There was a crisping tang in the air. The wind had in it just the hint of winter, but the sun shone bravely down and glinted on the green grass of the football field—a field marked off in white lines, so meaningless to one not familiar with the game, yet so full of meaning to a player.
Soon what a struggle there would be to cross those same white lines—especially the last, whereon were the goal posts, and to gain which every last ounce of strength, every atom of breath, every nerve and sinew that could be urged to lend speed to the runner would be called upon to do the utmost that the ball might be shoved over for a touchdown.
Now, however, the gridiron of Randall College lay peaceful and quiet under the October sun. The grass seemed to shiver in the breeze, as if in anticipation of the struggles it would soon have to bear.
The silent grandstands were but waiting the cheering, yelling, singing, sport-maddened and enthusiasticthrongs that would shortly occupy them, to cause them to sway as in a gale with the stress of their applause, to echo to the thunder of thousands of stamping feet.
But now the gridiron was deserted. It was like a battle-field whereon had taken place many a conflict, but which, like the arena of old, had been swept and garnished with sand, effacing the marks of strife, that those who came might not see them. It was all ready for the next battle of brawn, practice for which would soon take place.
Out from the gymnasium came rushing a crowd of lads—in canvas trousers and jackets, and in sweaters, the shoulders of which bulged with great leather patches. Some of the warriors had on leather helmets, and others swung rubber nose-guards from their arms by dangling strings.
“Line up! Line up!” came the cry.
“Come on for some punts!”
“Hey, Phil, send out some drop kicks!”
“Pass the ball!”
“Fall on it! Fall on it!”
The lads were racing about, leaping and jumping. Some were punting, others sending the ball swiftly around by a quick arm and hand motion. Still others, in the excess of their exuberance, were wrestling or tackling.
For it was the first day of practice with thenewly-organized team, and everyone was anxious to see what the result would be. Kerr had gone from Randall, after an affecting good-bye to his classmates, bearing with him their sincere wishes that his father would speedily recover, and that Ed would return.
Bricktop, for the first time since the season had opened, was without his football togs, and he felt it keenly. But once he had made up his mind, he decided to forget practice, though he consented to stay on about a week, and help Mr. Lighton coach Snail Looper in his work behind the line.
“Here you go, Tom!” called Sid, and he sent a puzzling spiral down the field. The plucky left end was down after it like a flash, extending his arms to gather it in. So swift was it, however, that it went right through his grasp, and bounded on the grass. Tom, like a flash, fell on it.
“Good!” cried the coach, who seemed to be watching every preliminary play, though regular practice had not yet been begun. “That’s the way to do it.”
There was some warm-up work, while Mr. Lighton and Dan Woodhouse consulted, and while the captain of the scrub was getting his men together. Then came the cry again:
“Line up! Line up!”
“We’ll play a ten minute half,” said the captain, and he glanced at a list in his hand. “Here’show the ’varsity will line up,” he added. “Tom Parsons will play at left end, Bert Bascome at left tackle, Sam Looper at left guard, Holly Cross at centre. Billy Housenlager will be right guard. I’ll play at right tackle, as usual. Joe Jackson will be at right end, and his brother can try it at full-back, only I wish he’d put on more weight. Phil, you’ll go to quarter. Pete Backus will play right half-back, and Sid Henderson at left half. Now, I guess that completes the team. Get in line and see what we can do.”
“And remember what I told you about fast, snappy playing,” cautioned the coach. “I’m going to have the scrub do its best to make a touchdown on you, so watch out. Line up!”
The ball was placed in the centre of the field, and, as the ’varsity wanted to get into offense as soon as possible, the scrub was to kick off.
“All ready?” asked Ned Hendrix, who was captain of the scrub, as he looked across the field to see how his own players were bunched.
“All ready,” answered Kindlings.
Ping! That was the nerve thrilling sound of the toe of Hendrix’s shoe making a dent in the side of the ball. Straight and true it sailed, and into the arms of Jerry Jackson it fell.
“Now, fellows, come on! Make up some interference for him! Don’t let them get through on us!” yelled the captain of the ’varsity, as the Jerseytwin tucked the ball under his arm, lowered his head and started back with the pigskin.
Before him ran his fellows, and speeding toward them came the eager scrub, thirsting for tackles. Jerry managed to run back twenty yards before he was downed, and as the two teams lined up for the first scrimmage, the coach shook his head rather dubiously.
“The scrub is a bit quicker than the ’varsity, I’m afraid,” he whispered. “I’ve got to whip them into shape. Well, now to see how they tear through the line.”
Phil Clinton was kneeling down behind Holly Cross to receive the ball. He gave a quick glance behind him, and decided to try out the mettle of Pete Backus.
“Seventeen—eighty-four—ready now—twenty-two—four—sixteen—eighty-three,” counted Phil, but before he had called the last number he had given the signal for the ball to come back.
It was for Pete to take the pigskin in between tackle and guard, and, as he received the leather, Pete made a spring through the hole that was opened for him. He gained two yards, seeing which the coach murmured:
“He’s got the strength, but he needs to be a bit quicker. Well, we’ve got time enough to get speed out of him, I guess.”
The piled-up players slowly emerged from the heap, and Kindlings whispered to his new man:
“Good work, old fellow. That’s the way to tear through them.”
Phil was already calling off the next signal. He had found that quick, snappy work in beginning the signal, even though it was not quite yet time for the play, had the effect of somewhat demoralizing the other players, and also hastened the actions of his own men. Once more the ball went to the Grasshopper, but he failed to gain, and was thrown for a slight loss, for the scrub players were eager in breaking through.
“That won’t do,” objected the captain, gloomily.
“I—I didn’t know he was going to give it to me so soon again,” spoke Pete, pantingly.
“You must always be ready,” was the comment.
Phil was calling for a kick now, on the last down, and Joe Jackson dropped back for it. The ball was sent out of danger, but coach and captain shook their heads. The ’varsity had not gained as much ground as they should have done.
“Better luck next time,” said Kindlings hopefully.
“Your men need it,” responded Mr. Lighton.
It was now the turn of the scrub to see what they could do, and they quickly formed over the pigskin, while their quarter-back called off the signals.At the sturdy line of the ’varsity, they plunged, trying to tear a hole between the left guard and tackle. They had quickly found the weakness of Pete, and Bert Bascome was not a tried warrior of the gridiron. The scrub penetrated for a couple of yards, and then, seeing what the danger was, the other players massed their strength there, and stopped the advance of the man with the ball.
Again the scrub hurled themselves against the line, trying on the other side this time. They could not gain, and Joe Jackson dropped back to receive the kick he expected would come.
But the scrub’s quarter gave the signal for a fake punt, and when the ’varsity had spread out, the right half-back was sent forward with the ball. But they did not gain what they expected, for Kindlings, ever on the alert for a play like that, was watching, and, cleverly dodging through the interference, he downed the man with the ball in a fierce tackle. The scrub had gained their distance, however, and still had possession of the pigskin.
“Hold ’em this time!” begged the captain, as he got rid of some dirt that had been ground into his mouth under his nose-guard.
And hold the ’varsity did after that. Not an inch could the scrub gain, for the wall in front of them was like stone, and they were relentlesslyhurled back. Twice they tried it, and on the third down they kicked—no fake affair now.
The ’varsity had the ball again. Phil did not try Pete this time, but gave the leather to Sid, who, like an old time warrior, lowered his head and plunged into the line for three yards.
“Come on! Come on!” yelled Phil, pushing and pulling on his chum to help him through. There was a mass of crowding, struggling players all about Sid. The scrub, with desperate energy, tried to stem the progress of the human tide. Still Sid worked on, worming to get every inch, and he broke through the scrub line, staggered on and on, and when he was finally downed, with half a dozen of the players clinging to him like hounds to a stag, he had gained three yards, through a hard defense.
“Wow! Wow!” yelled Bean Perkins.
“That’s what I ought to have done, I suppose,” murmured Pete, regretfully, as he saw what a gain Sid had made.
“Oh, you’ll do it yet,” said Tom consolingly. “It takes a little practice. Those fellows are out for blood to-day. A lot of them are hoping to get on our team.”
“Well, they won’t!” declared Pete, and when he was given a chance with the ball a little later, he tore through for a two-yard gain in great fashion.
The ’varsity was now playing fiercely, and had the “measure” of the scrub. Those unfortunate lads tried in vain to stem the human torrent. The first team had the ball, and were not going to give it up. Down the line they rushed, shoving the second lads to one side—bowling them over.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” came the cry when the five-yard line was reached. “Touchdown!”
And a touchdown it was, Sid being pushed and dragged over the line. It took eight minutes of play to make it, though, and the scrub felt in their hearts that they had done good work, as indeed they had.
There was another line-up, after a kick-off, and the scrub had another chance to show what they could do, but they failed to gain in two trials, and kicked. Then the ’varsity once more had the ball, and in the little while remaining to play, for the half had been lengthened to fifteen minutes, they rushed it up the field. A forward pass was tried, but did not work well, nor did an onside kick, and Mr. Lighton wisely decided to defer these plays until the team worked together better in straight football.
“Well, what do you think?” asked Kindlings, as he walked to the gymnasium with the coach.
“It might be worse,” was the non-committal answer. “But they all mean well, and as soon asSam and Pete get more confidence, they’ll do better. But—oh, well, what’s the use of crossing a bridge until you get out of the woods, as Holly Cross would say. We have a game with Newkirk in two weeks, and if we can’t beat them, even with the team we have——”
“We’d better go out of business,” finished Dan.
“Exactly,” agreed the coach, with a shrug of his shoulders.
“Anything on for to-night fellows,” asked Tom Parsons, as he limped along with Sid and Phil.
“No. Why?” inquired the quarter-back. “Are you going to see a girl? If you are, I heard Ruth say that she and Madge had a date at some Fairview affair, or something like that.”
“No, I’m not going to see a girl,” retorted Tom somewhat savagely, and a spasm of pain shot over his face. “I’ll leave that for you and Sid this time. I’m going to lay off and bone.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Phil, anxiously. “Sick?”
“No, but I’m tired, and some one stepped on my ankle in that last mix-up.”
“By Hannibal! I hope you don’t go lame,” put in Sid. “The team is crippled enough as it is.”
“Oh, I’ll be all right,” asserted Tom. “All it needs is a rest and some liniment.”
“I wrenched my knee a bit,” spoke Phil, “but it doesn’t bother me now.”
“And I’d like to get hold of the fellow who rubbed my nose in the dirt,” came wrathfully from Sid. “I must have chewed up about an ounce of it.”
“It’s good for your digestion,” asserted Tom, with a wry face. “But say, fellows, doesn’t it strike you as rather queer that we didn’t get a hint about our missing chair and clock?”
“It is sort of so-so,” admitted Phil.
“You’d have thought,” went on Tom, as he stopped for a moment in the shadow of biology hall to favor his bruised ankle, “you’d have thought that if it was some of the boys putting up a job on us that they’d have given it away.”
“Yes, such as asking what time it was, or if we rested well in our room, or something like that,” added Sid. “But there wasn’t even a look to give us a clew.”
“Which means,” declared the ’varsity left end, as he limped on, “that either none of our fellows have had a hand in it, or that they can keep a secret better than we fellows could. If this bunch had done anything like that we’d be wanting to rig the victim. But I can’t understand this silence.”
“It means something,” declared Phil. “There’s some mystery about this that’s deeper than we have any idea of.”
And there was a curious mystery which was destined to have quite an effect on Randall College.
“Well, let’s forget all about it for a while,” suggested Sid. “Maybe if we do, it will be like one of those problems in solid geometry, and the solution will come to us when we least expect it. Many a time I’ve stared at the figures and letters until they did the Blue Danube waltzes up and down the pages. Then I’ve just chucked it aside, taken up something else, and, all at once, it’s as plain as——”
“The nose on Tom’s face,” interrupted Phil, for Tom was well blessed in that feature.
“Go ahead. Have all the fun you like,” the pitcher invited, for his ankle was beginning to pain him more severely, and he did not feel equal to skylarking with his chums. “But as to forgetting about our chair, I can’t do it. Queer, isn’t it, how you’ll get attached to an ordinary piece of furniture like that?”
“It wasn’t anordinarypiece, you sacrilegious vandal!” exploded Sid. “There isn’t another chair like that in college. I have it on good authority that it was a family heirloom before we bought it of Hatterly, the big senior. It belonged in the Hess family, which was quite some pumpkins around here about the time of the wreck of theMayflower.”
“TheMayflowerwasn’t wrecked, you chump!” cried Tom.
“Well, what of it? Something happened to it, anyhow. It was stranded, or ran ashore, or else people landed from it. I never can keep those things straight in my head. At any rate, the chair is quite a relic, and I wish we had it back.”
“I’m with you,” declared Tom, feelingly. “I could just curl up in it in comfort to-night.”
“Only you won’t,” retorted Phil.
“Nor yet listen to the clock tick,” added Sid. “Now, let’s talk of something else.”
“Football,” suggested Phil, quickly. “What do you fellows think about our chances, anyhow?”
“Not much,” asserted the end. “Sam and Pete aren’t doing as well as they used to do on the scrub.”
“Stage fright, maybe,” came from Sid.
“It’s likely,” admitted the quarter-back. “I remember when I first played on the ’varsity, I couldn’t seem to see straight, I thought I was going to miss every tackle I tried for, and I was mortally afraid of dropping the ball. They’ll get over it.”
“I hope so,” spoke Tom. “I wish Bascome wasn’t playing on my end.”
“Why?” asked Phil, quickly.
“Well, you know he rather stood in with Langridge and Gerhart when they were here, and, though he isn’t as mean as they were, he isn’t exactly in our crowd. I can’t play with him the same way I can go into a game with the other fellows. I think I’ll ask Kindlings to let me shift to the other end.”
“Don’t you do it!” cried Sid, quickly. “Look here, Tom Parsons, the surest way to have a team go to pieces is to have personal feelings crop out among the players. We’ve got to play together, or——”
“‘Play separately,’ as one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence said,” interrupted Phil, with a laugh.
“No, I’m serious,” protested Sid. “If we’re going to act that way, Tom, we might as well give up the team now, and also all hopes of ever winning the championship this year. It’s bad enough to have Bricktop and Ed off, without having you kicking up a fuss about Bascome.”
“Who’s kicking up a fuss, you old misogynist?” demanded the end, limping along. “I only said I couldn’t play with Bascome as well as I could with Dan, and I’d like to shift.”
“And if you do that it means that some one else will have to shift, and that will throw the whole team into confusion. No, you stick it out, Tom.”
They walked on in silence for a few minutes, each busy with his own thoughts. The sun slanted across the campus, and glinted through the stained glass windows of Booker chapel, coloring the sward with a wonderful combination of violet and red. Back of the main college was a bank of purplish and olive tinted clouds, which Tom paused to gaze at in admiration.
“Look, fellows!” he exclaimed, softly. “It’s just like one of those pictures of Venice, painted by what’s his name.”
“Yes, great artist,” put in Phil. “Second cousin to ‘who’s this.’”
“No, but look at those colorings,” protested Tom. “Did you ever see such cloud masses? The only thing about them is that they tell of fall coming on, and winter and leafless trees, and——”
“Oh, for cats’ sake cut it out!” groaned Sid. “You must be in love again. Got a new girl?”
“Shut up!” ordered Tom, peremptorily, as he started toward their dormitory. “The next time I try to elevate the minds of you fellows by pointing out the beauties of nature you’ll know it!”
“All right, old chap,” came in soothing accents from Phil. “Those cloudsareworth looking at, for a fact. Sid has no soul for anything above the commonplace.”
“Neither would you have, if you’d been chewing on mud,” declared the other. “It strikes me that we are getting silly, or sentimental, in our old age. Come on up and get into a bathrobe and we’ll take it easy. I have some imported ginger ale, and some prime cheese in the closet.”
“You rat! And you never spoke of it before!” cried Phil, clapping his chum on the back. “Come on, let’s see who’ll get there first, as the wolf said to Red Riding Hood,” and he started up the stairs on the run, followed by Sid, while Tom limped on more slowly.
When the end reached their apartment he found the door open, and his two chums standing on the threshold as though afraid to enter. It was dark inside, for the shades were drawn. Tom looked at his two companions in some surprise.
“What’s the matter?” he asked. “Snake in there? Why don’t you go on in?”
“Listen!” exclaimed Phil, softly.
They stood expectantly. Through the stillness there came to them a rhythmetic tick-tick, which floated out of their room and into the corridor.
“The clock!” gasped Tom.
“Our clock!” whispered Phil, as though to speak aloud would break the magic spell.
“It’s come back,” went on Sid, taking a stepforward in a stealthy manner, as if he expected to surprise a burglar in the act. “Fellows, to all the gods that on Olympus dwell most everlasting praises be! Our clock’s come back!”
Making ready as though to greet an old friend who had long been absent, the three lads advanced to the middle of the room in the semi-darkness. Louder ticked the clock, and it was like music to their ears. Tom snapped on the electric lights, and the gaze of our three heroes went together toward the mantle shelf.
Then there came three simultaneous gasps of astonishment, a starting back in surprise, a catching of breaths.
“The clock!” spoke Tom, aghast.
“It isn’t ours!” added Phil, gaspingly.
“They’ve brought back the wrong one!” exclaimed Sid.
Then, as they looked at the new timepiece, a smart one in a new and dull-polished mahogany case—an expensive clock—one they never would have thought of possessing, as they looked at it, there was a musical tinkle of a bell, and five strokes rang out as if in welcome.
“A new clock!” went on Phil, in accents of horror. “A clock that strikes!”
“‘Come plump, head-waiter of the cock, to which I most resort. How goes the time? ’Tis five o’clock? Go fetch a pint of port!’” quoted Sid.
“Oh, what are we up against?” cried Tom. “The plot thickens! There is more of the direful mystery here! Talk about the Arabian Nights’ tale of new lamps for old! Some one has taken our old clock and left in its place this new choice specimen of the art of the horologiographer.”
“The art of whom?” asked Phil, in wonder.
“Clock-maker,” translated Tom. “They say a fair exchange is no robbery, but this was an unfair exchange. We don’t want a striking clock.”
“No, give us back our own fussy little alarm,” begged Sid. “I say, though, fellows, this is no slouch of a piece of horologiographic work, though. It must have cost eight or ten bones, and it’s brand new. Do you guess some one’s conscience smote ’em, after they’d made away with our ticker, and they wanted to make amends?”
“I don’t know what to think,” admitted Phil.
“Me either,” came from Tom. “But if they bring back one of those new-fangled Turkish rockers in place of our old chair, I’ll fire it out of thewindow. We can stand the clock, though I’ll be hanged if I like that striking arrangement.”
“Me, either,” agreed Sid. “But maybe we can get some clew from this clock. Let’s have a look.”
He turned the clock around on the shelf, thereby disturbing its mechanism and stopping the ticking, but he little minded that. He was looking for the maker’s name.
“Say, was our door locked when you fellows got here?” asked Tom, who had been a little in the rear of his companions, due to his injured ankle.
“Sure it was locked,” asserted Phil. “I opened it with my key. Whoever sneaked in here and left the new clock while we were at football practice must have had a duplicate key. How are you making out, Sid?”
“The clock, according to a card pasted on back, was made or sold by Amos Harding, of Chicago.”
“Chicago!” cried Tom, in some excitement. “That’s where Langridge came from! Is it possible that he could have come over from Boxer Hall, and played this joke?”
“It’s possible, but not probable,” declared Sid. “But we could write to Chicago, and see if Mr. Harding could give us any clew.”
“Oh, what’s the use?” asked Phil. “Chicago is a big place, and it’s hardly likely that a dealerthere would remember to whom he sold a particular clock, when there are a whole lot like it. This clock is of fairly common pattern, though it’s rather expensive. I’m inclined to think that we’ll never get on to the game that way.”
“What have you got to suggest?” asked Tom, as he prepared to bathe his ankle, while Sid set the clock going again.
“I was going to say that we might post a notice on the bulletin board, stating that we’d had enough of the joke, and would exchange clocks back again.”
“Say, I’ve just thought of something!” exclaimed Sid. “Maybe there’s a thief in college, and he’s been going around snibbying things from the fellows’ rooms. He’s been found out, and made to put the things back. He got our clock mixed up with another, and the other chap has got our ticker.”
“Not a bad idea,” assented Phil. “In that case a notice on the bulletin board would be all right, and we’ll wait about writing to Chicago. But Langridge is out of it, I think.”
“Well, I don’t,” declared Tom, half savagely, for his ankle hurt him when he rubbed it vigorously. “You’ll find that he’s been mixed up in this somehow. The clock is from Chicago, he comes from Chicago, and there’s some connection there, you can depend on it!”
“Well, maybe,” admitted Phil. “But let’s get at the notice, and then it will be grub time. Might as well say something about our chair while we’re at it; eh, fellows?”
“No,” came from Tom, “let that go. I think the clock and chair were two different propositions. We’ll work the chair ourselves.”
After some talk his chums were inclined to agree with Tom, so Phil wrote out a notice about the timepiece, while Sid interestedly examined the clock, making various speculations concerning it, while Tom doctored his ankle.
“There, I guess that will do for a while,” he announced, with a wry face, as he pulled on his shoe. “I hope I’m not lame for practice to-morrow.”
“Well, here’s the notice,” exclaimed Phil, a little later. “I’ll read it. ‘For exchange: one mahogany-case clock, new; striking the hours and half hours——’”
“Hold on!” interrupted Sid. “Doesit strike the half hours?”
“Sure, they all do,” asserted Phil, and as if in confirmation of his words, there tinkled out a silvery stroke at five-thirty. “What’d I tell you?” he asked, in triumph. “Where was I?” as he looked at the piece of paper. “Oh, yes: ‘strikes the hours and half-hours. The undersigned will give it back for their small nickel-plated alarmclock, rather battered, but still in the ring. Doesn’t strike at all.’ How’s that, fellows?”
“All right,” said the end, as he laced his shoe loosely, for he had bandaged his ankle. “Let’s have it, and I’ll put my name down, then you fellows can go down and stick it up. I’m going to stretch out;” and, scribbling his name on the notice, Tom threw himself on the couch, with due regard for its age and weakness.
“I’ll fix it up,” volunteered Phil.
In the meanwhile football practice went on, and the team seemed to be getting into better shape, though there was much to be desired. Sam and Pete did better, though they were uncertain, and there was much ragged work, both in offensive and defensive plays, over which coach and captain shook their heads.
“Randall has got to do better than that,” said Mr. Lighton, “if she wants to stay at the head of the league.”
“Right!” agreed Kindlings. “Bricktop is coaching Sam all he can, but it needs more than coaching to make a guard.”
“Hope for the best,” suggested the coach. “I wonder how our freshmen will make out Saturday against Boxer Hall?”
“They’ll win, of course,” declared Dan, energetically.
The game between the two freshmen elevens of Boxer Hall and Randall was quite an event,almost approaching the ’varsity struggles, and there was a big crowd on hand at the Boxer Hall gridiron the following Saturday when the contest was about to begin. Nearly all of the ’varsity squad was present to lend moral and vocal support, and Bean Perkins was in his element.
It was a hot battle from the very kick-off, and the two teams fought each other up and down the field. There was considerable kicking and open playing, but Randall depended on old-fashioned football, modified by Mr. Lighton, and secured the first touchdown. Boxer Hall got one before the initial half was finished, and then there was much speculation during the intermission as to which side would win.
By tremendous efforts, ploughing through the line, bucking great holes between their opponents, and by putting up a great defense, Randall succeeded in getting another touchdown, and a goal from the field, while Boxer Hall was unable to score in the last half. It was a glorious victory, all the more so because Randall had lost the contest the previous season.
The game was over. There had been cheers for the winners and losers, and college cries and songs galore.
“Come on over this way,” urged Tom to Sid and Phil, who had sat with him during the game.“I think I see Madge, Ruth and Mabel. There are a lot of Fairview girls here.”
“Oh, trust you for seeing the lassies,” half-grumbled Sid, yet he followed, for he had more than a passing liking for Miss Harrison.
As the trio approached the three girls, who were standing together on the side lines, Tom suddenly plucked his companions by their sleeves.
“What’s up?” demanded Sid.
“There’s Langridge and Gerhart going to speak to them,” said the end.
“What?” cried Phil, and a red glow suffused the quarter-back’s face as he saw the former bully of Randall speaking to his sister. “I’ll not stand for that! I don’t want Ruth to have anything to do with him!” For Langridge was not the kind of a chap any fellow would want his sister to associate with. In times past Langridge had been quite friendly with Miss Madge Tyler, but when she had discovered certain things about him, she had cut his acquaintance.
“Guess he’s trying to get in with her again,” suggested Sid.
“I’ll put a stop to that!” exclaimed Phil, grimly, as he strode forward. Then he called peremptorily: “Ruth!”
His sister looked up, caught his eye, blushed a little and, with a word to Langridge and Gerhart, moved off. Her two girl friends followed, andseemed glad of the chance to get away from the two sportily-dressed lads.
Langridge swung around, and at the sight of the three lads who, more than any others, had been instrumental in causing him to leave Randall, his face turned a dull red.
“What’s wrong, Clinton?” he called, sharply. “Do you think your sister is too good to speak to me?”
“He evidently does,” sneered Gerhart.
“Since you ask me—I do,” replied Phil, calmly, and then he turned his back on the angry Boxer Hall students and began to talk to his sister and her friends, Tom and Sid joining in the conversation, not without a little sense of embarrassment.
“Look here, if you think I’m going to stand for being insulted publicly this way, you’re mistaken, Clinton!” cried Langridge, hotly. He strode forward, while Gerhart tried in vain to hold him back.
“Oh, Phil!” cried Ruth, reaching out her hand to halt her brother, but in an instant he had gone beyond where she stood. She clasped her hands in alarm, and Madge and Mabel, with heightened color, gathered close to her.
Langridge and Phil faced each other with flashing eyes, and Gerhart stood just behind the former bully of Randall, looking a bit alarmed, for Langridgehad torn from his grasp with considerable force.
“Look out, Phil,” spoke Sid, in a low voice, but Langridge heard him.
“You keep out of this!” he snapped. “I’ll settle with Clinton first, and then if you or Parsons want anything, you know where you can get it.”
“Yes, and so do you!” declared Tom, stung by the bully’s words. More than once had the plucky end proved his words, too.
“Oh, Tom!” breathed Madge, and she laid a gentle hand on his coat sleeve. “Don’t—don’t let them—fight!”
Tom slowly turned his gaze from the flushed and angry face of Langridge to that of the beautiful girl at his side. She was pale, but smiled bravely. It was a tense moment. Phil and the bully still stood facing each other, neither willing to give way. A little crowd, attracted by the impending clash, was approaching.
Tom caught Sid’s eye, and the latter, with a quick motion, indicated that he and Tom must interfere to prevent an encounter, at least thus publicly.
“You—you insulted me,” mumbled Langridge, his fists clenched, as he glared at Phil.
“Impossible,” murmured Tom.
“I told you the truth, in answer to your question,”retorted the quarter-back. “You brought it on yourself.”
“But why you should consider that my speaking to your sister was an insult, I can’t quite make out,” declared Langridge, with a sneer. “Neither she, Miss Tyler nor Miss Harrison resented it. But perhaps you consider yourself the knight errant of all girls. If so——”
“That will do!” interrupted Phil, sharply. “Leave my sister and her friends out of this discussion, if you please!”
“And if I don’t please,” sneered Langridge, “for I assure you that I do not, and——”
Phil fairly jumped for the bully and Ruth uttered a little cry. In another instant there would have been a scene which Phil, in his calmer moments would have regretted as greatly as any one.
Tom saw what was about to happen, and his ready hand fell on his chum’s shoulder.
“Not here! Not now!” he whispered into his ear. “Some other time, Phil. Think of your sister—of the other girls. A crowd is gathering. Not now! Not now!”
Phil made a motion as if to shake off the restraining grasp, and then thought better of it. In the meanwhile, Sid had casually stepped in front of Langridge. The left half-back motioned to Gerhart to call aside his chum, and the bully’s crony was only too glad to do this, for he was somewhat of a coward, and he feared lest he, too, be entangled in the quarrel which seemed imminent.
“Go away, Langridge,” advised Sid, in a low voice. “If you want satisfaction later I’m sure our friend will give it to you. But not now.”
“Yes, come on,” urged Gerhart, linking his arm in that of his friend. He swung him around,and Langridge, with a vindictive look at Phil, allowed himself to be led away. At the same time Tom, with a forced laugh, for the benefit of the crowd, walked Phil to one side.
“Say something!” he whispered, hoarsely. “Laugh, Phil, if you don’t want to make it unpleasant for the girls. The people are beginning to ask questions.”
The quarter-back at once rallied to save the situation. He clapped Tom on the back, and exclaimed:
“That’s pretty good, old fellow! Pretty good. You must tell that story at the next frat. dinner. But it was a great game, wasn’t it? Now, come on, Ruth, and we’ll all go and have something to drink. Hot chocolate wouldn’t be bad.”
“Most delightful,” chimed in Miss Harrison, with a grateful look at Sid and Tom, as she gallantly threw herself into the breach.
“So good of you,” murmured Ruth, smiling, though her paleness belied her meaningless words, and she was trembling.
The three lads, each walking beside one of the girls—Tom with Ruth, Phil with Madge Tyler, and Sid with Miss Harrison—strolled toward the entrance gate of the football field.
“Nobly done, old chap,” whispered Tom.
The crowd began to melt away.
“I thought there was going to be a fight,” murmuredone disappointed lad, whose “loud” clothes bespoke his sporting proclivities.
“There was,” answered a companion, “only something stopped it.”
“Who are those three fellows?” asked another lad from Boxer Hall—a freshman evidently.
“What—don’t you know the three inseparables?” inquired the “sport.” “Not to know them argues yourself unknown.”
The girls were more at their ease now, and Phil, who had started what had so nearly been trouble, did not refer to it, to the great relief of his sister. Really, the interview with Langridge had been unsought on the part of the girls, and they had done their best to avoid speaking to him, without being downright insulting.
Miss Tyler and Miss Harrison began a series of gay nothings, and Ruth was soon drawn into the conversation, to which Tom, Phil and Sid contributed their share.
“Oh, tell us about the clock and chair mystery, boys,” begged Ruth, when they had left the place where they had partaken of hot chocolate. “Phil said something about it, but I had to drag it out of him like a lawyer cross-questioning a reluctant witness.”
“My! Listen to Portia!” cried Madge. “But we should dearly love to hear about the queer happenings.”
Thereupon the three young men together and separately, told of the disappearance of their beloved chair, the missing clock, the appearance of the mahogany timepiece, and their ineffectual search for clews.
“And if Langridge didn’t have a hand in it, I’ll eat my hat, saving the presence of you ladies,” declared Tom. “Only I can’t get Sid or Phil to agree with me.”
“What about, eating your hat?” demanded the quarter-back. “Don’t let us interfere with that pleasure. Go ahead. If yours isn’t enough, you may have a couple of bites out of mine.”
“Oh, you know what I mean,” declared Tom, in a little huff.
“If you mean about Langridge, Idon’tagree with you,” put in Sid. “He never had his finger in this pie.”
“Right, Oh!” exclaimed Phil, and then the discussion started all over again, and lasted until the girls declared that they must return to Fairview.
“Well, what do you think of it, fellows?” asked Tom, some time later, when the three chums were on their way back to their rooms. “Think Langridge will start anything?”
“No,” was Sid’s opinion. “I guess he’ll be glad to let well enough alone.”
“I suppose you think I didn’t do exactly rightto make the break I did,” ventured Phil, “but I couldn’t stand it to see him talking to Ruth.”
“Me, either!” declared Tom, so heartily that the other two laughed, and the little strained feeling that had manifested itself passed away.
As they strolled down the corridor the three lads nearly ran into a youth who turned the corner of the hall suddenly.
“I beg your pardon, strangers!” he exclaimed, in a full, rich voice. “I sure didn’t see you coming, nor yet hear you. I guess I’m in the wrong pew.”
Tom and his chums saw confronting them a tall, well-built lad—big would be the more proper term, for he was big in every way. Six feet if he was an inch, and broad in proportion. He stood regarding them without a trace of embarrassment, a stranger in a strange place, evidently.
For a moment Tom had a wild idea that the mystery of the chair and clock was about to be solved. He had not seen the youth before, and he might be a clever thief who had sneaked into the college.
“What did you want?” asked Phil, quickly.
“And who are you?” demanded Tom.
“I beg your pardon,” went on the stranger. “I’ve just arrived at Randall, and Mr. Zane showed me to my room. I left it and went outside, but when I came in again, either someone tookmy apartment, or, as I said, I’m on the wrong front stoop. Simpson is my name, Frank Simpson. I’m from California, and I’ve been attending Leland Stanford University, but father’s business called him East permanently, and so I decided to come to Randall. I’ve just arrived,” he concluded.
“Simpson,” murmured Phil, wondering where he had heard the name before.
“With a capital ‘S’,” put in the strange student, with a whimsical smile.
“Oh, you’re the fellow Jerry Jackson was speaking of,” exclaimed Tom, recalling the Jersey twin’s reference to some new students who were due to arrive at Randall.
“Much obliged to Mr. Jackson, whoever he may be,” spoke the tall youth, “but I haven’t the honor of his acquaintance.”
“Oh, you’ll soon know him,” added Sid. “And so you’re from California, eh?”
“Yes, but I think I’m going to like it here,” was the response. “They tell me there was a Freshman football game to-day. Did our boys win?” he asked, eagerly. “You see, I’m making myself right at home, calling ’emourboys.”
“That’s the way to do,” declared Tom, who, somehow, felt a sudden liking for the stranger. “Are you interested in football?”
“I played—some—at Stanford,” was the modestreply, “but I suppose it’s too late to get on the team here. You’re all made up, I hear.”
“Made and unmade,” murmured Tom, in a low voice. “Jove!” he added under his breath, as he took in the proportions of the big Californian, “what a guard or tackle he’d make!”
“Oh, hang it all!” burst out Phil Clinton, as he tossed aside his trigonometry.
“What’s the matter?” inquired Tom, looking up from his Latin prose.
“Have you got the dink-bots?” was Sid’s gentle question, as he kept on carefully mounting a butterfly, one of the specimens he had captured during the summer, and had laid aside until a leisure moment to care for properly.
“I don’t know what it is, but I can’t get my mind down to study,” went on the quarter-back.
“You never could,” declared Tom, fortifying himself behind the sofa in case Phil should turn violent.
It was the evening after the Freshman game, and the three chums were in their study, after the meeting with the big Californian, as Frank Simpson had at once been dubbed. He had been directed to his room, which was on the floor above the apartment of our heroes, and he had gone off thanking them warmly.
“What’s the main trouble?” asked Tom.
“Oh, nothing in particular; but I guess I’m thinking of too many other things. There’s that little run-in I had with Langridge, seeing the game to-day, worrying about the clock and chair mystery, and wondering how our eleven is going to make out.”
“It’s enough to drive you to—cigarettes,” admitted Tom. “But I——”
“Say, I’ll tell you what let’s do,” broke in Sid. “Let’s invite that Simpson chap down here. He must be sort of lonesome, being a stranger here. I saw him going off to his room after grub, and none of the fellows spoke to him. Now, Randall isn’t that kind of a college. True, we don’t know much about him, but he looks the right sort. It won’t do any harm to have him down here and talk to him.”
“Sure not,” agreed Phil at once.
“Good idea,” declared Tom. “Shall we all go and invite him down, as a committee of three, or will one be enough?”
“Oh, one,” replied Phil. “You go, Tom, you’re the homeliest. Have it as informal as possible.”
“I like your nerve!” exclaimed the end. “However, I will go, for I like Simpson. I wish he was on the eleven. Wonder if he was any good at Stanford?”
“Never heard of him setting the goal posts onfire,” came from Sid, “but you never can tell. If he has any football stuff in him Lighton will bring it out. We can tell Simpson to get into practice, anyhow.”
“Randall needs just such material as he looks to be,” went on Tom, as he arose to go to the room of the Californian. “I rather hope he makes the ’varsity.”
Frank Simpson very much appreciated the invitation he received, and a little later he was accorded a seat of honor on the sofa, and made to feel at home by our heroes, who plied him with questions about his native State, and what sort of a college Leland Stanford was. The newcomer at Randall answered genially, and, in turn, wanted to know many things. Particularly he was interested in football, and in response to Tom’s urging that he practice, he said that he would.
“You fellows have quite a place here,” went on Frank, as his gaze roved admiringly about the room. “Quite a tidy shack.”
“You don’t see the best part of it,” spoke Sid.
“How’s that?” inquired Frank.
“Our old easy chair was mysteriously taken, and in place of a clock whose tick, while an aggravation, made us all feel at home, that timer was left in its place,” remarked Phil, before his chumhad a chance to answer. And then the story of the queer happenings was told again.
“Somebody’s rigging you, I guess,” was the opinion of the lad from Stanford. “I wouldn’t let ’em see that I was worried.”
“Oh, we’re not, but we’d like to get our chair back,” replied Tom.
“Something like that happened out in our college, when I was a freshman,” went on the newcomer, who, it developed, was in the Randall sophomore class. “We fellows missed things from our rooms and made quite a row about it, thinking a thief was busy. But it developed that there was a secret society of seniors whose sworn duty it was to furnish up their meeting-room with something taken from every fellow’s apartment in the college. Jove! But those fellows had a raft of stuff, every bit of it pilfered, and when we got next to it we stripped their meeting place as bare as a bone, and got our things back. Maybe that’s what’s happened here.”
“It’s possible,” admitted Phil, “but we haven’t heard of any senior secret society like that. It’s worth looking up.”
There was a knock on the door, and Holly Cross and Dutch Housenlager entered. They were introduced to Frank, and the congenial little party of lads talked of various matters, mostly football, until the striking of the new clockwarned them that it was time for the proctor to begin his nightly rounds of discovery.
Frank Simpson began football practice with the scrub eleven the next day, and though he was sneered at by some, Tom and his friends on the ’varsity at once saw that the Californian knew the game. Mr. Lighton did not have to have his attention called to the work of the newcomer, for he picked him out at once, and kept his eyes on him during the warm-up play.
“I shouldn’t wonder but what there’d be ’varsity material there,” the coach confided to the captain after the practice game was over, when the scrub had rolled up two touchdowns against their mates.
“The land knows we need something to brace us up,” replied Kindlings, somewhat despondently. “Sam Looper is getting worse instead of better. They tore big holes through him to-day.”
“I know it,” admitted Mr. Lighton. “And what will happen when Boxer Hall tackles us can be more than imagined, unless there’s a big improvement. But I’m going to watch Simpson.”
The big Californian was of a genial temperament, and he endeavored to make friends with his fellows on the scrub, but, somehow or other, they rather resented his advances, and turned the cold shoulder to him. Hurt, but not despairing, Frank “flocked by himself” for a few days. Hewas becoming known as a “dig,” for he did well in the classroom.
Then Tom, and his two mates, seeing how the wind was blowing, made a special point to invite the newcomer to their room more frequently. They took him to their bosoms, and their warm welcome more than made up for the coldness on the part of some of the others.
It was not an intentional slight by those who did not welcome Simpson. Don’t get that impression, for there was a warm school spirit at Randall. Only, somehow, it took a little longer for a stranger to make friends, coming in after the term had started, than it did before. Then, too, the fact that he had not passed his freshman year there was a bit against him. But Tom, Phil and Sid minded this not in the least, and soon Frank was made to feel quite at home, for which he was duly grateful.
“It’s mighty white of you fellows, to treat me this way, like a friend and a brother,” he said, feelingly, one night, after a session in the room.
“Oh, get out! Why shouldn’t we?” demanded Sid.
“Of course,” spoke Tom.
“Well, lots of fellows wouldn’t go to the trouble, and I appreciate it,” went on the lad from the Golden Gate. “All I want now is to make the ’varsity, and I’ll be happy!”
“You may be nearer getting on than you think,” murmured Phil, for in practice that day Snail Looper had done worse than ever, while Frank was a tower of strength to the scrub, which had almost beaten the first team.
In spite of their work on the gridiron, our heroes did not forget to look for clews to the missing chair and clock. Only none developed, search and pry about as they did. The big Californian helped them by suggestions, but there proved to be nothing in his theory of a purloining secret society, and Tom and his chums did not know which way to turn next.
The date for the game with Newkirk was drawing closer, and practice was correspondingly harder. It was one afternoon, following a gruelling hour on the field, that as Tom, his two chums, and Frank were walking toward the gymnasium, they saw several members of the faculty entering the house of President Churchill.
“Hello! What’s up?” exclaimed Tom.
“Something, evidently,” answered Phil.
“Have any of you fellows been cutting up?” asked Sid, with suspicious looks at his companions. They quickly entered denials.
Clearly there was something extraordinary in the meeting that had evidently been called, for the professors wore grave looks as they entered the residence of the head.
“I hope none of the ’varsity crowd has been misbehaving himself, and will get laid off the team,” went on Phil, who felt that he carried the weight of the eleven on his shoulders. “We’re in bad enough shape now.”
“Here comes Wallops, let’s ask him,” suggested Tom, and when the messenger approached they plied him with questions.
“I don’t rightly know what it is,” answered Wallops, “but it is something important and serious, so I heard Mr. Zane saying to Professor Tines, when he gave him word about the meeting. It has something to do with the title to the land on which the college is built. I believe some one has laid claim to it, on account of a cloud on the title, but I really don’t understand legal terms.”
“Do you mean that Randall College is in danger of losing some of the property?” gasped Phil, as he looked around at the fine campus, the athletic field, and the group of buildings.
“It’s something like that,” went on the messenger. “I heard Mr. Zane say the land might be taken by the heirs of some old man who once had a claim on it.”
“Well, what would happen if he could make good his claim?” asked Sid.
“I don’t know, but I suppose the heirs could say the college was theirs, being built on their ground, or they could tear it down. But I don’trightly know,” concluded Wallops. “Probably it will be known after the meeting.”
“More trouble for old Randall!” groaned Tom, as he and his chums watched the gathering of the solemn professors.
Bad news, they say, travels fast, and certainly it must have made a record trip throughout the length and breadth of Randall that afternoon.
Tom and the others had scarcely changed from their football togs into ordinary clothes before half a score of their fellows demanded to know if they had heard the rumors that were flying around.
“We sure have,” replied Tom. “How much truth is there in them, Jerry Jackson?”
“I don’t know,” replied the Jersey twin.
“We only heard as much as you did,” echoed his brother.
“Prexy will make an announcement at chapel to-morrow morning, if there’s anything in it,” declared Dutch Housenlager.
“Then I wish it was chapel time now,” murmured Phil. “I don’t like this suspense.”
“Me either,” declared Sid.
“Well, there’s one consolation,” put in FrankSimpson. “If it’s got anything to do with the law there’s no present danger that the college will be torn down—not before the football season is over, anyhow.”
“Why not?” demanded Tom.
“Because the law is so slow. If it’s a question of title to land it can go through several courts before it’s definitely decided. I know because my father’s a lawyer, and he’s had several cases of disputed titles.”
“Well, there’s something in that,” declared Phil. “But I don’t like to think of old Randall being in any kind of danger. It makes me uneasy.”
The talk became general, and there were many speculations as to what the trouble really was, and what the outcome would be. The conversation continued after our friends had gone to their room, whither flocked a number of their chums to discuss the situation. For the time being football was forgotten, and the trouble of Randall held the centre of the stage.
“Well, there’s no use worrying about a bridge, until you hear the rustle of its wings,” said Sid at length.
“What we fellows need to do is to get out and make a noise like having some fun,” opined Dutch Housenlager. “When the cat’s gone on her vacation, the mice eat bread and cheese, you know. Proc. Zane is closeted with the bunch of highbrows,and so what’s the matter with cutting up some?”
“Dutch, I’m surprised at you!” exclaimed Tom, reproachfully.
“Why? What’s the matter?” asked the fun-loving youth, innocently.
“Wanting to skylark at a time like this, just because the authorities are instatuo quo,” went on Tom. “Not on your life, Dutch! It’s fun enough to play some tricks when you’re taking chances on getting caught. Now it would be like taking pie from a baby in arms.”
“I guess you’re right,” admitted Dutch Housenlager, contritely. “We’ll defer the operation,” he went on, in solemn tones. “I think the patient will survive until morning.”
Seldom had there been such an attendance at service as greeted Dr. Churchill when he stood on the platform in the Booker Memorial Chapel the next morning. The early sun glinted in through the stained glass windows, and seemed to pervade the room with a mystic light that added to the solemnity of the occasion.
The Scriptural selection was from one of the Psalms of David—one of those beautiful prose poems which are such a comfort in times of trouble. And as the vibrant tones of the venerable president’s voice rose and fell, when he feelingly spoke the words, it seemed to the boys, carelessand happy-go-lucky as they might be ordinarily, that a new dignity and depth of appreciation was theirs.
After the prayer, which was in keeping with the Bible reading, Dr. Churchill arose, and came slowly to the edge of the platform. He stood for a moment, silently contemplating the throng of earnest young faces raised to his, and then he spoke.
“Men of Randall,” he began, solemnly, “we are facing a crisis in the history of our college. Men of Randall, it behooves us to meet it bravely, and with our faces to the enemy. Men of Randall, we may be at the parting of the ways, and so, being men together, I speak to you as men.”
The good doctor paused, and a sound, as of a great sigh, passed through the assemblage. Usually when the doctor had any announcement to make, he addressed the students as “young gentlemen.” They felt the change in the appellation more than any amount of talk would have impressed them.
“Doubtless you have heard rumors of the crisis in our affairs,” went on the president, after taking off his glasses, slowly wiping them, and replacing the frames back of his ears, over which the white locks fell. “Whatever you have heard I beg of you to disregard to this extent, that you do not repeat it. In evil times words increase trouble. Iwill tell you the truth as nearly as I and the gentlemen associated with me can come at it.
“Randall College, as you know, was built many years ago. The land was purchased from a fund left by a gentleman who had the good of the youth of this land at heart. Other endowments enabled buildings to be put up. In all these years no hint of trouble has come to us, but now we are confronting a fact, not a theory, as your political science teaches you.
“The land whereon Randall and the various buildings stand, yes, where there is laid out the fields for the pursuit of baseball and football, and I think I am right in assuming this to be the football season?”
The president paused, and glanced questioningly at the proctor, whom he evidently took for an authority on sports. For Dr. Churchill, while an enthusiastic supporter of every team in the college, knew rather less about the various terms, and times of games than the average baby. The proctor nodded in acquiescence.
“Even the very football field is under suspicion,” continued the president, and there was another great sigh, mainly from that section of the chapel where sat Tom and his chums. “In fact the entire ground on which the college is built has been claimed by outsiders.
“The facts, in brief, are these: When the landwas purchased there were several persons who had interests therein. From them releases, in the form of quit-claim deeds, were obtained, and then it was thought that the corporation of Randall had a clear title. Now it develops that a certain Simon Hess was one of the persons who gave a quit-claim deed, after being paid for his share in the land.
“That deed, I regret to say, can not be found, and in the absence of it, it is as if it never existed. Simon Hess is dead, but he left several heirs, and they are now making a claim against the college. Perhaps they might not be so eager, were it not for certain lawyers who are apparently urging them on.
“An attempt was made to settle with them when they made their claim known, but the lawyers insisted that their clients prosecute their suits, and so the hope of compromise was abandoned. It seems that they want the life’s blood of our college, and, as you know, we are not a wealthy institution.
“Yesterday I received from Mr. Franklin Langridge, the lawyer who represents the claimants, a demand for a large cash settlement if their claim was abandoned. I need hardly say that Randall is in no position to pay a large amount in cash. I called a meeting of the faculty, and we came tothat conclusion. I have so notified Mr. Langridge.”
At the first mention of that name there had been an uneasy movement among the students. At its repetition, when it was whispered around that this was the father of Fred Langridge, the former bully of the college, the movement became more pronounced.
“Mr. Langridge,” went on the president, when he was suddenly interrupted by a series of hisses. Dr. Churchill started. Mr. Zane hurriedly whispered to him, explaining that it was only the name of Langridge that thus met with disapprobation. The venerable president raised his hand for silence.
“Men of Randall,” he said, solemnly, “that was unworthy of you.”
The hissing stopped instantly.
“And so our college is in danger,” continued the good doctor, after a pause, “but we must face it bravely. We will not give way to it. We will meet it like men! We will fight the good fight. We will——”
“Three cheers for Randall College and Dr. Churchill!” yelled Bean Perkins, leaping to his feet and forgetting that he was in chapel—forgetting that it was a solemn occasion—forgetting everything save that he was wrought up to thepoint of frenzy. “Three cheers, and the biggest tiger that ever wore stripes, fellows!”
Oh, what a shout there was! Every student was on his feet in an instant, yelling at the top of his voice. Even some of the faculty joined in, and Dr. Emerson Tines was observed to be wildly waving his hands. How the cheers rang out! And then the tiger!
Dr. Churchill blew his nose violently, and wiped his glasses several times, for there was a mist of tears on them. He tried to speak—to go on—but he was too affected.
Slowly he turned, and walked back to his seat amid the faculty. And then Bean Perkins did what forever covered him with glory, wherever, in after years, the stories of Randall College were told.
Jumping up on one of the pews, he raised his hand for silence. Then, in a voice that was singularly sweet and clear, he started that school song: “Aut Vincere, Aut Mori!”