HE LEAPED INTO THE AIR AND WITH HIS BARE HANDHE LEAPED INTO THE AIR AND WITH HIS BARE HAND CAUGHT THE HORSEHIDE.
“Batter’s out!” cried the umpire. Then, amid the wild and frenzied shouting of his chums, Tom dropped the ball, and walked in, his arm hanging limply by his side, while Dutch and Mr. Leighton ran anxiously toward him.
But what did Tom Parsons care for an injured hand? He had saved Randall from defeat, for that ended Boxer’s chances, two men died on bases, and the game was over, the score being 7 to 6 in Randall’s favor.
“Much hurt?” inquired Mr. Leighton anxiously, as he reached Tom’s side.
“Oh, nothing to speak of,” replied the plucky pitcher carelessly, but when he held up his hand a few drops of blood trickled from it, and there was a thin, red line across the palm.
“You shouldn’t have stopped that ball!” exclaimed Dutch, half savagely.
“I shouldn’t? Do you think I was going to stand there and let it go by, and lose us the game?” demanded Tom. “I guess not—not for two sore hands!”
“But, it’s your pitching hand,” expostulated Dutch. “We need you the rest of the season, and the championship is far from won—in fact it’s almost as far off as the stars,” he added in a low voice, for he, too, had noted the lack of team work in the present game, and some that had preceded.
“Oh, don’t be a croaker,” advised Tom, trying to speak lightly though he was in considerablepain. “I’ll be all right in a week. We haven’t any hard game until then, and we’ll go in and clean up all the roosts around here before the season closes.”
“I hope so,” remarked Mr. Leighton in a low voice. “You had better let the doctor look at that hand, Parsons. No use taking any chances.”
The injury was temporarily bandaged and Tom, with a queer feeling about him, that was not at all connected with his wound, changed his uniform for street clothing and returned to Randall with the nine. Dr. Marshall, later, dressed the hurt, and decided that Tom must refrain from playing ball for at least a week—perhaps longer.
“I’ll have Evert warming up all this week,” decided the coach. “We play the Branchville nine Saturday, and ought to win easily. Then I think you’ll be ready for Fairview the following week, and Boxer Hall after that.”
“The last two big games,” murmured Tom. “We’ve got to win them both if we want the championship, and I’m afraid——”
“Oh, cheer up!” advised Phil. “I know I played rotten to-day, but I’ll do better next time. Please forgive me?” and he assumed a mocking, contrite air, at which Tom could not help laughing.
“Get out!” exclaimed the captain. “You know I wasn’t referring to you. But, seriously, Phil, something’s got to be done. Think of it! We pulled through by the skin of our teeth to-day——”
“By the skin of your hand, you mean.”
“Well, have it that way, but consider. Next Saturday will be an easy contest. Then comes Fairview and Boxer, both after our scalps. As it stands now we have played a number of games besides those with our two big enemies and are tied with Boxer for first place, and the possession of the loving cup. If we lose the Fairview game, and Boxer beats Fairview we will still have a show, by beating Boxer ourselves, but if it goes the other way we’re out of it. Our only hope is to do up both Fairview and Boxer, in succession, and how we are going to do it is more than I can tell.”
“Oh, we’ll do it—somehow,” declared Phil.
Matters, as regarded the baseball nine, did not improve much in the next few days, and Tom was filled with gloomy thoughts and dire forebodings. Though he was on hand at every practice the lads missed his sure arm in the pitching box, though Evert did fairly well. The game with Branchville proved fairly easy, though Randall did not shine with any unusual brilliancy.
“Hang it all, something’s got to be done!” declaredTom on the night after the game. He was nervous and irritated, for his hand pained him, though it was nearly healed, and he was going to pitch in practice on Monday.
“What can be done?” inquired Phil, who was critically examining a new glove he had purchased.
“Sid, we might as well have it out,” went on Tom, and he squared his shoulders as if for a fight, as he confronted the deposed second baseman. “Are you or are you not going to play with us again this season? You know we need you. We want you to help us to bat to win. Are you going to do it?”
“Why, it doesn’t depend on me,” answered Sid, in apparent surprise. “If the doctor says the word I’ll jump right in, and do my best. You know that. It’s up to the faculty. If they remove the ban——”
“No, it’s not up to the faculty!” declared Tom vigorously. “It’s up to you, and you know it. It’s up to you to save the Randall ’varsity nine!”
“Up to me?” Sid had arisen from his seat near the window, and stood in the middle of the room.
“Up to you,” repeated Tom. “You know, as well as I do, that you weren’t guilty when Zane caught you with the liquor. You had that for some one else, and you’re trying to shield him.You never use it—you had no use for it, yet you kept still when they accused you, and didn’t tell. Now it’s time to tell—it’s time to say you were innocent—it’s time to come out and end this mystery. The team needs you! All you’ve got to do is to tell the truth, instead of keeping silent, and you know the faculty will exonerate you. Then the ban will be removed, and you can play. That’s why I say it’s up to you. Isn’t it now? Own up, Sid; did you have that liquor for yourself? If you told the truth about it couldn’t you get back on the team?”
Tom was fairly panting from the force of his appeal. Sid’s face was strangely white, as he turned to look the captain full in the eyes. For a moment he did not reply, and the breathing of the three chums could plainly be heard, for Phil was as much agitated as either of the others.
“Answer me, Sid,” pleaded Tom.
“I can’t answer everything you ask,” spoke Sid, in a low voice. “As I told you before, I gave a promise, and, until I am released from it, I can’t speak—my lips are sealed.”
“But you didn’t have that liquor for yourself,” persisted Tom. “Did you, now?”
“I’m not going to answer that,” and Sid’s hands were gripped on the back of a chair, until his knuckles showed white with the strain.
“Sid Henderson, will you—dare you say thatif you told the truth about this miserable business you would not be reinstated and allowed to play?” went on the captain relentlessly. “If you told the whole story, couldn’t you get back on the team?”
“I’m not going to tell,” said Sid slowly.
“Then you don’t want to get back on the team?” fired Tom quickly.
“More than you know—more than you know,” was Sid’s answer, as he went out of the room.
Tom stood staring at the door which closed after Sid—staring as if he could not believe what he had heard. He was roused from his reverie by Phil’s voice.
“I’m afraid you’ve only made matters worse, Tom.”
“Made ’em worse? They can’t be any worse,” was the testy reply. “Hang it all! We’re about as bad off now as we well can be. I wanted to get Sid back on the team, and—and——”
“There’s something we can’t get at,” declared Phil. “It is something pretty strong, or Sid would never keep quiet and see the college lose.”
“Not unless he’s altogether different from what he was last term,” agreed Tom, with a puzzled air. “He once said he hoped he would be able to tell us what his secret was—soon—I only wish the time would come—soon—we need Sid’s stick work on the team. I wonder if it has anything to do with a girl—Miss Harrison?”
“She’s only one factor in the game. I fancythat was what Sid meant when he said he wanted to get back on the team more than we realized—he meant that it was so Miss Harrison would be friends with him again, for the same thing that caused the disagreement between them, got Sid into trouble with the proctor. And, if what Ruth says is true, Miss Harrison cares a lot for Sid.”
“Oh, you can’t tell much about girls,” retorted Tom, with an air of a youth who was past-master in the art of knowing the feminine mind. “Of course that’s not saying that Ruth doesn’t mean what she says,” he added hastily, for Phil was her brother. “But look at how Miss Harrison went with Langridge.”
“Only a couple of times, and I fancy she didn’t know his true character. She gave him his quietus soon enough after the trick he tried to play with the mirror.”
“That’s so. Well, I wish this tangle would be straightened out somehow. It’s getting on my nerves.”
“A baseball ’varsity captain shouldn’t have nerves.”
“I know it, but I can’t help it. Hello, some one’s coming. Maybe it’s Sid.”
“No, it’s Dutch Housenlager, by his tread,” and Phil’s guess was right.
“Glad I found somebody in,” remarked Dutch, as he was about to throw himself with considerableforce on the old sofa. Tom grabbed the catcher, and shunted him off to one side so violently that Dutch sat down on the floor, with a jar that shook the room.
“Here, what’s that for?” he demanded, somewhat dazed.
“It was to save our sofa,” Tom explained. “You were coming down on it as if you were making a flying tackle. It would have been broken like a half-sawed-through goal post if you had landed. I side-tracked you, that’s all.”
“Oh,” answered Dutch, as he slowly arose. “Next time I wish you’d serve notice on me when you’re going to do a thing like that, and I’ll wear my football suit,” and he rubbed his back gingerly.
“Would you mind translating your remark about being glad you found somebody in?” requested Phil.
“With pleasure, son. I’ve been to about sixteen different domiciles this evening, and every one was vacant. I’ve got something to talk about. Where’s Sid?”
“He went out a while ago,” answered Tom, uneasily.
“Seems to me you fellows aren’t as chummy as you once were,” remarked Dutch, taking a seat in the old armchair, after a questioning look at Tom, who nodded a permission.
“Oh, yes, we are,” exclaimed Phil quickly. “Isn’t it fierce that Sid’s off the team.”
“Rotten—simply rotten,” agreed Dutch. “Just when we need him most. Why didn’t you chaps keep him in the straight and narrow path that leads to baseball victories?”
“We tried,” came quickly from Phil. “But Sid——”
“Oh, it’ll be all right,” interrupted Tom. “I think things will straighten themselves out.” In his heart he did not believe this, but he did not want Dutch to go away with the idea that there was a cloud hanging over the “inseparables.” That would never do. “I have an idea that the faculty will relent at the last minute,” went on the captain. “Especially when they know that the championship depends on it. Then they’ll let Sid play. If they don’t we’ll get up another petition, and make Bascome and his crowd sign, or we’ll run ’em out of college.”
“Speaking of the freshmen brings me to what I came here for,” declared Dutch, and Tom gave a sigh of relief, that their visitor was away from the delicate subject. “What are we going to do to fool the first years, and keep ’em away from our spring dinner?” demanded Dutch. “That’s what I called about. The dinner is to be held next week, a few days before our game with Fairview,and, naturally, the freshies will try to break it up.”
“I’ve been so busy with getting ready for the exams and baseball, that I haven’t given the dinner much thought,” declared Tom. “Of course we’ve got to have it, and we must fool the freshies.”
“Sure,” agreed Phil. “Let’s go have a talk with Holly Cross. He may be able to suggest something.”
“Come on!” called Dutch. “We’ll call on Holly.”
As the three strolled down the corridor, out on the campus, and in the direction of Holly’s room, the genial center fielder having an apartment in one of the college club houses, Dutch nudged his companions.
“Look,” he remarked, “there go Ford Fenton and Bert Bascome, with several freshies. I don’t like to see one of the sophs mixing it up so close with the first years.”
“Me either,” agreed Tom. “Ford ought to stick to his own class. The trouble is few of our fellows like him, on account of his ways and his ‘uncle,’ whereas the freshmen will stand for them. That’s why Ford hangs out in their camp. But with our annual spring dinner coming off, I don’t like it.”
“Oh, Ford wouldn’t dare betray us,” was Phil’s opinion. They kept on across the campus, and were soon in Holly’s room, where plans for the dinner were eagerly discussed.
If they could have seen what took place a little later in the room of Bert Bascome, the four sophomores would have had more cause than ever to regret the intimacy between Ford Fenton and some of the first-year crowd.
“It’s your best chance to get even with them for making fun of you, Ford,” Bascome was urging the lad whose uncle had once been a coach at Randall. “It will serve them right.”
“But I hate to give their plans away,” objected Ford. “I’m a sophomore, and——”
“They don’t treat you as one,” urged Henry Delfield, Bascome’s crony. “It will be a fine chance to get back at them.”
“Suppose they find out that I told?” asked Ford.
“They never will. We’ll see to that,” promised Bert eagerly. “All we want you to do is to tell us where the dinner is going to be held. We’ll do the rest. There’ll be a fight, of course, when we arrive, to break it up, and, just so Parsons, Clinton, Henderson and that crowd won’t be suspicious, you can pitch into me—make believe knock me down, you know, and all that. Then they won’t have any suspicion of you.”
“Think not?” inquired Ford.
“Sure not. All we want is a tip, and when you’ve given it you’ll be in a position to laugh at those fellows who are laughing at you so often.”
“That’s right, they do make a lot of fun of me,” said Ford weakly. “All right, I’ll let you know, as soon as I find out where the dinner’s going to be held. But don’t squeal on me,” and the prospective traitor looked apprehensively at the plotting freshmen.
“Not for worlds,” Bascome assured him solemnly, and Ford left, promising to deliver his classmates into the hands of their traditional enemies.
When Phil, Tom and Dutch Housenlager came from Holly’s room that evening, they were just in time to see Ford Fenton emerge from his plotting conference with Bascome and his cronies.
“I don’t like that,” exclaimed Phil. “Ford has been in with those fellows for some time.”
“Probably trying to think up some scheme so he can get to be baseball manager next year,” suggested Tom.
“No!” cried Phil. “By Jove, I believe I have it. Come on back to Holly’s room for a few minutes,” and he took hold of his chums and fairly led them away, much to their mystification. There was another conference, which lasted a long time, and for a day or two thereafter much activity in the ranks of the sophomores.
The dinner was to be a “swell” affair, to quote Holly Cross. An elaborate menu had been decided on, and there were to be several “stunts” more or less elaborate on the part of the “talented”members of the class. The affair was to be held in a hall in Haddonfield, and the great object of the second-year fellows, of course, was to prevent the time and place of the dinner becoming known to their enemies, the freshmen.
“Do you s’pose they’ll bite?” asked Tom, an evening or two later, as he, together with Phil and Sid and Holly, were in the room of the “inseparables.”
“It depends on us,” answered Holly, who was the president of the sophomores. “I think they’ll trail along when they see us go out.”
“If they don’t have some of their number trail after the main bunch,” spoke Phil.
“We’ll have to take our chances; that’s all,” came from Sid. “Well, are we all ready?”
“Pretty nearly,” answered Holly. “I want to wait until it’s a little darker. Then we’ll slip off. I hope the chap is there with the auto.”
“He promised to be,” said Tom, and they sat about, waiting impatiently for the hour of action to arrive. It came finally, ticked off by the impatient little clock, and four figures stole from the sophomore dormitory, and hurried across the campus.
“There they come,” said Tom, in a low voice, a moment later. “They’re trailing us all right. See ’em sneaking along on the other side?”
“Sure,” spoke Phil. It was just light enoughto discern a number of hazy figures creeping along a boxwood hedge.
“See anything of that traitor, Fenton?” asked Holly, in a low voice.
“No, he’s with the other crowd,” answered Tom. “He’s in fear of his life that we’ll find him out.”
“As if we hadn’t already,” added Sid.
Hurrying along, the four lads entered a trolley that was headed for Haddonfield. They looked back, as they were on the platform, and saw the shadowy figures leap into an auto which they knew belonged to Bert Bascome.
“They’re coming,” spoke Sid.
“And we’ll be ready for ’em,” added Tom.
A little later Tom and his chums were in the town and they hurried to a building, containing several halls or meeting rooms, where the students frequently held dinners, or gave dances and other affairs.
“Did you see anything of them since we arrived?” asked Holly of Tom as they scurried into the structure.
“No, but they’ll be on hand. Ford has tipped them off all right; the little puppy! Say, what ought we to do to him? Tar and feathers, or give him the silence?”
“We can settle that later,” remarked Phil.“Just now let’s see how we make out against the freshies. It’s tough to have to acknowledge that there’s a traitor in the class.”
“It sure is. Come on, now I hope everything is here.”
A man came out of a room as the four sophomores knocked on the door.
“All arranged?” asked Tom eagerly.
“Yes. Now I hope you young gentlemen don’t have too much of a fight. Don’t break the furniture.”
“Not any more than we can help,” promised Sid.
“When the other fellows come—I mean the freshmen, let ’em right up,” instructed Holly. “We’ll be ready for ’em. Are the rear stairs clear?”
“Yes, you can slip out that way, and I put double locks on the door you’ll go out of.”
“And a spring lock on the one they’ll enter by?” asked Tom.
“Yes, just as you told me. Now don’t do too much damage,” and the man, the proprietor of the place, seemed somewhat apprehensive.
“Oh, we’ll pay for everything,” agreed Holly. “Well, we’re ready any time Bascome and his crowd are.”
“I’m glad the sophs didn’t think of a gamelike this to play on us when we tried to break up their dinner last year,” observed Sid, as the four entered the room.
The place presented a curious sight. There was a table set as if for a banquet, with plates, knives and forks, glasses, and with the usual candles burning in silver candelabras. At the head of the banquet board was a stuffed figure, representing a Randall college student, with the college colors in gay ribbons pinned on one side of his caricature of a face, while the sophomore hues adorned the other side.
“Got the camera and flash powder?” asked Holly.
“Right here,” answered Sid, who, because of his knowledge in that line, had been selected for this post of honor.
“They’ll be here pretty soon now,” prophesied Tom. “Bascome has his crowd in waiting somewhere, and he just lingered around college until he saw us start. Then they’ll delay until they think we’re all here, and they’ll rush in, and make a rough house.”
“That is, theythinkthey will,” corrected Phil, with a grin. “I rather think they’ll be surprised some.”
The four moved about the room, completing their arrangements, while Sid busied himself with a large camera, which was focused on the doorleading into the banquet hall, and got ready a flashlight powder.
“I think I hear them coming,” spoke Tom in a whisper, about half an hour later. “Get ready, Sid.”
“I’m all ready.”
They listened. Out in the corridor there were shuffling noises, as if several persons were trying to walk quietly. There was a brushing against the door, and a cautious whisper.
Suddenly the knob of the portal was tried, and a voice in the hall cried:
“Give up, sophs! We’ve got you!”
Several bodies flung themselves against the door, and to the surprise of the freshmen, who were headed by Bascome and Delfield, they found that the portal was not locked. It opened easily—so easily, in fact, that several of the lads fell to the floor, and the others rushed over them. There was a scene of confusion, and this probably prevented the attacking freshmen from seeing that only four sophomores were present. The first year lads caught sight of the table, with its glistening array of silver and glass, and they took it for granted that they were in the banquet place of their enemies.
“Come on, fellows! We’ve got ’em!” yelled Bascome, scrambling to his feet. “Upset things, and then capture Holly Cross. There he is!”
With a yell his cronies sprang to obey the sporty freshman. They fairly tumbled over each other until they filled the room. Then, with a bang, the door by which they had entered slammed shut behind them, fastening with a strong spring lock on the outside.
“All ready with the camera, Sid!” cried Holly.
“All ready,” answered Sid.
Then, for the first time the freshmen seemed to realize that only a small number of sophomores were present—four, who were ensconced behind a table, and near an open door.
“Welcome to our banquet, freshies!” cried Tom.
Holly Cross caught up the effigy of a sophomore and tossed it at Bascome. The freshman leader, taken by surprise, clasped the figure in his arms, and Phil yelled:
“Let ’em have it, Sid!”
There was a blinding flash, and a dull boom, as the flashlight powder exploded, and it was followed by a gasp of fear from the freshmen. Then Holly switched on the electric lights, which had been turned off, and addressed the huddled group of freshmen.
“Gentlemen, I hope you enjoy your call,” he said. “As for us, we have to leave you, as we are already a little late for the banquet. This is only a sample of what we will have, and as asort of memento of this auspicious occasion, let me inform you that we have a flashlight photograph of you in your most interesting poses. Bascome, smile a little, if you please—that’s it—look pleasant. That will do. You may lay aside the rag doll now.”
With a strong expression the freshman president cast aside the effigy, and yelled:
“Fellows, we’re stung! But we can prevent these four from going to the banquet, anyhow! Get at them!”
He leaped across the table, followed by several of his fellows.
“Too late! Sorry to leave you!” cried Tom, as he and his chums glided through the open doorway behind them, Sid taking the camera with him.
The door was hastily pulled shut, and bolted, barred and locked, just as the group of infuriated freshmen threw themselves against it.
“Trapped!” Tom heard Bascome shout from the other side of the portal. “Try the other door!”
“That’s locked, too,” came the despairing cry. “We’re caught!”
“That’s it!” cried Phil exultantly. “Ta-ta, freshies! Next time you listen to a traitor, take care to lay better plans. We’re off to our annual feed. When you get out come along, and we’ll give you the leavings. You can have Fenton,too,” and the four who had successfully turned the trick on their class enemies, hastened off, leaped into a waiting auto, and were soon at the banquet hall, where their fellows were anxiously expecting them.
“Did it work?”
“Were they surprised?”
“Did you get their picture?”
“How was it?”
A dozen other questions, besides these, were asked of Tom and his chums, as they entered the hall where the real sophomore banquet was about to take place. Around them eagerly thronged their classmates, all anxious to know how the trick had developed, for, it is needless to say that Ford Fenton’s treachery was discovered, and plans laid to offset it, with what effect the reader has learned.
“It worked like a charm,” responded Holly Cross.
“And I think I have a fine picture of them rushing in, and Bascome hugging the dummy,” added Sid. “Now I’ll take a flash of this banquet, and we’ll post ’em all over college, with a notice saying: ‘Gaze on this picture—then onthat!’ It will be great!” and he proceeded to arrange his camera to take a different view of the banquet scene.
“Where’s Fenton?” inquired Tom, looking around.
“He didn’t come,” replied Dutch Housenlager. “We’ve been waiting for him.”
“Nasty scandal to get out about Randall,” commented Phil.
“Oh, we’ll take care that it doesn’t get out,” responded Holly. “Ford will keep still, and I’ll make a school-honor matter of it for the others. Only Fenton had better go back to his friends,” he added significantly.
I presume my readers have already guessed how the affair came about. Holly and his chums suspected, after seeing Fenton so chummy with Bascome and his crowd, that there might be at least a “leak” in regard to the time and place of the sophomore dinner. To forestall any such event, a ruse was adopted. It was arranged to hold the real dinner in a seldom-used hall, but to go ahead with arrangements as if one was going to take place in the usual building. To give color to this, Holly, Tom, Sid and Phil pretended to sneak off, as if to avoid the freshmen, but, in reality, to lead them on. Bascome and his followers trailed after, were drawn into the hall where the “fake” dinner table was set, andtrapped, as told. They were locked in, and it was some time before they could summon help to open the doors.
Meanwhile the real banquet came off most successfully. Later the picture Sid had taken, of Bascome and the freshmen, rushing pell-mell into the supposed dining hall, was developed and printed, while its companion-piece was hung up with it, showing the triumphant sophomores gathered at the board, making merry. It made a great hit, and the freshmen did not hear the last of their defeat for many moons.
As for Fenton, he was made aware, that very night, of the fact that his indiscrete conduct, to give it the mildest term, was common knowledge. He withdrew from college, fearing the just wrath of his classmates, but, lest the scandal might stand against the fair name of Randall, he was induced to come back. He was promised that no punishment would be meted out to him, and none was, in the common acceptance of that term. But his life was made miserable in more ways than one.
The spring term was drawing to a close. With all the excitement attending the annual examinations there was mingled with it the anxiety about the baseball team, and Randall’s chances for winning the championship, and the gold loving cup. The latter was placed on view in one of the Haddonfieldstores, and daily a crowd of persons, including many students, could be seen in front of the place.
“I wonder if we’ll get it?” asked Tom of Phil, a few days before the final game with Fairview.
“How are you on pitching?” asked Phil, for Tom had done little more than light practice since his accident.
“All right, I think. My hand is in fair shape.”
“Pity you’re not a southpaw, or else it’s too bad you caught that ball,” said Phil.
“Nonsense. I can pitch all right, and I would have felt like leaving the team, if I had let that liner get past me, hot as it was. No, I’m not worrying from my end, though perhaps I should. It’s our batting I’m alarmed about. Hang it all, if only Sid——”
“There’s no use going over that again,” and Phil spoke quietly.
“No, I presume not. Well, we’ve just got to win from Fairview.”
“Suppose it would do any good to tackle Sid again?”
“I don’t know. I’ll try, if I get a chance. I wish I knew his secret.”
The chance came sooner than Tom or Phil expected it would. It was the evening of the day before the final game with Fairview. There had been hard practice in the afternoon, and thoughTom found himself in good shape, and noted an improvement in his fielding forces, the batting was weak. He was tired, and not a little discouraged. His one thought was:
“If I could only get Sid to play, it would strengthen the whole team. He would stiffen the rest of ’em up, and stiffening is all that some of them need. Oh—well, what’s the use.”
Tom and Phil were alone in the room, discussing plans for the game the next day, when Sid entered. One look at his face showed that he was moody and out of sorts. He had been off on a tramp, after biology specimens, and with scarcely a word to his chums he began changing his field clothes for other garments.
“Going out this evening?” asked Phil.
“No. Guess not,” was the rather short answer. “I’ve got to do some studying. What have you fellows got on the carpet?”
“Rest,” answered Tom, and after supper he returned to the apartment, and stretched out on the creaking sofa, while Phil occupied the easy chair. Sid was at his desk writing, when a knock came at the door.
The deposed second baseman started, and half arose. Then he sat down again.
“Well, aren’t some of you going to answer it?” asked Tom. “I’m too tired to move.”
“Same here,” added Phil, but, as he was nearerthe portal than Sid, he got up, with much groaning, and opened the door. Wallops stood there.
“A message for Mr. Henderson,” he announced, and he handed Phil a letter.
“Here! Give it to me!” cried Sid, almost snatching it from Phil’s fingers.
“I was just going to, old man,” was the gentle answer, and it seemed as if Sid was afraid his chum would see the writing on the envelope.
Sid tore open the epistle, read it at a glance, and tore it up, scattering the fragments in his waste paper basket. Then he strode over to his closet, and got out his coat and cap.
“Going out?” asked Phil, politely interested.
“Yes—I’ve got to,” muttered Sid.
Tom slowly arose from the old sofa, the boards on the back and front creaking dismally with the strain.
“Sid,” spoke Tom, and there was that in his voice which made Phil and Sid both look at the captain. “Sid, I’m going to make a last appeal to you.”
“No—don’t,” almost begged the second baseman, and he put up his arm, as though to ward off a blow. “Don’t, Tom, I—I can’t stand it.”
“You’ve got to!” insisted Tom, almost fiercely. “I’ve stood this long enough. It’s not fair to yourself—not fair to the nine.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” and Sid tried to speak calmly.
“Yes, you do,” and by this time Tom was on his feet, and had walked over toward the door. “Yes, you do know. You received a note just now. There’s no use in me pretending I don’t know what it is, for I do.”
Sid started.
“I mean,” went on Tom, “that I know what it portends. I don’t know who it’s from, and I don’t care; neither do I know what’s in it. But I do know that it calls you out——”
“Yes, I’ve got to go,” murmured Sid, as though it was a summons from fate, and he could not avoid it.
“You’ve got to do nothing of the sort!” cried Tom. “Don’t go!”
“I’ve got to, I tell you!”
“To that gambling hall? To lose your money again? Haven’t you manhood enough to say ‘no’? Can’t you stay away? Oh, Sid, why do you go? Why don’t you be fair to yourself—fair to the nine? We need you!”
Tom held out his hands appealingly. There was a mist before his eyes, and, he fancied, something glistened in those of his chum. Phil stood, a silent spectator of the little scene, and the clock ticked on relentlessly.
“Don’t you want to help us win?” asked Tom.
“You know I do!” exclaimed Sid brokenly.
“Then do it!” cried Tom, in ringing tones. “Break off this miserable life! Give up this gambling!”
“I’m not gambling!” cried Sid, and he shrank back, as though Tom had struck him.
“Dare you deny that you’re going from here to the gambling den in Dartwell?” asked Tom, with flashing eyes.
Sid was silent.
“You don’t dare deny it,” went on the captain. “Now, Sid, I’ve made my last appeal. From now on I’m going to act. I’m captain of the nine, and what I say goes. I say you sha’n’t go out to that gambling hall to-night!” and, before either of his chums were aware of his action, Tom had sprung forward, locked the door, and taken out the key. “There! Let’s see you go out now!” cried Tom, as he planted himself in front of the portal and folded his arms, a picture of defiance.
Sid acted as if stunned for a moment. Then, fairly springing forward, he cried:
“Stand aside, Tom! I’ve got to go out now! You don’t understand. Stand aside and let me pass!”
“I’ll not! You sha’n’t make a beast of yourself any longer!”
“Stand aside or I’ll tear you away from thatdoor and burst it open!” and Sid fairly hissed out the words.
Tom never moved. Calmly he faced his chum. Though his face was stern, there was a look of deep sorrow on it. As for Phil he knew not what to do or say.
“Once more,” asked Sid, and his voice was calmer, “will you stand aside, or have I got to force you?”
“You’re not going out of here to-night,” repeated Tom. “This has got to end. I’m going to find out your secret—the secret you are keeping in spite of your better self. We’ll get at the bottom of this—we’ll restore you to yourself, Sid—to the nine that needs you. We’ll have the ban removed!”
Once more he held out his hands appealingly.
“I ask you for the last time, will you stand back?” came from Sid, in steely tones.
“No!” cried Tom resolutely.
“Then I’ll make you!” and Sid approached closer. He made a grab for Tom’s outstretched right hand, and wrenched it cruelly. In spite of himself Tom gave a cry of pain, for the injury was tender yet.
This seemed to break the spell. Phil sprang forward.
“Sid—Tom!” he cried. “What are you doing?”
They seemed to realize, then, that they had nearly come to blows. With a sob, almost of despair, Sid released his hold of Tom’s hand, and staggered back. At the same time the captain, reaching in his pocket for the key, inserted it in the door, and shot back the lock.
“You may go,” he said gently.
Sid, with never a word, but with a look of anguish on his face, as if he was torn between two fates, passed out.
“I never knew that clock ticked so loud,” remarked Tom, after a silence that seemed interminable. “Listen to it.”
“It does make an infernal racket,” responded Phil, and his voice sounded strange to him. So great had been the strain engendered by the dramatic departure of Sid, that both Tom and Phil felt the awkwardness of speaking of commonplace matters after it. “Guess we’ll get a new ticker,” suggested Phil, for want of something better to say.
“No,” answered Tom slowly. “Old things are best after all—even if they don’t keep just the right time. I’m attached to that clock.”
Somehow Tom felt that the simile might apply to Sid, but he did not mention it.
“Is your hand—did he hurt it—I mean is it all right?” stammered Phil.
“Oh, yes,” replied Tom, with a glance at it. “Sid gave it a wrench, but I guess it will be allright to-morrow. I can’t understand him, can you?”
“No, and I’ve given up trying.”
“No, don’t do that!” begged Tom. “We’ve just got to save Sid.”
“But if he won’t let us?”
“We must do it in spite of himself. I will try to think of a way,” and Tom threw himself back on the sofa, and turned his face to the wall. Phil walked softly across the room, and sat down in the big chair. Somehow it seemed as if their chum had gone, never to return. For more than an hour the two sat there, neither speaking, and the clock ticked on relentlessly.
“Well,” remarked Tom at length, with a sigh, “guess I’ll turn in.”
Sid was in his bed when the two chums awoke in the morning, though neither Phil nor Tom had heard him come in. He did not refer to the happening of the previous night, but after chapel, which was made particularly solemn by a short sermon by the doctor on the prodigal son, Sid drew away from his chums, who started for their classes.
“Where you going?” asked Tom, for Sid and he had the same studies this morning period.
“Up to see Moses,” was the answer, “Moses” being the students’ pet name for Dr. Churchill. “Zane caught me again last night. I was outafter hours without a permit. I’m in for it I guess,” and Sid laughed recklessly.
“Why, old man——” began Tom, and then he stopped. He did not know what to say. Then he felt it would be better to say nothing, and he hurried on to the lecture, anxious to have it over with, and get out on the diamond with his men, for the final game with Fairview was to come off that afternoon.
Tom and Phil did not see Sid again until after the game, and then they felt in no condition to dwell upon his trouble, for Randall had been beaten by Fairview.
It was a never-to-be-forgotten battle of the diamond. It opened well for Randall, for Tom felt a fierce anger at fate in general, that nerved him to pitch as he had seldom pitched before. Then things began to go backward, for his hand was in no condition to stand the fierce work necessary. Mr. Leighton saw this, and deciding to save Tom for the Boxer Hall game, took him out of the box, and put in Evert. After that it was all over but the shouting, and Fairview piled up eleven runs against Randall’s five. It was a miserable and dispirited lot of players that filed back to Randall that evening, nor could the sympathy of Ruth and Madge take any of the sting out of it for Tom.
“It isn’t so bad,” remarked Phil, in a consoling sort of voice. “We still have a chance.”
“A mighty slim chance,” grumbled Tom. “Almost none at all. Oh, if old Sid had only been with us!”
“There’s no use talking about that now,” went on Phil. “We simply must devote all our energies to the Boxer Hall game.”
“No use thinking of that unless Fairview loses to them,” came from Tom, gloomily.
“Oh, cheer up!” urged Phil. “You can’t win the championship by feeling that way,” but his words did little to dispel the gloom in the heart of the captain.
For the next few days there was hard practice. Tom’s hand received special attention, and it was hoped that he could last the entire Boxer game. The batting improved very much, and the ’varsity nine was as much on edge as it was possible for it to be. Meanwhile there was anxiety over the outcome of the Fairview-Boxer game.
For some time past the Randall players had been reckoning percentages. It must be remembered that the games described in detail in this volume were not the only ones played by the rival colleges in the league. There were many more contests than those set down here, but space will not permit their description.
Sufficient to say that, reckoning in some forfeitedcontests, and computing the standings on the basis of games won and lost, it developed that if Boxer Hall beat Fairview it would make a tie for first place between Boxer and Randall, and all would then depend on the final contest between those two latter teams.
Therefore it was with no small jubilation that the news was received, a week later, that Boxer had downed Fairview.
“Now forourchance to win!” cried Tom, brightening up a little. “All we have to do is to wallop Boxer, and the loving cup is ours. But Oh, Phil! if we only had Sid!”
“That’s right. Have you noticed how queer he’s been acting of late?”
“Oh, it’s the same old story. I’m done now. I made my last appeal. By the way, I didn’t hear what happened the time he was last caught by Zane. What was the verdict?”
“It hasn’t been announced yet. Faculty held a meeting but deferred action. It means expulsion, of course. Poor old Sid!”
“Well, he brought it on himself.”
“How do you know?” asked Phil sharply. “Maybe there’s something we don’t understand.”
“And we never will,” added Tom bitterly. “I consider that Sid has done as much as any one to defeat the team if we lose the last game.”
“Oh, don’t think that. How’s your hand?”
“Fine! I can last all right. It’s the batting I’m worried about. Langridge will do his worst, and we must look for a fierce game. We’ve got to practice until the gong rings.”
Tom worked his men to the limit, with Coach Leighton to help him. Matters seemed a little brighter, and in spite of his words Tom had a forlorn hope that, after all, the faculty might relent, and allow Sid to play.
But this hope was dashed to the ground the night before the game. Then Sid came into the room, despondency showing on his face and in every motion. He began hauling his things out of the closet and bureau, and packing them in his trunk.
“What’s up, old man?” asked Phil in great surprise.
“I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?” burst out Tom.
“Yes. Expelled. Faculty just had a meeting on my case, and it’s all off. I’m done!”
“Look here!” cried Tom. “Are you going to let it go this far, Sid? Aren’t you going to speak—going to tell your secret, and exonerate yourself?”
“I can’t,” answered Sid simply, and his tone was so miserable that his chums forebore to question him further. His trunk was soon packed,and he left the room. Neither Phil nor Tom felt like talking and went to bed early. Sid did not return that night, and the two ball players were out early, for practice on the diamond, in anticipation of the great and deciding game which was to take place that afternoon on the Boxer Hall grounds.
A little before noon, when the team had gone to the gymnasium for a light dinner, and to have some last secret instruction from the coach and Tom, Sid Henderson crossed the college campus. With him was an individual whom, had Phil or Tom seen, they would have at once recognized as the sporty youth who had met Sid the day of the island picnic. But there was a great change noticed in the young man. He no longer wore the “loud” suit and the brilliant tie; he no longer smoked a cigarette, and there was a chastened air about him.
“Don’t you feel a bit nervous about it, Guy?” asked Sid.
“Not a bit, old man. It’s a bitter dose to swallow, but I need it, I guess. I wish I could do more for you. Are you sure it isn’t too late?”
“I hope not. The team hasn’t gone yet. There’s just a chance.”
“Well, I can’t thank you enough for all you’ve done for me. No one else would have done asmuch. No one else would have kept his promise in the face of such odds. It wasn’t right for me to ask you.”
“We agreed not to talk about that, you know, Guy.”
“I can’t help mentioning it. Lead on. I’ll explain to Dr. Churchill, and all the rest of them.”
The two disappeared into the doctor’s residence, and, presently there might have been seen wending their way thither the various members of the Randall college faculty.
What took place occurred behind closed doors, and what that was, only was known afterward when Sid made his explanation. Sufficient, for the present, to say that the meeting was a protracted one, much to the restlessness of several of the younger professors who wanted to go to Boxer Hall to witness the championship struggle.
“Well, then, are we all agreed?” asked Dr. Churchill, as he smiled kindly on Sid, and regarded with a pitying glance the youth whom the second baseman had addressed as Guy.
“I think so,” answered Professor Tines. “I seldom like to reverse myself, but I feel that it is warranted on this occasion. I will vote to remove the ban that has been on Mr. Henderson, and restore him to his full college rights and privileges.”
“I think we all feel the same way,” spokeProfessor Bogardus, the science teacher, “and I am glad that I can change my vote.”
“I think we all are,” went on Dr. Churchill. “Mr. Henderson, I congratulate you, in the name of the college, for bearing up as you did, in the face of heavy odds. You are now a Sophomore in good standing, and——”
“May I play on the team?” burst out Sid.
“You may,” answered the genial old doctor, his eyes twinkling, “and I’ll be there to see you win, at least for the last part of the game. The ban is removed, Mr. Henderson.”
“Thank you, all,” spoke Sid feelingly to the assembled professors. Then, turning to his companion, he added: “Come on, Guy. I’m going to get in the last game, after all.”
“No, I’ll not come. You’ve had enough of me. I’m going back to mother. She—she needs me now,” and the former sportily-attired lad turned away.
Sid hurried over to the gymnasium. His heart was beating in wild exultation. At last he was eligible to play on the nine! He could help them to win, for that Randall would lose never entered his head.
He reached the gymnasium. It seemed strangely deserted and quiet for a championship day. Sid felt a sense as if an icy hand was clutching his heart.
“Where—where’s the ball nine?” he asked one of the janitors.
“The ball nine?”
“Yes.”
Sid thought the man would never answer.
“Oh, the ball nine has gone over an hour,” was the reply. “They went to Boxer Hall in a big automobile—a rubberneck they calls ’em.”
“Gone! Over an hour!” gasped Sid. “Can I get there in time—in time to play? I must! I will! It’s my last chance! Oh, I must get there!” and he started on a run for the trolley line that led to Boxer Hall.
Sid hurried on, his thoughts in a wild tumult. In his pocket was a note from Dr. Churchill, restoring him to all his rights and privileges. Sid had asked for it, lest Boxer Hall protest his entrance into the game at the last minute, for Sid was fully determined to play, and help his team to win. He knew he was in good form, for he had not neglected practice.
“If I can catch the next car,” he thought, “I’ll be in time.” Then, as he caught sight of something yellow through the trees on the banks of Sunny river, along which the electric line extended, he exclaimed:
“There’s a car, now! I’ll have to sprint for it. Glad I didn’t stop to get my suit. I can borrow one from a sub when I get there, I guess.” He broke into a run, but noted, curiously, that the car did not seem to be moving very fast. Then, as he made the turn in the road, he saw that it was standing still, and that a number of the passengerswere walking about, idly. “Must have had a fuse blow out, or a hot box, and they’re waiting to cool it,” he mused. “Lucky for me, as the electrics don’t run very often from now on.”
Sid dropped into a walk, and was soon at the stalled car.
“What’s the matter?” asked the second baseman of the motorman, who was sitting on a grassy bank, idly chopping at a stone with his controller handle.
“Power’s off.”
“For long?” asked Sid, his heart thumping under his ribs.
“Hard to say. It’s been off nearly an hour now, and the conductor just telephoned in, and they said it might be an hour more.”
“An hour more! Then I can’t get to Boxer Hall in time for the game.”
The motorman looked quizzically at Sid.
“Not unless you walk, or hire an auto,” he remarked, and fell again to hammering the stone. The other passengers were fretting, complaining, or accepting the situation philosophically, as befitted their natures. Sid made up his mind quickly.
“I can walk to Fordham junction, and take the train,” he decided. “From Bendleton, which is the nearest railroad station to Boxer Hall, it’sonly two miles. Maybe I can run it in time, or perhaps I’ll meet some one who will give me a lift. Anyway, that’s my best chance. I’ll do it,” and, with a final glance at the stalled car, hoping he might see the flashing up of the lights on it, which would tell of the power being turned on, Sid turned and made off toward the distant railroad station.
As the janitor had informed Sid, Tom and the other ball players, including the substitutes, had made an early start in a large automobile, carrying twenty passengers. It was of the type known as a “rubber-neck,” from the fact that they are used in big cities to take visitors to the scenes of interest, there to “rubber,” or stretch their necks in gazing aloft.
“See anything of Sid, as you came away?” asked Holly Cross, who sat beside Tom and Phil, as the auto swayed along.
“No,” answered Tom briefly. “I fancy he’s left for good. Poor old Sid! Isn’t it a shame that he went to pieces as he did? If we only had him now our chances would be brighter.”
“Would you play him if he came along?” asked Phil.
“Of course—provided I could—that he was in good standing so Boxer Hall couldn’t protest. But what’s the use of talking?”
“Is he in good form, captain?” asked Bricktop.
“Sid never goes stale,” answered Tom. “Besides, with his ability to slice a ball to right or left field in a pinch, hitting right and left handed as he does, it would be just great for us to-day.”
“Still worrying?” asked Phil.
“Of course. So would you, if you were in my place. Don’t you know what this game means to us?”
“Sure we do, me lad,” answered Bricktop, kindly. “But say this over to yourself a few times and you’ll feel better. ’Tis a proverb of me old Irish ancestors. ‘Soft an’ aisy goes far in a day,’ that’s it. ‘Soft and aisy goes far in a day.’ Remember that, Tommy, me lad, and take it ‘aisy’ as the good Irish say. We’ll win—never fear—we’ll win.”
There was talk and laughter, serious conversation and much chaffing as the auto rumbled along. They had started early and thought they would have plenty of time, but something went wrong with the steering gear once, and a second time the water in the radiator needed replenishing, so that with the delays it left the players with no more than time to get to Boxer Hall in season for the game, and left hardly any time for practice.
“Hadn’t you better hit up the pace a little, my friend,” suggested Mr. Leighton to the chauffeur.
“I will, yes, sir,” was the answer, and the bigcar did make better time, for it was on a good road. The team fell to laughing and joking again, but suddenly stopped, as the auto once more came to a halt just before crossing Pendleton river, a stream somewhat larger than Sunny river, and intercepting the main road between the two colleges.
“What’s up now?” asked Tom.
“The drawbridge is open,” replied the chauffeur.
The players stood up and looked across the river. The draw, which was necessary on account of a number of sailboats on the stream, was swung, making an impassable gap, for the stream at that point was swift and deep. Some men were seen on the middle of the bridge.
“What’s the matter? Why don’t you swing shut that bridge?” yelled Phil.
“Can’t,” answered one of the men.
“Why not?”
“The machinery that operates the draw is broken. We swung the bridge open to let a boat pass, and now we can’t close it again. We’ve sent for some mechanics to repair it.”
“How long will it take?” yelled Tom.
“Oh, not long. Two or three hours, maybe.”
“Two or three hours! Great smokestacks!” howled Tom. “That will be too late for us. We can’t get to the game on time!”
“Of course not!” agreed Holly Cross. “And Boxer Hall will be just mean enough to call a forfeit, and claim the championship!”
“Say, you’ve got to swing this bridge shut, and let us pass!” sung out Phil.
“Can’t!” yelled the men who were on the bridge, marooned as it were. “We’ve tried, but it won’t budge.”
“What’s to be done?” asked Jerry Jackson.
“Yes, what’s to be done?” echoed his twin brother.
“Guess we’ll have to swim for it,” suggested Dutch Housenlager. “That is, unless Grasshopper Backus can jump over with us on his back, one at a time.”
But, though they could joke over the situation, they all knew that it was serious. The time was drawing close, and they were still some distance from Boxer Hall. Further inquiry of the men on the bridge did not help matters, nor did the fuming and fretting of Tom and his chums.
“Can’t you suggest a plan?” asked Mr. Leighton of the chauffeur.
“Well, there’s another bridge about five miles below here.”
“That’s too far. Ten miles out of our way. Time we went there, and got back it would be too late. Boxer Hall would claim the game.Can nothing be done?” and the coach looked at the swiftly swirling river. At that moment a man driving a mule hitched to a buckboard came along. He took in the situation at a glance.
“Stuck, eh?” he remarked sympathetically.
“That’s what,” replied Bricktop Molloy. “Maybe ye happen t’ be a fairy, Mr. Man, an’ can help us across.”
“Why don’t you try the ford?” asked the man.
“Ford? We didn’t know there was one,” said Tom.
“Sure there is. About half a mile below here. It’s where the river is shallow, and many’s the time I’ve driven across before this bridge was built. The water’s a leetle high now, but I guess your ark could make it. Will it go in water?”
“If it’s not too deep, and there’s good bottom,” was the chauffeur’s answer.
“Oh, it’s good bottom, but, as I say, it’s a trifle deep.”
“Try it, anyhow,” suggested Tom. “It’s our only chance. Go ahead.”
This was the sentiment of all, and the players getting into their seats again, which they had left to gaze at the river, the auto was backed up, and headed for the ford, the man with the buckboard going in advance to show the way.
As he had said, the water was rather high, andit seemed to swirl along dangerously fast. He would not venture in with his mule, but, after a look at it the chauffeur said he would try it.
“I’ll be all right,” he announced, “if the water doesn’t come up high enough to short-circuit the batteries or the magneto.”
“Let her go!” cried Tom.
Backing up, to get a good start down the slope that led to the ford, the chauffeur turned on full speed. Into the river went the big auto, with its heavy load. The water splashed up in a spray as the front wheels, with the big tires, struck the limpid surface. A moment later the entire machine was in the water, submerged to the hubs.
“It’s all right! Go on! Go on!” urged the man with the mule. “It won’t be much deeper than that.”
“If it is we’re done for,” remarked the chauffeur in a low voice.
It was a perilous passage, but the Randall nine was too anxious over the consequences of delay to mind that much. The man in charge of the auto was rather white-faced, but he gripped the steering wheel, and kept on high speed, though he throttled down the engine a trifle as he neared the middle of the river. The big machine careened dangerously, and several clung instinctively to the sides.
“Can you make it?” asked Mr. Leighton anxiously.
“I don’t know,” replied the chauffeur, as he peered at a bit of smooth water directly ahead. It looked to be deep, and he was contemplating turning to one side, though their guide had warned him to steer straight for the other side.
“Keep on! Keep on!” cried the man with the mule encouragingly. “Straight ahead, and you’ll be safe!”
The chauffeur yanked the gasolene lever over the rachet, opening the throttle wider, and the car shot forward at increased speed. It swayed, and seemed about to topple over, righted itself, almost like a thing alive, and then, with a crunching of gravel, was out of the stream, and climbing the slope that led from the ford to the road.
“By Jove! I’m glad we’re over that!” exclaimed Tom, with a sigh of relief. “Speed her up now, and get us to Boxer Hall!”
Half an hour later the players were on the diamond, being received by a crowd of their friends who had preceded them to the game earlier in the day, for the last game of the season was a gala affair, and the Randall lads usually came over to Boxer Hall early in the morning.
“Now for a battle to the death,” said Tom grimly, as he led his men out to practice.