langridge, having struck out Sid, seemed to lose some of his anger. He delivered a good ball—an in-shoot—and Dutch caught it on the end of his bat. It seemed to promise well, but Roy Conklin, out on left field was right under it, and Dutch ingloriously came back from first.
“Now, Phil, line one out!” pleaded Tom, as his chum selected his bat, and Phil struck at the first ball, sending a hot liner right past the shortstop.
Phil got to first, and stole second when Tom came up, making it only by a close margin.
“A home run, Tom,” begged the coach, and Tom nodded with a grim smile on his face. But alas for hopes! He knocked a fly, which the right fielder got without much difficulty, and the first half of the initial inning was over with a goose-egg in the space devoted to Randall.
“Never mind, we’re finding him,” consoled Tom, as he walked to his box.
Lynn Ralling was up first for Boxer Hall, and Tom resolved to strike him out, if it was at all possible. It was his first pitching in a league game that season, and he was a trifle nervous. Still he held himself well in hand, and, though the first two attempts were called “balls” the next three went down as strikes. Ralling refused to swing on two of them, but the last one seemedto him as just right, but Tom had the satisfaction of striking him out. McGherity, the next man up, was a notoriously heavy hitter, and Tom purposely gave him a pass to first. He struck out Roy Conklin, but something went wrong with the next man, Arthur Flood, who knocked a two-bagger. Then George Stoddard got to first on a swift grounder, that, somehow rolled through the legs of Bricktop, much to that hero’s disgust. There was some good playing the rest of the inning, George being caught napping on second, and it ended with two runs in favor of Boxer Hall.
“We’ve got to wake up!” decided Mr. Leighton grimly. “Put a little more ginger into it, boys!”
“What’s the matter with our team?” Bean Perkins demanded to know in his loudest voice.
“It’s all right,” was the response, from scores of throats.
“Now for the ‘Conquer or Die’ song,” called Bean, and as Dan Woodhouse went up to the bat in the beginning of the second inning the strains of “Aut vincere aut mori,” welled out over the diamond. But the inspiring melody that, more than once had been the means of inspiring a faint-hearted team to victory, seemed to be of no effect now. Not a man got further than second, and another goose egg went up to the creditof Randall. But a similar dose was served to Boxer in the same inning, and when Randall opened the third with Holly Cross at the bat, there was much wonder, and not a little disappointment. What would Holly do? He soon showed by knocking a two bagger, but, alas for what followed. Though he managed to steal to third, Langridge pitched so well that those who followed were struck out, and there was another white circle.
It was duplicated for Boxer Hall, however, and there began to be talk of a “pitchers’ battle.”
“We’ll find Langridge this inning,” prophesied Tom, and it was partly justified, for one run came in, which sent the grand stand where the Randallites were gathered wild with delight.
“Now, fellows, give ’em that song—‘We’re going to wallop you now,’” called Bean, and there arose a riot of “melody.” In the fifth inning neither side scored, and then came the turn of Captain Tom’s men again. They delighted their supporters by pulling down two runs, and making the score three to two in their favor. Then, when Boxer Hall came up for their inning, they hammered out two runs, which sent Randall stock down to zero again with the score of four to three against them.
The seventh and eighth innings saw big circles chalked up in the frames of both teams, thoughTom and his men worked hard to bring in at least another run. But it was not to be.
“Now, fellows, it’s our last chance,” remarked the coach, as Holly Cross stepped up in the ninth, his teeth fairly gritting together. “Two runs to win—that is if we hold ’em down when they come up.”
“I’ll do that part,” guaranteed Tom grimly.
From the grand stands there were shouts and yells of encouragement—and otherwise. Bean led his cohorts in, “It’s Your Last Chance, Boys—Soak It!” a Randall classic of the diamond. Well, Holly did “soak” it, with the result that he knocked the prettiest three-bagger seen in many a day. Then came Sid’s turn. Two strikes were called on him, and then came a foul.
“I’m afraid he’s going to fan,” whispered Tom to the coach.
“Watch him,” advised Mr. Leighton.
There was a reassuring “thump” as the next ball reached Sid. Away sailed the sphere right over the center fielder’s head.
“It’s a beaut! It’s a beaut! Run! Run! Run!” yelled the frenzied students. Holly was legging it in from third and my! how Sid was running! Low down, and like the wind! The frantic center fielder was racing for the ball amid the daisies. On and on came Sid!
“A home run! A home run!” screamed Tom and his players, jumping up and down and over the bench in their excitement. Around the bases came Sid, following Holly. The second baseman swung around third and started for home, but the ball was on the way. Would he beat it?
He did, by about a second, rushing in almost exhausted, over the plate which Holly had just crossed.
“Wow! Wow! Wow!” cried Sid’s and Holly’s mates. “That wins the game!” and they hugged Sid and his chum. “Two Runs!”
“The game is not won yet,” said the coach, more soberly. “We need more runs.”
But they couldn’t get them. There was a sudden improvement on the part of Langridge, who had begun to weaken, and he struck out the next two men, the third getting out on a bingle. But the score was five to four in favor of Randall, and if Tom could hold them down, and strike out three men, the game was theirs. Could he do it?
There was a great strain on everyone as the Randall team went out to the field. From the grand stand came softly the “Conquer or Die” song, and Tom felt a sense of moisture in his eyes.
“I’ll strike ’em out!” he muttered.
How he did it is college history to this day. Calmly he faced the first man, and delivered a ball.
“Strike!” howled the umpire, and this time it was Boxer Hall that sent up a groan of protest. But it was silenced, and in two more balls delivered over the plate with faultless precision, but with puzzling curves, Tom had one down.
“Only two more,” called Phil to him encouragingly.
Tom nodded. How he did pitch! The balls sounded like guns when they hit Dutch Housenlager’s big mitt, but he held them.
“Three strikes—batter out!” yelled the umpire, and the second man threw down his stick and walked disgustedly to the bench.
George Stoddard was up next. Tom was afraid of him. He delivered a puzzling slow drop, but Stoddard got under it for a foul.
Tom breathed a bit easier. Two more chances. He sent one of his best out shoots, and Stoddard foolishly bit at it. The ball just grazed the bat, and bounded up into the air. Dutch made a desperate effort for it.
“Can’t get it!” yelled the crowd, as it went over the back grand stand.
The umpire threw Tom a new ball. He hated to use it, as the other seemed just right. But the one that had gone over the stand was slow inbeing returned. Dutch signalled for another drop, but Tom shook his head. He wanted to try a delicate in-curve.
It seemed that the players and spectators were scarcely breathing—it was the critical point of the game, yet with two down Boxer Hall could scarcely hope to win. Yet there was a chance. Tom delivered the ball. Stoddard swung at it with such force that he turned completely around. But the new, white ball was safe in the mitt of Dutch Housenlager. Stoddard had struck out—there were three down for Boxer in the ending of the ninth, and not a run. Randall had won—the score being five to four.
Then such a chorus of yells as went up! Even Bean Perkins could scarcely be heard.
“Wow! Wow! Wow!” cried Dutch, seizing Holly Cross around the waist, and doing a dance with him about the bench. “We did it!”
“Great work, boys!” cried the coach. “I congratulate you!”
“Three cheers for Randall!” proposed Pinkey Davenport for Boxer Hall, and the yells came with spontaneous enthusiasm.
“Three and a tiger for Boxer Hall!” yelled Tom, and his men nearly split their throats.
“Come on! Clean up, and then for some fun!” cried Phil. “We’ll go hunt up the girls, as soonas we look decent again,” he suggested to Tom and Sid, who nodded joyfully.
Langridge passed Tom.
“It’s only one game,” growled the defeated pitcher. “We’ll do you fellows next time!”
“You’ll have the chance,” retorted Tom good naturedly.
A little later the victorious pitcher, and his two chums, having donned their street clothes, were strolling across the field toward a knot of girls.
“Wasn’t it glorious!” cried Madge Tyler, as Tom and his chums came up. “I was just gripping the seat when you threw that last ball, Mr. Parsons.”
“So was I,” admitted Ruth. “Phil, I’m proud of you, even if you are my brother.”
“Humph!” grunted Phil. “If it hadn’t been for Sid’s home run we wouldn’t have been in it. The fellows who followed him fanned.”
“You should be very proud, Mr. Henderson,” remarked Mabel Harrison, who looked charming in some sort of a soft, clinging dress which I’m not going to describe.
“Oh, it was just luck,” spoke Sid modestly.
“Luck nothing, you old walloper!” cried Tom, thumping his chum on the back. “You just laid for that one, and lambasted it out where the buttercups and daisies grow.”
“Oh, how poetic!” cried Miss Harrison.
“Some ice cream would sound a heap-sightmore poetic,” decided Phil. “What do you girls say? Will you come and have some?”
“Oh, I’ve provided a little treat for you boys,” said Ruth quickly. “By rare good luck Miss Philock, the ogress of Fairview Institute, is away to-day, and I secured permission from the assistant to have a little tea in one of the rooms. We three girls will feed you lions of the diamond, if you promise not to eat up all the charlotte russe and lady fingers I have provided.”
“Great!” cried Tom. “I haven’t the appetite of a butterfly, but——”
“Me either,” interrupted Sid, with a laugh.
“Come on, then,” invited Phil’s sister. “We are just in time to catch a trolley for Fairview. I have a letter from home for you, Phil,” she added.
A little later a merry crowd of young people were walking up the campus of the co-educational institution, where the three girls were pursuing their studies. It was Saturday afternoon, and a half holiday for everyone. Ruth, having secured permission, escorted her brother and his two chums to one of the rooms set aside for the use of the girl students in which to entertain their friends.
“Why, sis, this is quite a spread!” complimented Phil, as he saw the elaborate preparations in the shape of paper napkins, in the colors ofRandall—yellow and maroon—spread about on the table, and as he noted the flowers and the rather more generous “feed” than that indicated when his sister had named lady fingers and charlotte russe.
“Yes, we provided this in case you won,” replied Ruth, “but if you had lost——”
“Well, in case we had lost?” asked Sid, who was close to Miss Harrison.
“We were going to eat it all ourselves,” finished Madge.
“And be ill afterward,” interjected Tom. “I’m glad, for more reasons than two, that we won; eh, fellows?”
“Yes, but—er—if it’s all the same to you, let’s eat,” suggested Phil, with the freedom of an elder brother.
There was a merry time. The fair hostesses had provided coffee and sandwiches, with plenty of ice cream and cake, and when they had been at the table for some time, Phil, with a sigh of satisfaction, remarked:
“I’m glad this didn’t happen before the game, fellows, or I couldn’t have caught even a pop fly.”
“Ditto here,” agreed Tom. “Pass the macaroons, Sid. I see you and Miss Harrison trying to hide them between you.”
“No such a thing!” retorted the second baseman, while the blue-eyed girl blushed.
“Oh, Phil, I promised to get you the letter from home!” suddenly exclaimed Ruth. “I’ll run up to my room for it. Excuse me,” and she darted off, to return presently with two missives. “Here’s one for you, Mabel,” she said. “I found it on your dresser. It must have come in after the regular mail.”
“A letter for me,” repeated Miss Harrison in some bewilderment. “I didn’t expect any.”
“Unexpected ones are always the best,” ventured Sid, and when Tom whispered “Bravo,” at the attempt on the part of his chum to shine in the society of ladies, Sid muttered a threat to punch the captain when they got outside.
“Mother is well, and dad as busy as ever,” remarked Ruth as she handed her letter to her brother, and passed the other to Miss Harrison. The latter gazed curiously at the missive.
“I don’t know this writing,” she remarked. “I wonder who it can be from.”
“Better open it and see,” suggested Sid.
She tore open the envelope, which fluttered to the ground, as she took out a piece of paper.
“Why, how funny!” exclaimed Miss Harrison. “There is nothing but a Haddonfield newspaper clipping, and—and—why it seems to be about you, Mr. Henderson,” she added. “Why—why!”she stammered. “How odd! Of course it must be some one else. Just listen,” and she read:
“‘During a raid on an alleged gambling house kept by Tony Belato in Dartwell, just outside of Haddonfield on Thursday night, a number of college students, believed to be from Boxer Hall, Fairview or Randall were captured. Several got away, and those who were locked up gave false names, it is believed. One young man, who stated that he was Sidney Henderson, fought the officers, and was not subdued until after a struggle. None of the college boys seemed to know him, but it was stated that he had lost heavily in playing poker. The prisoners were fined ten dollars each, and this morning were discharged by Judge Perkins with a warning.’”
There was silence for a moment following Miss Harrison’s reading of the clipping.
“What’s that?” cried Tom at last, and his words seemed to break the spell. “Arrested in a gambling raid—Sid Henderson? Of course it must be some one else! But who sent the clipping to you, Miss Harrison?”
“I don’t know,” was her answer, as she looked full at Sid. “It was a piece of impertinence, at any rate,” and she began to tear up the newspaper item. “Of course it wasn’t you, Mr. Henderson. I should not have read it. I don’t suppose youwere within miles of the place where it happened. These newspaper reporters are so careless, sometimes. You weren’t there, were you?” she went on.
As they all remembered it afterward it seemed strange that Miss Harrison should so insist on her question, but, later, it was explained that her family, as well as herself, had an extraordinary abhorrence of any games of chance, since her brother had once been fleeced by gamblers, and there had been some disgrace attached to it.
“You weren’t there; were you?” repeated Miss Harrison, and her eyes were fastened on those of Sid.
His face was strangely white, and his hands trembled. His chums looked at him in surprise.
“I—I wasn’t arrested in any raid,” he said, and his voice was husky. The girl seemed to catch at the evasion.
“Were you there?” she demanded. “I—of course—I have no right to ask you that—but—this clipping, coming to me—as it did—and under the circumstances——”
“I wasn’t—I wasn’t arrested,” faltered Sid. “It’s all—it’s all a mistake!”
Almost instantly there came to Phil and Tom at the same time a memory of Sid’s queer actions of late—of his strange absences from college—ofhis hurried departures on receiving notes—of the smell of tobacco on his clothes.
“Were you at the gambling place, in Dartwell?” asked Miss Harrison coldly, and it was not until later that the others understood her strange insistence and hatred of games of chance. “Were you there?”
“I—I wasn’t arrested!” blurted out Sid. “I—I can’t explain—I was in Dartwell that night—but—but it is all a mistake—I don’t see how my name got in the paper.”
“Sometimes these matters get out in spite of all that is done to keep them quiet,” remarked the girl, and her voice sounded to Sid like the clash of steel.
“I tell you I wasn’t arrested—I wasn’t there—that is, I wasn’t gambling—I—I—er—Oh, won’t you believe me? Won’t you take my word for it?” He was pleading with her now.
“I haven’t any right to control your actions,” said Miss Harrison. “I don’t know who sent me this clipping—nor why—I wish I had never seen it,” and her eyes filled with tears. “Yet when I ask you if you were there, it seems as if you could say yes or no.”
“That’s it! I can’t!” cried poor Sid. “I—I wasn’t arrested. I was there—yes, in—in Dartwell that night—but I can’t explain—it’s a secret—it—Oh, won’t you believe me?”
Miss Harrison turned and looked full at him. The others were watching the little tragedy that was being enacted before them.
“Won’t you believe me—I’ll—I’ll explain—some time,” faltered Sid desperately.
“I’m sorry, but unless you care to tell me everything, and explain why you were in a gambling house I can’t accept your excuses,” she said coldly. “I cannot retain the friendship of a person who goes to gambling places. I must ask you to excuse me,” and holding her head high, though there were tears in her blue eyes, and a sob in her trembling voice, she turned and left the room.
Ruth and Madge looked at each other.
“Come on,” said Phil to Tom huskily, and they filed out. Sid remained long enough to pick up the envelope that had contained the accusing clipping, and then he followed. None of the three chums spoke until they were out on the campus. Then Phil turned to Sid and demanded:
“What in blazes is the matter? If that didn’t mean you, and you weren’t there, why didn’t you say so?”
“I—I can’t,” was the answer. “Oh, fellows, don’t go back on me now. I’ll explain—some time.”
“Of course we won’t go back on you,” declared Tom. “Even if you were playing the ponies or shuffling a deck of cards, it doesn’t matter to us.It’s your money to lose, if you want to, only I didn’t think you cared for such things.”
“I—I don’t!” blurted out Sid.
“Then why don’t you——”
“But I can’t explain! Don’t desert me now!”
“We’re not going to,” spoke Phil more gently, “only it hurts with a girl like Miss Harrison to have a thing like this come out. She’s done with you.”
“Do you think so?” asked Sid miserably.
“Sure,” agreed Tom, “but don’t worry over that. You’ve got to bat for us to win, as you did to-day,” for he feared Sid would go to pieces, such was the wild look on his face.
The three chums were not very jolly as they began their return to Randall college, whither the baseball team had preceded them some time before. Sid, Phil and Tom had sent their suits back with some of their friends while they attended the little tea given by Ruth Clinton—the tea which had had such an unfortunate ending.
Tom and Phil conversed in low tones about the team and the showing made that day in the first formal game of the season, but as for Sid, he kept to himself in one corner of the electric car, and there was a moody look on his face.
“He’s taking it hard,” observed Phil in a low voice.
Tom shook his head. “I can’t understand it,” he said.
Sid stalked into the room ahead of his chums and threw himself down on the old sofa, which creaked and groaned with his weight.
“Easy, old man,” called Phil good naturedly.“We’ve had that in the family for three terms, now, and it’s a regular heirloom. Don’t smash it for us. Remember what a time we had last term, patching it up, and moving it here from our old room?”
“Yes, and how Langridge was upset trying to get down stairs past us,” added Tom. “Have a little regard for the sofa, Sid.”
“Oh, hang the sofa!” burst out the lad, and then Tom and Phil knew it was useless to talk to him. Phil crossed the room softly and sat cautiously down in the old armchair. Tom looked at the alarm clock, and exclaimed:
“Jove! If it hasn’t stopped! Must be something wrong,” and he hurriedly wound it, and then started it by the gentle process of pounding it on the edge of the table. Soon the fussy clicking was again heard. “It’s all right,” went on the pitcher, in relieved tones. “Gave me heart disease at first. The clock is as much of a relic as the chair and sofa. But I’ve got to mend my glove again. It’s ripped in the same place. Rotten athletic goods they’re selling nowadays.”
There came a knock on the door, and Wallops, the messenger, who stood revealed as the portal was opened, announced:
“Mr. Zane would like to see you, Mr. Henderson.”