CARTER AT ONCE PASSED IT TO JOE, WHO RAN WITH IT.CARTER AT ONCE PASSED IT TO JOE, WHO RAN WITH IT.
There was a wild riot of yells on the part of the Fairview crowd, and groans of anguish from Randall. The Fairview players quickly lined up, and almost before Kindlings and his men had recovered from their astonishment and chagrin, Fred Hanson had broken through, and was speeding for the goal line. He got past all the tacklers, and after a sensational run, planted the ball between the posts.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” came the fierce cries. Randall realized that she had been scored upon for the first time that season, and the fact was bitter to her.
The goal was kicked, and there were six points against our friends. It was disconcerting, but they went back into the play with such fierce energy that inside of the next ten minutes they had forced their opponents up the field to their five-yard line.
“Now, boys, give it to ’em! Don’t wait until you can see the whites of their eyes, but give it to ’em!” howled Bean Perkins.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” yelled the Randall crowd.
“Give ’em the good old song, fellows,” fairly screamed Bean. “Conquer or Die,” and he led the singing of “Aut Vincere, Aut Mori.”
It was just the note needed to make the Randall players turn themselves into football fiends, and they ripped the Fairview line apart, and had the ball over in another minute.
“Now, kick the goal, and tie the score!” urged Bean, but it was not to be. The ball hit the post, and bounced back, and Fairview had still one point the better.
There was hard playing the rest of the half, but neither side scored.
“Well, what do you think about it?” askedKindlings, of the coach, during the rest period.
“I’m afraid to say,” was the answer. “We’ll have to do better, or——”
“Lose,” spoke the captain, grimly.
The story of the second half of the game is shameful history to Randall. It started off fairly well, but there was fumbling, and even the presence of the big Californian, who replaced the Snail, could not avert the defeat that was in store.
Try as Randall did, she could not make the necessary gains, and the players hurled themselves against the stone wall defense of Fairview. On the other hand, the Fairview players found several holes in their opponents’ line, through which they made substantial advances with the ball.
“Hold ’em! Hold ’em!” begged Kindlings, desperately, the fear of defeat staring him in the face. His men worked like the ancient trojans, and Tom Parsons covered himself with glory twice; once when he made a sensational tackle, and saved a touchdown that seemed imminent, and again when he made a brilliant run of sixty yards, and would have scored, but for an unfortunate slip that enabled George Curtis, the Fairview left end, to nab him.
That was as near as Randall came to scoring in the second half, while Fairview made three more touchdowns, though only one resulted in a goal. The score stood twenty-two to five againstRandall when she was awarded the ball for interference and offside play on the part of her eager rival, who wanted to roll up a bigger total. There was only a little time left to play, and Kindlings desperately called upon his men in every way he knew how to rally and score again.
There were desperate—aye, even tear-stained faces—among the Randall players as they lined up. Hearts were beating as though they would burst. Lungs were panting, and tired muscles fairly begged for relief. There came a great heave as the big Californian tore a hole in the Fairview line to let Pete Backus through, but Pete was almost downed in his tracks, and ere the line could be formed again, the whistle blew, and the game was over.
For a moment the struggling players could scarcely realize it, and then, as the truth broke over the Randall lads, and they heard the shouting of the great crowd—as they knew the score—twenty-two to five—they filed silently from the gridiron.
It is not writing of anything disgraceful against old Randall when I say that more than one player shed tears—bitter tears. And they were not assuaged by the hearty cheer which Fairview gave her rival.
“Now—boys, three—three cheers for Fairview!” called Kindlings brokenly, in return, andhis voice was not the only one that faltered when the tiger was given.
Silently the Randall crowd left the grandstands, while the victorious cohorts of Fairview were singing their songs.
“Boys!” cried Bean Perkins, eagerly, “don’t let our fellows go off that way. Give ’em the ‘Conquer or Die’ song, but—sing it softly!”
And then, out over the big field, welled the beautiful strains of the Latin hymn. The effect was wonderful, for the boys were good singers. The great crowd halted and listened, as the last chords died softly away.
Then came a great cheer—a cheer from friend and opponent alike—a cheer for defeated Randall—for Randall that had not conquered, but had been conquered. Then the players filed to their dressing rooms.
“Shall we look up the girls?” asked Phil softly, as he clasped his arm in that of Tom’s, and limped with him from the rooms under the grandstand. “They’ll want to see us.”
“But I don’t want to see them!” exclaimed the end, half fiercely. “I don’t want to see anybody. I want to go off in the dark somewhere, and——”
He stopped, for he felt a raging spirit within him that he knew was not good.
“It’s tough, old man,” spoke Phil, softly, “but maybe it will be best for old Randall in the end.”
“Best nothing! It never would have happened if we’d had you and Sid on the team.”
“Oh, yes, it might.”
But Tom would not have it so, and clung to the dispute until someone started an argument about the referee’s ruling on a certain point, and then the subject was quickly changed.
“Better come over and see the girls,” urged Phil again, as he walked along on his crutch. “Sidwill want to know what they said, and you know he can’t get out for a couple of days.”
“Oh, all right,” Tom almost snapped.
“They won’t rub it in—they’ll know how we feel,” went on the quarter-back. And to the credit of Ruth, Madge and Mabel, be it said that though they were Fairview girls, and their college had downed Randall, which had not happened in a blue moon before, they never so much as “looked” the triumph they must have felt. They knew the bitterness of defeat, and—well, they were wise little damsels.
They talked of anything but football, though the reference to Phil’s injury and to Sid’s illness naturally verged on it. Then they got on safer ground, and, as Tom walked along with Ruth, while Phil had Madge Tyler on one side and Mabel Harrison on the other, the bitterness, in a measure, passed from them.
“We’ll do up Boxer Hall twice as bad!” predicted Tom.
“That’s right,” agreed Phil. “I’ll play then, and——”
“Don’t boast!” called his sister, with a laugh.
The girls sent messages of condolence to Sid. Tom and Phil hurried to tell their chum all about it. Sid had improved enough to enable him to be moved to their room, and there, with him in bed, the game was played all over again.
“It wasn’t the poor playing of any one man, or any two or three men,” declared Tom. “It was the fault of the whole team. We’re crippled, that’s what we are, and we’ve got to get in shape for the rest of the season, or——”
The possibility was not to be mentioned.
“I don’t suppose anything like this would happen again in years, that we’d lose so many players,” spoke Phil. “We can’t always play in luck.”
“Kindlings feels it pretty fierce,” said Tom. “He couldn’t talk when he came off the field.”
“Yes, it’s got him bad,” agreed Phil. “Well, we’ll have to do better, that’s all. I think Simpson is booked for good on the ’varsity, after the dandy game he put up in the second half.”
“Yes,” came from Tom. “The Snail means all right, but he’s too slow. Frank will help the team a whole lot.”
“Tell me about his playing,” urged Sid, and they gave it to him, point by point.
There were bitter days for Randall following the Fairview game, and for a time it seemed that the defeat would work havoc with the team. But Mr. Lighton was a wise coach, and he only laughed at the gloomy predictions.
“Oh, we’ll come into our own, soon,” he declared. “Get right into practice, and keep it up.”
Phil was able to be in his old place a couple of days later, and Sid was soon off the sick list, sothat the team was once more in shape. Simpson was voted a “find,” and showed up well at guard. Bascome also improved under the influence of the presence of the big Californian.
“Well, I think we’re gradually getting into shape again, captain,” remarked the coach to Kindlings one day, after some hard practice, during which the scrub had been “pushed all over the field, and had its nose rubbed in the dirt,” as Holly Cross picturesquely expressed it.
“Yes,” agreed Dan Woodhouse. “We miss Bricktop and Ed Kerr, but what can’t be cured must be put up in pickles, as the old woman said when she kissed the broom.”
“Cow, you mean,” corrected the coach.
“I make my own proverbs,” replied Kindlings, with a laugh. “They keep better. But, seriously, I think we will shape up pretty well for the Boxer game. We’ve got a couple of contests in between, one with the Waram Prep, and the other with Duncan College. We will take both of those, and that will make the boys feel better.”
“Yes, a little victory, now and then——”
“Makes good dressing on your salad,” finished Dan, with a laugh.
Though football took up much of the time of our heroes, with Phil and Sid again on the active list, they had not forgotten their quest after theirbeloved chair, nor had they given up their plan of discovering who took the clock.
But, as the days passed, our friends were no nearer a solution than they had been in the past. They kept watch on Bascome and Lenton, but nothing developed, and they did not like to make any inquiries.
The bitterness of the Fairview defeat still lingered like a bad taste, in the mouth of the Randall gridiron knights, but it was being overshadowed by the game which would soon be played with Boxer Hall. This season they would clash but once with those doughty warriors, and according to the games that had thus far been played in the Tonoka Lake League, the championship was practically a tie between Randall and Boxer Hall.
“If we win all our other games, and we’re likely to do that,” said Kindlings, “all we need to do is to wallop Boxer Hall, and the championship is ours.”
“Yes, that’s all,” remarked Dutch Housenlager. “It’s easily said, but not so easy to do.”
“Get out, you old catamaran!” cried Holly Cross.
It was one morning at chapel, following the annual reunion of the “Old Grads” of Randall, that President Churchill made an announcement that caused quite a sensation.
“I have bad news to announce,” he said, as he stood on the platform after the devotional exercises. “There has been a conference between our lawyers and those representing the claimants to our land. They demand twenty thousand dollars in settlement.”
There was a gasp of surprise that went around the chapel like a wave of hysteria among a lot of girls.
“Twenty thousand dollars!” whispered Tom Parsons.
“Randall can never pay it,” remarked Sid, who sat next to him.
Dr. Churchill waited for the murmurs to cease.
“I need hardly add,” he continued, “that it is out of the question for us to pay this sum. Yet, if we do not, we may lose all that we hold dear,” and the president seemed much affected. “However, we have not given up the fight, and there may yet be a loophole of escape. You may now go to your classes.”
“Say, fellows, have you heard the news?” burst out Dutch Housenlager one morning after chapel, about a week following the announcement about the twenty thousand dollars being demanded.
“News? What news?” inquired Holly Cross.
“Has the lawsuit been called off?” asked Tom.
“Or has Bricktop Molloy decided to come back to play on the eleven?” demanded Sid.
“Neither one, but we’re in for no end of a lark.”
“Oh, yes. If there’s anything funny in the wind, you can depend on Dutch to ferret it out,” spoke Phil. “Well, what is it now, you old Hollander?”
“Prof. Newton is down with the pip, or something, and can’t take his chemistry or physics classes to-day. They’re shy one other teacher, so Prexy is going to handle the physics recitation. What a cinch it’ll be! I’m not up in mine, but Moses is sure to ask us where the lesson is. Wewon’t do a thing but steer him back to one we had a week ago. Then I’ll be safe.”
“You can, if you like,” spoke Tom, “but I’m not going to. I’ve got mine, and it’s a shame to put one over Moses.”
“Aw, what’s the harm?” demanded Dutch. “It will amount to the same thing in the end. Now don’t go to spoiling my fun. I’m not up, I tell you, and I don’t want to get any more crosses than I have. My record won’t stand it.”
“Then you can do the funny work,” declared Phil. “If he asks any of us——”
“I’ll sing out about a back lesson,” interrupted Dutch. “Then I’ll be safe. Anyhow, Moses will be sure to ask about three questions, and they will remind him of something about Sanskrit or modern Chinese, and he’ll swing into a talk about what the ancient Babylonians did in war time. Then you fellows will call me blessed, for you won’t have any physics to prepare to-morrow, when Prof. Newton will likely be back.”
“Have it your own way,” spoke Holly Cross.
As usual when there occurred a change in the routine of lectures or classes there was more or less of a spirit of unrest or mischief among the students. Those in the natural science division filed into the room where Professor Newton usually held sway, and it was quickly whispered about that “Moses” would appear to hear them.
The venerable president entered with his usual book under his arm, for he studied early and late—harder than the “greasiest dig that ever kept the incandescent going,” to quote Holly Cross.
“Ah, young gentlemen,” began Dr. Churchill, blandly, “I presume you are surprised to see me, but your instructor is ill, and I will endeavor to take his place. You are—er—you are in advanced science, are you not? I believe I have the right class,” and the good doctor, somewhat puzzled, consulted a memorandum slip in his hand. “Yes, this is the class,” he went on, with an air of relief. “Now, to-day’s lesson was to be on—er—I’m afraid I have forgotten. Professor Newton told me, but it has slipped my mind.”
It was exactly what Dutch Housenlager had counted on, and he was ready to take advantage of it.
“But of course,” continued the president, with a smile, “you students will know where it is.” He opened the physics book, and leafed it over, as though the lesson would be disclosed to him in some supernatural way. All eyes turned to Dutch, for his impending game had become whispered about.
“I think it’s page three hundred forty-seven, Dr. Churchill,” said Dutch, mentioning a lesson about a week old.
“Ah, yes,” went on the president. “I see. Ithas to do with heat and cold, sudden changes of temperature and the effects produced by each. Very interesting, very. I trust you are all prepared?”
“If we aren’t, it’s funny,” murmured Dutch, for they had recited on it several times in review.
“Speaking of the changes produced by sudden changes of temperature, can you give me a common example?” asked the president, his eyes roving about the room. Dutch seemed so eager to recite, and have it done with, that his agitation could not but be noticed. “You may answer, Mr. Housenlager,” finished Dr. Churchill.
“Ice and snow,” came the ready reply. Dutch breathed easy again. He thought he was done for the day.
“Very true,” continued Dr. Churchill easily, “but that is a littletoocommon. I referred to the Prince Rupert drops. I dare say you all know what they are. Mr. Housenlager, you will kindly explain to the class how they are made, the effect they produce, and what principle they illustrate.”
The doctor sat down, and all eyes were once more turned toward Dutch. Nearly every lad in the class could have given some sort of answer, for they had seen the curious glass drops broken by their regular teacher. But, as it happened, Dutch had been absent when that subject came up, and, as he made it a practice never to inquire whatwent on in the lecture room when he was not present, he was wholly at sea regarding the drops. He had a hazy idea regarding them, however, and resolved to hazard a recitation. It was better than complete failure.
As “every schoolboy” (to quote a well known authority) knows what the Prince Rupert drops are, I will only state that they are globules of glass, pear shaped, with a long thin “tail” of the same brittle material. They are formed by dropping molten glass into water. The outside cools quickly, a long tail is formed, and there results an unequal strain on the glass, because the outside part has cooled faster than the inside. The instant a small part of the “tail” is broken off, the entire drop crumbles to glass-dust, the pressure once more being equalized.
It was this object and phenomenon that Dutch was called on to recite about. He rose in his seat, and began with an air of confidence that he did not feel:
“The Rupert drops illustrate the power of hot water or steam. They are globules of glass, filled with water, and, when they are heated, they burst to pieces, showing the expansive force of heat.”
The class wanted to roar. Dr. Churchill raised his eyebrows in surprise. Dutch had described another glass object used in the class room, and his explanation of that had been correct, but it wasas different from a Prince Rupert drop as a ham sandwich is from chicken.
“Ah—um,” mused the president, putting on his glasses, and gazing at Dutch through them. “Very interesting, Mr. Housenlager—very—but—hardly what I asked you.”
“I—er I—er—I’m afraid I’m not prepared, sir,” stammered the fun-loving youth, and the smiles went round the class.
“Too bad—don’t you want to try again?” asked the president.
Dutch thought, and thought hard, but the more he tried to use his brain, the more foreign Prince Rupert seemed to him. He gave it up.
“Failure,” murmured Dr. Churchill, as he marked it down against Dutch. “You may try, Parsons.”
Tom gave the right answer. Dutch gave a gasp of surprise, and it was noticed that he paid very close attention to the rest of the lesson. But it did not go much farther, for, as Dutch had predicted, the president soon got on a strain that interested him, and, ignoring the text book, which was opened at the wrong page, he swept into a talk on something about as far from physics as is bookkeeping.
But the “goose of Dutch had been done to a lovely brown,” once more quoting Holly Cross. His trick had turned against him, for, had he giventhe proper page, or had he allowed anyone else to do so, the chances are that he would not have been called on. He made himself conspicuous, and so fell before the good doctor.
“Well, Dutch,” remarked Holly, as they filed from the room, “don’t you want to try it on again in our Latin class?”
“Cut it out!” advised Dutch gruffly, as he marched on. “I know when I’ve had enough.”
“You look all right, Sid; you’ll pass!”
“Hey! What’s that?” and Sid Henderson swung around from the mirror over his bureau, with a somewhat guilty flush on his face.
“I said you’d do,” repeated Tom, with a mischievous grin, as he stood in the doorway of the room, having paused in the act of entering. “What were you doing, putting on a beauty mark, or looking to see if you needed a shave?”
“I was trying to get my tie straight,” growled Sid, as he fastened his low cut vest, for he was in his evening clothes.
“Get out, you musty old misogynist!” exploded Phil, following Tom into the room. “We know what you were doing, all right. You wanted to see if you were good-looking enough, so that you could dance with Mabel all the evening.”
Sid looked around for something to throw at his tormenting roommates, but nothing was handy. Besides, he might crack the stiff bosom of hisshirt, the snowy expanse of which reflected back the glow of the incandescent light.
“If you fellows are going to the racket, it’s about time you togged up,” went on Sid, as he carefully took a seat in a chair. He did not sink luxuriously onto the sofa this time, for fear of “mussing himself up,” as Holly Cross would have said.
“Oh, we’ll be ready in jig time!” cried Phil, throwing his coat on one chair, his vest on another, and, almost before the garments had landed in “artistic confusion,” he was changing his shoes.
“We went to a football meeting,” explained Tom, as he shed his ordinary raiment and proceeded to “tog up.”
“Anything doing?” asked Sid, as he manicured his nails.
“Oh, for the love of tripe! Look at him!” cried Phil, with his head half way through a clean shirt. “Say, you’d think he was going to a coming-out party, instead of to a Fairview frat. dance. Oh, Tom, is my back hair on straight?” and Phil, who had uttered the last in a shrill falsetto voice, tried to look at the after-portion of his shock of football hair.
“Say, when you fellows know how to act like gentlemen instead of like a bunch of rough-necks, I’ll talk to you,” spoke Sid, with dignity. “I asked you a question, Tom.”
“Oh, yes, about the football meeting,” went on the end. “Well, you needn’t get on your ear just because we jollied you a little. Stand the gaff like a man. No, there wasn’t much doing. We talked over some new plays. Incidentally we tried to explain the slump Randall seems to be up against, but we couldn’t. Where were you?”
“Don’t ask him. He was up here fussing worse than a girl,” broke in Phil. “Hannibal’s henpecked hyperbolas! But do you remember the time, Tom, when we couldn’t get Sid to look at a girl, much less to take one to a dance? Now he feels hurt if he doesn’t do the Cubanola Glide with one at least once a week. Vanity, thy name is Sid Henderson!”
“Oh, cheese it, for cats’ sake!” begged Sid, in despair. Then Phil, who seemed to take delight in “rigging” his chum, glanced at the battered old alarm clock, which was again on duty.
“Cæsar’s grandmother!” cried the quarter-back. “I’ll be late,” and forthwith he began to make motions “like a fellow dressing in a hurry,” as he said afterward, and Sid was left in peace to complete his immaculate attire, while Tom, too, seeing the need of haste, left off “badgering” Sid.
It was the occasion of one of the several dances that the girls of Fairview Institute had arranged, and to which they were allowed to ask their friends. Of course, Miss Philock, the preceptress,was chief chaperone, and there were other elderly teachers who took part.
Tom, Phil and Sid, together with a number of other students from Randall, had been invited, and this was the evening when “event number six, in the free-for-all-catch-as-catch-can style of dancing would be pulled off,” as Holly Cross remarked, when he was preparing for it. It was about a week after Dr. Churchill had so taken the wind out of the sails of Dutch Housenlager in the physics class, and in the meanwhile life at the college had gone on much as usual.
The affair took place in the Fairview gymnasium, which was appropriately decorated for the purpose. Tom and his three chums—for Frank Simpson went with them—had called for Miss Tyler and her friends, Ruth and Mabel. Frank was to escort a new girl, Miss Helen Warden, to the dance.
“You’re a little late,” chided Ruth, as she greeted her brother and the others.
“It was Sid’s fault,” asserted Phil, with a wink at Tom. “Hewouldinsist on changing his togs at the last minute.”
“And the hairdresser disappointed him, and he had to curl it himself,” put in Tom.
“You—you——” spluttered Sid, and then he choked back his justifiable wrath.
“Don’t mind them,” sympathized Mabel Harrison.“We know some secrets as well as they, Sid.”
“Oh, I’ll get back at ’em some time,” predicted the stocky half-back.
There was quite a throng at the dance when our friends arrived, and shortly after the girls came from the dressing rooms, the orchestra began a dreamy waltz. The lads led out their partners, and the gymnasium presented a brilliant and animated scene.
“Did you see him?” called Tom to Phil, as the two young men and their pretty partners swung near each other in the middle of the big waxed floor.
“Who?” asked Phil, slowing up.
“Langridge,” was the reply, and then they were too far apart for more conversation.
“Oh, dear, didhecome?” asked Ruth of Tom, and she seemed distressed. “I do hope he and Phil——”
“No danger,” interrupted Tom. “We’ll keep clear of him. What girl has he?”
“I can’t imagine. I’ll look when I see him dancing with her.”
Tom pointed out his former enemy, as he swung his partner around again, and Ruth exclaimed:
“Oh, she’s that new girl! Miss Rossmore is her name. I guess she doesn’t know Mr. Langridge—very well.”
“Probably not,” agreed Tom, and then the dance came to an end in a crash of melody. There was applause for an encore, and once more the strains were taken up, and the youths and maidens were treading the misty mazes of the waltz.
The custom prevailed at these fraternal society affairs of the lads taking their partners’ dance programmes and filling the cards for them. This was usually done in advance, and insured a girl plenty of dancers with partners of whom her escort approved. For he would only put down, or allow their owners to, the names of his own friends. It was a sort of “clearing-house” of dances, and the lads lobbied among themselves, and “split” numbers with each other at their own sweet will, in order to “fill in.”
“I’ve got to get one more partner for you,” remarked Tom, when the second half of the waltz had come to an end. “I’ll be back in a moment,” and leading Ruth over to where her friends were seated, Tom scurried off toward some of his chums, in order to impress one of them into service for his fair partner. There was one vacant waltz on her card, and Tom himself had been booked for that number with Miss Tyler.
“I want one for Miss Clinton,” called the pitcher, as he slid into the group of his chums.
“Put me down!” exclaimed Jerry Jackson eagerly.“She’s one of the best waltzers here. Put me down, Tom.”
“All right,” and Tom reached in his pocket for the card. It was not there, and a puzzled look came over his face. “Jove, I must have lost it!” he exclaimed blankly, as he looked back over the route he had taken. As he did so he saw Garvey Gerhart approaching, holding out one of the dance orders.
“I think you dropped this,” murmured the crony of Langridge. “I just picked it up.”
“Thanks—very much,” exclaimed Tom, in relief, and taking the card, he had the Jersey twin scribble his name on the only vacant line.
“I put our friend Jerry down for you,” he explained to Ruth, as he joined her.
“Thanks,” she murmured. “Oh, there’s that lovely two-step. I can’t dance that enough!” and her little foot tapped the floor impatiently. Tom led her out as the music welled forth.
All too soon it was nearing the end of the little affair, for, though it was not late, the rules of Fairview forbade any extended festivities. Tom, who had been dancing with Miss Harrison, was walking over to claim Ruth for the next number, when he saw Langridge stepping toward her.
“Confound him!” thought Tom, an angry flush mounting to his face, “is he going to speak to her again?”
Such was evidently the intention of the former Randall bully. He was smiling at Phil’s sister, who at first did not notice him. Langridge and Tom reached her at about the same time, and what was our hero’s surprise to hear his enemy say:
“I believe this is our dance, Miss Clinton?”
She turned in astonishment, a wave of color surging into her fair face.
“Our dance—yours——” she stammered.
“I have your name down on my card,” went on Langridge calmly, “and I believe if you will look at yours that you will find mine on it.”
Hastily Ruth caught up her dance order, which dangled from her fan. As she scanned the names, the color of her face deepened.
“Why—why—it—itishere,” she murmured. “I did not know—Tom, did you——”
“Most certainlynot!” declared Tom, as emphatically as he could without attracting too much attention. “I think you are mistaken, Mr. Langridge,” he added stiffly. “I booked no dance for Miss Clinton with you.”
“Perhaps you had better look at the card,” replied the bully, sneeringly.
Tom gave it a hasty glance. There was no doubt of it. There, in bold writing, on a line where he was sure he had scribbled his own name, was that of Langridge. It was the last dance but two, and Tom had the last one. He was alsosure he had this one, and yet the name of his enemy——
“There must be some mistake,” he said, in confusion, for sometimes mistakes would occur in the indiscriminate trading of cards among friends. “But I’m sure I never gave you that card to fill out, Mr. Langridge.”
The bully shrugged his shoulders.
“I don’t know that you figure in this at all,” he said, with a sneering air. “I have this dance with Miss Clinton. May I have the honor?” and he bowed gracefully to the confused girl, and held out his arm.
“I—I don’t——” she began, in distress.
“This is not your dance,” declared Tom, glaring at Langridge, reaching out his hand toward his own partner.
The rivals faced each other. Rivals again, though on a different field than the baseball diamond. An angry light gleamed in Tom’s eyes—on the face of Langridge there was a supercilious sneer. They stood thus, at one side of the ballroom floor. The music was playing softly, and some were dancing, but the impending scene between Tom and Langridge was attracting attention.
Ruth realized it, and was very much distressed. Tom was determined not to give way, but he realized that to make further claim against Langridgewould have the effect of causing a most unpleasant affair. He felt that there was something wrong somewhere.
It was Frank Simpson who saved the day. The big Californian had seen at a distance what took place, and had guessed what was going on. Also he had overheard a little of the conversation, and he was able to fill in the rest.
He sauntered slowly up to the trio, and, with an air of good fellowship, which he assumed for the occasion, he clapped Langridge lightly on the back.
“Hello, old man!” he exclaimed. “We’ll meet soon on the gridiron, I hope.”
“Yes,” answered Langridge stiffly, turning aside. “Miss Clinton, will you——” He paused suggestively.
“No!” whispered Tom. “Your name never got on her card right.”
“Take care!” almost hissed Langridge.
“No, it is you who must take care!” broke in Simpson, leaning forward as if he was talking on ordinary topics to the three. The crowd saw, and taking the very view of the little gathering that the big Californian wished them to, they turned aside. “It isyouwho must take care, Mr. Langridge,” went on Frank. “I saw you write your name on Miss Clinton’s card.”
“What!” The bully’s eyes blazed.
“Easy now,” cautioned Simpson, in calm tones. “Tom, you dropped your partner’s card a while ago, didn’t you?”
“Yes!” The end was beginning to understand now.
“I happened to be standing behind a pillar,” went on Frank, “when I saw Langridge pick it up. I saw him erase a name and substitute another, but I thought nothing of it at the time, as lots of the fellows had girls’ cards, filling them out. Then I saw Mr. Langridge hand the dance order to a friend of his, who started toward you with it, Tom, just as you discovered your loss.”
“Gerhart—he handed it to me!” gasped Tom. “I see now! Langridge, you——”
“He tried to play a sneaking trick, and was caught at it!” broke in Simpson. “Now, Mr. Langridge, I’d advise you to leave this dance!” and the voice of the big Californian grew stern as he looked full into the eyes of Langridge.
Without a word, but with a glance of hate at Tom, the bully swung around and crossed the room, threading his way amid the dancers.
“Thanks, old man!” exclaimed Tom, fervently, to Frank. “You save us—saved Miss Clinton—an unpleasant time.”
“Indeed you did,” spoke Ruth, holding out her little hand. “I don’t know how I can repay you. I did not look at my card when Tom handed itback to me, but when I saw—saw that name there, I—I knew I had never let him put it down.”
“Here!” exclaimed Tom, taking the order. He scratched out the offending name. “It’s gone now,” he added, with a laugh.
“I am in your debt, Mr. Simpson,” went on Ruth.
“Then repay me sometime by saving a dance for me,” spoke the lad from the Golden West, as he bowed and moved away.
“I think this is our dance—now!” spoke Tom, with a smile.
“Oh—Tom!” exclaimed the girl, “I—I think I’d rather sit it out.”
Langridge left the gymnasium immediately after the unpleasant scene, and Gerhart soon followed. In a manner, the evening had been partly spoiled for Ruth, but her girl chums gathered around her, and succeeded in bringing back a smile to her face.
She and Tom “sat out” the dance over which there had been a dispute, and in a palm bower they talked of many things. Miss Clinton begged off from her partner in next to the last dance, but she did the closing number with Tom, who wished that the music would never cease.
But the dance finally came to an end with a crash of melody, and though the youths and maidens applauded vigorously, the tired musicians put away their instruments and departed.
“Well, it’s over,” spoke Tom, regretfully, as he escorted his fair companion toward the dressing room.
“Yes, but it was—glorious while it lasted!” she exclaimed, with brightly sparkling eyes. She was herself again.
“When is the next one?” he asked, eagerly.
“Oh, you greedy boy!” she cried. “I’ll let you know, however. We can’t have them too often. The ogress objected to this one, as it was.”
“Meaning Miss Philock?” asked Tom.
“No one else. I’ll be out soon, and then we’ll go home. There are Madge and Mabel.”
Tom and his friends went to have a final cup of coffee, before starting off with the girls, and while they were drinking the beverage, Frank Simpson remarked:
“Well, we ought to know this week whether we’re going to have a Randall College any more or not.”
“How so?” asked Phil.
“The real legal battle opens in court to-morrow. I heard Dr. Churchill telling Mr. Zane about it this afternoon. It seems there is a certain point to be argued before they get at the main issue, and whichever side wins this point will have the advantage, and practically get the case.”
“What sort of a point is it?” asked Tom, who had a little leaning toward the law.
“Blessed if I know?” replied the Californian. “It was too deep for me, though I heard Moses mention it. There was something about a writ ofcertiorariorlis pendisor an injunction, or something like that.”
“Maybe the college authorities are going to ask for an injunction to prevent Langridge and that crowd from interfering until the football season is over,” suggested Holly Cross, hopefully.
“What? Do you imagine that all Moses and the others have to think of is football?” demanded Phil. “I tell you, fellows, this is a serious matter. I’d hate to see old Randall done away with.”
“So would we all,” declared Kindlings. “But maybe we’ll win in court, just as——”
“As we didn’t against Fairview, but as we’re going to do against Boxer Hall!” interrupted Tom, with energy, and then he saw Ruth beckoning to him, as she stood with her chums, most bewitchingly arrayed in a fur coat. “Come on!” called Tom to his friends, and soon they were escorting the girls home.
There was some expectation when the students at Randall assembled in chapel the next morning, and it was borne out by an announcement Dr. Churchill made.
“Perhaps some of you have heard of the further rumors going about concerning our difficulties,” he said, gravely. “I beg of you to pay no attention to them. The case is far from settled, though within two days it may progress muchtoward that end, either for us—or against us. I now wish to state,” he went on, after a pause, “that the faculty as well as the directors have been summoned to court to-morrow and the following day, so that Randall will be without a teaching force. You young gentlemen will be given two holidays from your lectures and studies, but I request that none of you leave the vicinity of the college in that time. Mr. Zane will be in charge. I believe that is all,” and the president bowed to the students.
“Wow! Think of it! Two days off!” whispered Dutch.
“You’ll practice football as you never did before,” declared Kindlings with energy. “It isn’t going to be all cakes and ginger ale for you, Dutch, my lad!”
There was much jubilation among the students at the prospect of an unexpected vacation, and even that day, preceding the two days’ holiday, the spirit of unrest was manifested, so that lectures suffered.
Early the next morning, President Churchill and the entire faculty took the train for the county seat, where the legal battle would be fought in the courthouse. The president and the instructors were needed to give evidence as to how long Randall had been in undisturbed possession of the land, as the college lawyers hoped thus to provetheir right to it, even without the lost quit-claim deed.
“Now, young gentlemen,” began Proctor Zane, when the authorities had departed, “I shall expect implicit obedience from all of you in this emergency. I want no skylarking or horseplay,” and as he said that he looked directly at Dutch Housenlager.
“Oh, no, we won’t do a thing,” promised the fun-loving lad. “Will we, Holly?”
“Speak for yourself. I’m going to practice kicking,” declared the big centre, as he walked over toward the gridiron with a ball under his arm, followed by a number of the eleven.
Kindlings and the coach took advantage of the free time to insist on thorough practice, and an impromptu game was arranged with a nearby preparatory school for the following day, while for the present the ’varsity would have the scrub as opponents. There was a noticeable improvement on the part of the regular eleven, and Captain Woodhouse felt much encouraged.
“I say, fellows,” remarked Dutch Housenlager, as he strolled into the room of our four chums that night, and found Frank Simpson there, “I’ve got a great idea.”
“What is it, to set the college on fire, transport it bodily to some other location, or some othercute and infantile bit of cutting-up like that?” asked Tom.
“Neither, you old catamaran! But Zane has his hands full with the freshman class. Particular hob has broken loose over in their dormitory, and ‘Zany’ is at his wits’ end. Now, what’s the matter with some of us getting into his room, and upsetting it a bit, to pay him back for what he’s made us suffer? How’s that for a joke?”
“Too kiddish,” declared Phil. “If you can’t think up anything more lively you’d better go to bed, or join the freshies. Come again, Dutch.”
“Say, it’s a wonder you fellows wouldn’t think up something lively yourselves, once in a while,” protested the big lad. “You want me to do it all, and then you blame me if it doesn’t come out right. Name something yourself, Phil Clinton,” challenged Dutch.
“Oh, get out, we’re going to have a game of chess,” declared Sid. “Keep quiet.”
“Well, if you fellows don’t want to have a good time, I’m going to,” declared Dutch, with an injured air. “I’ll find someone to do the trick with me, and then you’ll wish you’d come along.”
“Fare thee well,” mockingly called Tom, after the departing student.
Dutch managed to get Holly Cross and the two Jersey twins into his scheme, and the four lads, after ascertaining that the proctor was busily engagedtrying to bring order out of chaos in the freshmen ranks, made for Mr. Zane’s room.
“We’ll make him think a cyclone has broken loose,” declared Dutch, gleefully. “It will be rich.”
Now Mr. Zane was the personification of neatness. His room was as well arranged as the stateroom of the captain on an ocean liner. There was a place for everything, and everything was always in its place.
But the mischief-making students had not been inside more than three minutes, before the apartment did indeed look as though a looting burglar had been at work. Drawers of bureaus were pulled out, books were scattered all about, the chairs were piled up on the tables, a couch was turned over, and some of the incandescent light bulbs removed.
“Now let’s turn every picture with the face to the wall,” proposed Dutch, with a chuckle.
“Great!” declared Joe Jackson.
“Immense!” echoed his brother.
They were in the act of turning the etchings and engravings about face, when there came a sudden knock at the door. If thunder had sounded in the room the lads could not have been more surprised. They looked at each other in consternation. The knock was repeated.
“Co—come in,” stammered Holly.
Slowly the portal was pushed open, and, there, standing in the hall, was Professor Emerson Tines, with a small valise in his hand.
At the sight of the confusion that reigned in the proctor’s well-ordered apartment a look of amazement spread itself over the face of the Latin instructor. His jaw fell, and the valise did likewise. Then he snapped his teeth together, there came a glinting light into his eyes, and with a frosty smile he spoke.
“Good evening, young gentlemen,” he said, as he stepped into the room.
“Caught!” murmured Dutch, as he let a picture swing back into place. “Caught!”
For a moment there was silence—portentous, momentous silence, while “Pitchfork” gazed at the astonished lads, and as they returned his stare.
“Well,” remarked the Latin professor, as he advanced farther into the room, and looked about at the confusion on every side, “I see that Mr. Zane is not here.”
“N—no—no, sir,” answered Dutch, for Mr. Tines was looking directly at him, and seemed to expect him to reply. “He—he has gone out.”
“Which is evidently the reasonyouare here, committing these acts of vandalism!” said the professor, bitterly. “I am ashamed of you! To think that Dr. Churchill, myself and the other teachers could not go away for two days without you students behaving yourselves like this, it is disgraceful, shameful!”
He spoke as though the whole responsibility of the college rested upon himself and the venerable president, whereas it was common knowledge that the plan was being considered of dropping Mr.Tines and getting a more popular professor, as well as a proctor who was more in sympathy with the boys.
“We—we only wanted to have some—some fun,” went on Dutch, who, having acted as leader in the prank, thought it was his duty to defend his friends.
“Fun!” burst out Mr. Tines. “Do you call this disgraceful vandalismfun?”
“We—we meant it as such,” went on Dutch.
Professor Tines only sniffed. Probably he did not know what else to do.
“You young gentlemen—I had almost said ruffians,” he finally remarked, “you will remain here until I return. Perhaps you may be able to tell me where Mr. Zane is.”
“I—I think he is in the freshmen dormitory,” replied Holly Cross, who had been puzzling his brain trying to think of a reason for the unexpected return of Mr. Tines.
“Ah, thank you. I will find him, and return here.Youwill kindly remain. I wish him to see his room—as it is.”
Professor Tines turned about stiffly, and left. The four lads gathered together in the centre of the apartment, a miserable and forlorn quartette.
“Who’d have thought he’d show up?” demanded Dutch, as if it was against the rules for such a thing to be done.
“I didn’t,” declared Jerry.
“Me either,” echoed his twin brother.
“Well, he caught us with the goods, all right,” said Holly.
“I—I wonder what he’ll do—he and Zany?” ventured Dutch. “Shall we stay?”
“Got to,” was Holly’s opinion, and indeed the request of the professor was equivalent to a command—under the circumstances.
They waited there in misery until the Latin instructor and Mr. Zane came. The gasp of astonishment and dismay that the proctor gave as he saw his room was evidence enough of the manner in which he viewed it.
“This is what I found them at when I returned—most unexpectedly,” said Mr. Tines, with a wave of his hand toward the shrinking youths. “If I were in your place, Mr. Zane, I would make them restore everything to rights, and then inflict such punishment as would cover the case. Disbarment from athletics would be none too severe, as I see that all these are members of the football team.”
There was a gasp of dismay from the four, they had not bargained for that.
“I came back unexpectedly,” went on the professor. “Dr. Churchill had forgotten some papers to be used in the lawsuit, and I volunteered to return for them. Getting here unexpectedly, Ilooked for you, Mr. Zane. I knocked at your door. I was bidden to enter. This—this—” and the professor made a dramatic gesture, “this is what I beheld,” and he waved his two hands hopelessly at the confusion.
As yet the proctor had said nothing. He looked at his dismantled room as though he could not comprehend it. Never—never had he beheld it in this way before, not even when he moved from one apartment to another, nor when a section of the building in which he had his study was rebuilt.
“I was in the freshman dormitory—there was a little—ahem—a little difficulty there,” and the proctor hesitated. “I had no idea——”
“If I were you I would make them put everything exactly as they found it,” interrupted Mr. Tines, severely.
“I—er—I—that is—I think I would prefer to straighten matters out myself,” said Mr. Zane hesitatingly. It was as though he was in a daze. “You—you young gentlemen may go to your rooms,” he added, softly.
“What!” cried Professor Emerson Tines. “Aren’t you going to——”
Then he realized that he was infringing on the prerogatives of the proctor, and he kept still.
“You may go,” said Mr. Zane, softly, and Dutch and his mates went.
It was not long before the news buzzed in every dormitory of the college.
“Served Dutch right,” declared Tom. “He ought to have known better.”
“Yes, but if Zane and Pitchfork take him and Holly and the twins off the team,” suggested Phil, “then wewillbe in the soup, for further orders.”
It was a direful thought, and no one liked to dwell on it. There was a lot of talk, and much speculation as to how “Pitchfork” had managed to get back unobserved. There were also guesses as to what would be done with the culprits.
Then something new developed. It concerned the excitement in the freshman ranks. There had been considerable horseplay, it was said, and Mr. Zane had indignantly ordered it stopped. To his surprise, the students not only obeyed him, but his pardon was formally asked in the name of the class, and he was given a ringing round of cheers.
“Oh,that’sthe noise we heard,” commented Tom. “I thought they were raising the roof.”
Whether it was the unexpected compliment paid to him, or a feeling of commiseration for the four culprits was not made known, but, at any rate, Proctor Zane inflicted absolutely no punishment on Dutch and his mates. He did not even refer to the subject again, though Professor Tines was seen in excited conversation with him. Perhaps the trouble in which Randall was involved,and a feeling that he was not as well liked as he might be, influenced Mr. Zane.
So Dutch and his three chums breathed easier, and the football team blessed its lucky stars that it was to lose no more men.
Professor Tines went back to court early the next morning, taking with him the documents forgotten by the president. He gave out no news of the court proceedings, which indeed had not been opened as yet.
But word of them was received on the second day of the absence of the faculty. It was when the Randall ’varsity was returning from the game with the preparatory school, having won by an unexpectedly big margin. The players were feeling jubilant, and were telling each other what they would do to Boxer Hall.
“Hello, there’s Prexy!” exclaimed Tom, as he saw the venerable president strolling over the campus toward his residence.
“Let’s ask him what happened in court,” suggested Phil. “He won’t mind, for he knows we’re anxious.”
The little squad of players surged up around Dr. Churchill.
“Can you tell us—that is—is Randall safe?” stammered Phil, as he looked up into the President’s face, his mates anxiously surrounding him.
“I regret to say that we have been defeated in the first—ah—scrimmage, I believe you football players call it,” said the doctor, a bit sadly. “We have lost the first point in the main legal battle.”
Four lads sat in various ungraceful if easy attitudes in the room of our heroes one evening. Four—for Frank Simpson was now an accredited member in full and regular standing of the “Big Four,” as they were coming to be called.
Frank had moved his belongings into the apartment of the three chums, who were now four, for he found their comradeship congenial, and they liked him immensely.
It was a week after the announcement by Dr. Churchill of the setback the college had received in the opening of the legal battle.
Football practice had, naturally, gone on as usual, and there was a more hopeful look on the faces of the captain and coach. The team was playing more as a unit. Kicks were being handled better, the ball was being advanced with greater certainty in the games with the scrubs, and it looked as if Randall would come into her ownagain. They had played another minor game, and had rolled up a surprisingly big score.
“But the trouble of it is,” said Tom, as he got in a more comfortable position on the creaking sofa, “the trouble of it is that Boxer Hall is doing just as well. She’s cleaning up everything that comes her way.”
“But we have a look-in at the championship,” declared Sid.
“Yes, if we win the game Saturday against Pentonville Prep,” agreed Phil.
“Oh, we’ll do that all right,” declared Frank.
The football situation in the Tonaka Lake League was peculiar that year. In spite of the fact that Randall had not done well and had been beaten by Fairview, the latter college had “slumped” so after her victory over Randall that she was practically out of it as regards the championship. Should Randall win the game against Pentonville, which was almost a foregone conclusion, there would be a tie between Boxer Hall and the college of our heroes for the championship. It was this knowledge which made the players, coach and captain a trifle nervous, for so much depended on the final struggle that was close at hand.
Would it be Randall or Boxer Hall that would carry off the honors of the gridiron?
“Well, we’ll play our heads off, that’s all I cansay,” remarked Tom, as he glanced over the sporting pages of a paper. “I see that they’re trying some new kicking game at Boxer.”
“Yes, they’re always after fads,” declared Phil. “But straight football, with some of the old-fashioned line bucking, such as we play, and two halves, are good enough for me.”
“Same here,” agreed Sid.
“I guess nothing will come of that law business before the final game, eh, fellows?” went on Tom, who seemed anxious about it.
“No danger of a decision from the courts right away,” said Frank. “From what I can hear, our lawyers are going to get back at Langridge and his partner in some new kind of an injunction or alis pendisor awhang-doodle. That may make it look like a white horse of another color.”
They talked of football and the legal tangle at some length, and were deep in a discussion about a certain wing-shift play, when tramping footsteps were heard down the corridor.
“Holly Cross,” ventured Sid.
“Dutch Housenlager or—an elephant,” predicted Tom. “He walks as though he had his football shoes on.”
“Perhaps he’s coming to suggest another trick on the proctor or Pitchfork,” suggested Phil, for the latest attempt of Dutch was a standing joke against the fun-loving student.
“Hello, Dutch!” greeted Tom, as the big guard entered. “Anything wrong?”
“No. Why?”
“Oh, I didn’t know, but I thought you looked as if you just met the proctor, who made you sweep and dust his room.”
The others joined in the laugh against Dutch.
“Oh, can you fellows ever forget anything?” he asked, in accents of deep disgust, as he looked about for a place to sit down. “Where’s the seat of honor, anyhow?” he demanded. “Am I to sit on the floor?”
“Oh, suit yourself,” remarked Phil. “Our seat of honor hasn’t yet come back from the realms of mystery.”
“No, hang it all!” exclaimed Sid. “I’d give a good deal to know who has our old chair.”
“What! Haven’t you got that back yet?” asked Dutch. “Seems to me if I were you I’d make it a point to go in the room of every fellow in college until I found it.”
“We’ve practically done that,” declared Phil. “In fact, we’ve done everything but offer a reward, and I guess we’ll have to do that next.”
“Just what sort of a chair was it that you lost?” asked Frank Simpson. “I’ve heard a lot about it since I came to Randall, but I don’t exactly know whether it is a Turkish rocker or a Chinese teakwood affair with a cold marble seat.”
“It was the easiest chair you ever sat in!” declared Tom.
“A regular sleep-producer,” was Sid’s opinion.
“Nothing like it ever known when you came in all tired out from football practice, as I did to-night,” spoke Phil. “It rested you all over, and now we only have the couch, and Tom or Sid have that all the time now, so I don’t get a chance at it.”
“Get out, you syndicated cynic!” cried Tom. “You’re always on the ‘lay’ when I come in. But, Frank, seriously, this chair of ours was the real thing. It was a beaut, and I haven’t been able to find one like it since. It was an heirloom!”
“It was a relic of the dark ages!” broke in Dutch. “Say, Simpson, you’d ought to have seen it! That chair was broken in the back, the seat was humped up like a camel with the heaves, both cylinders were cracked, the gears were stripped smooth, the differential was on the fritz, there wasn’t a tire on it without a puncture, it had the pip and the epizootic, and, to crown it all, when you sat down in it you never knew whether you were going to get out of it alive or were a prisoner for life on hard labor.”
“Soak him!”
“Traitor!”
“Put him out!”
“Roll him under the sofa!”
“That’ll do for you, Dutch!”
These were only some of the things that Tom and his mates called at the big guard as he went on slandering the precious chair. Frank Simpson sat an amused witness of the little scene.
“It was pretty big, wasn’t it?” he ventured, at length. “That chair, I mean.”
“As if we were talking of anything else,” retorted Phil. “Yes, it was big and heavy and clumsy—about fifty years old, I guess, and it disappeared just before the clock went off on a vacation, and came back so unexpectedly. By the way, fellows, we’re as far from that mystery as ever.”
“Don’t speak of it!” begged Sid.
“Did your chair have a sort of reddish-brown cover on it?” went on Frank.
“That may have been the color once,” broke in the irrepressible Dutch, “but it was sky-blue pink when it walked away, for these fellows used to empty their ink bottles on it, and use the upholstery for a blotter.”
“Cheese it!” cried Tom. “Yes, Frank, the cover was a reddish-brown.”
“And were the legs carved with claws, and the arms with lions’ heads?” went on the Californian.
“Exactly! Say!” cried Phil, “like the dervish in the story of the camel, have you got our old chair?”
He arose, and fairly glared at Frank. The latter,too, had been growing more serious as he proceeded with his questions. Sid and Tom leaned forward eagerly, and Dutch looked on, wondering what was coming next.
“I haven’t got your chair,” went on Frank, “but when I know what kind it is, as I do now for the first time, I think I can give you news of it.”
“Then, for the love of Mike and the little fishes, speak!” cried Tom.
“Or forever after hold your peace,” chimed in Dutch, solemnly.
“Where’s our chair?” demanded Phil, dramatically.
“I was passing a second-hand store, the proprietor of which also does upholstering as a side line,” went on Frank, “when, happening to glance into the left-hand—no, I think it was the right-hand—window, I espied——”
“Oh, put on more steam!” begged Tom.
“I saw a chair,” went on the Californian, “a chair that I am sure must be yours. It was exactly as you have described it. I thought it looked to be quite a relic.”
“Where is that second-hand place?” cried Phil and Tom in a breath, while Sid grew so excited that he grabbed Frank by the arm, and held to him as if he, too, might vanish as had the chair. “Where is it? Where is it?”