“In Haddonfield, on a little side street that runs up from the depot. I don’t know the name of it,” answered Simpson.
“Decker Street,” supplied Tom. “About the only place we didn’t look, fellows. I didn’t know there was a second-hand place there.”
“There’s only this one!” said Frank. “But he has your chair!”
“Hurrah!” cried Phil. “On the trail at last! Where’s my cap?” and he began looking about the room.
“Where you going, this time of night?” demanded Dutch.
“Over to Haddonfield to get that chair, of course,” replied the quarter-back. “Come on, Sid and Tom.”
They were enthusiastically hunting about for their hats and coats, which were never put in the same place twice.
“I’ll go along and show you,” volunteered Frank. “But he may be closed now. It’s after nine. We won’t get to town until nearly ten.”
“We’ll make him open up if we have to get the police,” declared Sid.
“Sure!” exclaimed Tom.
“Fellows, it’s too late to go to-night,” said Dutch, seriously. “You can’t run any chances of Zane catching you, especially as the big game with Boxer is so near at hand. If you’re caught it maymean being ruled off the team, and you ought not to take chances.”
The four hesitated. It was their chair against the eleven, for they knew that there had been a number of college rule violations of late, and the proctor was unusually strict. They might be caught and punished.
“Morning will do,” insisted Dutch, who, if he did not care much for the chair, did have the interests of the eleven at heart.
“It won’t do, but I suppose we’ll have to wait,” conceded Phil, slowly. “Jove! It’s tough to almost get your hands on it, and then have to hold back. Why didn’t you tell us this before, Frank?”
“I didn’t see the chair in the window until day before yesterday, and then I never thought it could be yours, until we got to talking about it to-night.”
“And to think that we may have it back to-morrow,” murmured Tom. “It seems too good to be true! I wonder how it ever got away?”
“I don’t know that, but I do know that we’ll chain it fast when we have it again,” declared Phil, and then they made Frank tell all over again how he had happened to see it, and how it looked.
The four chums begged off from football practice directly after the first lecture the next morning, when they had a clear period until noon.
“Say, what’s up?” demanded Kindlings, to whom they made the request.
“We want to go to Haddonfield and get our chair,” explained Phil.
“And you want me to knock out a morning’s practice, when you know how much the team needs it,” went on the captain, reproachfully.
“We don’t need it—so much,” declared Sid.
“No, you fellows think you’re perfect, I guess,” and the captain looked injured, and spoke sarcastically.
“It isn’t that,” said Tom, eagerly, “but if wedon’tgo, our chair may vanish again. We’ll put in hard practice when we come back.”
“Oh, well, then, go ahead,” conceded Kindlings, after a consultation with the coach. “I’ll makeyou pay for it, though. If we lose the Boxer game, it will be up to you fellows.”
“We won’t lose!” declared Tom, confidently.
They caught the next trolley car for town, and, piloted by Frank, headed for the second-hand shop on the little side street.
“Now we’d better map out a plan of campaign,” suggested Phil, as they neared the place. “If we go into the place, and demand the chair, the fellow may insist that he has a good claim on it, and raise a row. We can’t take it away by force, and——”
“We surecan!” broke in Tom, indignantly. “That chair is our property, and we have a right to take it wherever we find it.”
“Suppose the dealer bought it in good faith from some one who stole it from our room?” asked Sid.
“That makes no difference,” went on Tom, who thought that perhaps some day he would study law. “If the dealer hasn’t a good title to it, he can’t claim it. We can take it away from him.”
“How?” asked Sid. “Get a policeman and have him ride it away for us in the patrol wagon?”
“Yes, we could do that,” agreed Frank, “but it would be sure to raise a row, and draw a crowd, and then folks would blame it on the pranks of some of the Randall boys. We can’t afford to have that happen. Prexy wouldn’t like it.”
“But we’ve got to get our chair,” insisted Sid.
“Isn’t there some sort of a legal way of doing it?” asked Phil. “Can’t we go to court and get a search warrant.”
“What we need, in case we locate the chair, is a writ of replevin,” declared Tom, as if he knew all the ins and outs of the legal game.
“Is replevin any relation, say a second cousin, tolis pendis?” asked Frank, who seemed to have a special fondness for that term.
“Nothing like it,” asserted Tom. “To replevin your goods, it means you get a court order to take them wherever you can find them. Now my plan is this: We’ll go into the store, look around until we locate our chair, and then boldly demand it. If the fellow refuses to give it up we’ll go get a policeman, and swear out a warrant against him for receiving stolen goods. That’s what it amounts to, and we three fellows are witnesses enough, and can prove that the chair is ours.”
“Good!” cried Phil. “We’re with you, Tom.”
No better plan having been proposed, Tom’s was agreed to, and they proceeded on toward the shop, having come to a halt to discuss the situation.
Eagerly they peered forward as they swung around the corner. Each of the three wanted to be first to sight their beloved chair. As for Frank, he felt that he had already seen it.
“That’s the place,” suddenly remarked the Californian.“That shop with the spinning wheel sign over the door. It’s a queer old place, kept by a down-east Yankee, to judge by his talk.”
“The worst kind of a fellow with whom to talk business such as we have,” said Sid. “He’ll stand on his rights to the last inch or penny. But there’s no help for it.”
They were almost in front of the place now, and they strove to appear indifferent—as though they were merely strolling by; for, as Tom said, first they wanted to catch a glimpse of their chair in the window, and then they would have the evidence they needed.
Four pairs of eyes were turned simultaneously toward the dingy casement, in which stood an odd assortment of chairs, tables, small sofas and other antique furniture. Four gasps of breath told more plainly than any words the shock of surprise that followed the glances.
“It isn’t there!” cried Tom.
“It’s gone!” added Sid.
Truly enough there was no big, old-fashioned, easy chair in the window.
“Maybe it’s in the other,” suggested Frank. “I told you I wasn’t sure whether it was the left or right window.”
Phil darted across the doorway.
“It isn’t over here, either!” he cried, as a rapid survey of the contents of that window disclosedthe fact that it contained only some brass warming pans, a broken spinning wheel, some andirons and fire tongs.
“Perhaps it’s inside,” came from Frank. “This fellow changes his window goods every other day to attract trade. Let’s go in.”
There was nothing else to do after they had assured themselves, by eager glances through the windows, that their chair could not be seen from without.
“Well, gentlemen, what can I do for you to-day?” asked a little wizened man, with a much wrinkled face, as he came forward, briskly rubbing his hands. His face was smooth shaven, and seemed to be made of some kind of upholstery leather. His blue eyes were deep set, under shaggy brows. “Like something to furnish your college rooms with?” he went on, making a shrewd and correct guess as to their character. “I’ve got some sporty things, all right.”
“Real sporty, eh?” asked Tom. “Something that will make our den look homelike?”
“Sure. Why, I can sell you a pair of andirons dirt cheap. Real antiques they be, too. Come over in theMayflower. Then I’ve got a lot of Revolutionary muskets and swords you can hang up on the walls, and make it look like a regular den. Could you use a spinning wheel? I’ve got a dandy that just came in. I sold one like it tosome girls from Fairview Institute the other day, and they paid me a good price. I could let you have this one a little cheaper, if you bought all your stuff from me. You’re from Boxer Hall, ain’t ye?”
“No, from Randall!” exclaimed Phil, indignantly.
“I—I meant to say Randall all the while!” exclaimed the man, in some confusion. “I don’t know what’s gittin’ into me lately. Guess I need a new pair of eyes. That’s twice I made a mistake like that. I might have knowed you was from Randall, of course. You fellers are goin’ to beat them all holler in the championship game, ain’t ye?”
“We hope so,” answered Phil, “but we came to look for an old easy chair. We need one for our room, and we heard you had one that would suit us.”
“Easy chairs for college rooms? Why, I’ve got ’em by the bushel!” exclaimed the man, eager for business. “Look here!” and he led the way to the rear of his shop. “I’ve got ’em in Colonial style, early English, Flemish, Louis the Fourteenth, and almost any kind you like. What’ll you have?”
The chums eagerly looked around the shop. Their chair was not in sight. Somehow theirhearts sank, and they hardly dared ask the next question.
“Let’s see a good, old-fashioned, easy chair. We don’t care whether it’s early Flemish or late Irish,” said Phil.
“Something like the one you had in your window the other day,” put in Tom. “A friend of ours saw that one, and told us about it. We’d like to look at that.”
The dealer, who had been marching hopefully toward the rear of his shop, suddenly paused. He turned around and looked at the boys.
“Were you meanin’ a big chair, with reddish-brown velour on it, and——”
“Claw legs!” interrupted Sid, eagerly.
“And lions’ heads on the arms,” put in Phil.
“That’s it!” cried Tom. “Where is it? Show us that one!”
The dealer glanced at them sharply.
“Well, now I’m monstrous sorry,” he began apologetically, “but I just traded that chair—traded it last night.”
“Traded it?” gasped Frank.
“Last night?” echoed Sid.
“Yes,” went on the dealer. “I had no call for it. You see, that old-fashioned upholstered stuff is out of date. What folks want now is real antiques like Louis the Fourteenth, or Mission.Mission is great stuff! Now I’ve got a Mission chair, in real Spanish leather, that——”
“How’d you come to trade our chair—I mean the one wehopedto call ours,” and Phil quickly corrected himself, for it had been decided they would make no claim until they had assured themselves that it was really their chair.
“Well, the fact is a feller who’s in the same line of business as I am wanted it more than I did,” explained the Yankee dealer. “He offered me two spinning wheels for it, and I took him up. I’ve got quite a call for spinning wheels. Them girls over at Fairview College likes ’em for their rooms.”
“That’s so,” murmured Phil, regretfully. “Ruth told me she got one the other day for their den.”
“And you traded off our—I mean that easy chair?” went on Sid.
“Yes, I couldn’t get rid of it, so I let it go.”
“How’d you come to get hold of it?” asked Tom.
“Who’d you trade it to?” inquired Frank, and his question was the more practical. Yet the dealer answered Tom first.
“I bought it from a Hebrew peddler,” he replied. “He come along one day with a load of stuff, and offered me the chair with some other things. Said he’d been buying ’em up at differentcolleges around here, and trading stuff for ’em. So I took the chair, and it was one of the few times I’ve been stuck. Still, I didn’t make out so bad, as I got the spinning wheels for it.”
“So you can’t show it to us,” spoke Sid.
“No, that chair’s gone. But I’ve got lots of others. There’s one real antique, in horsehair, and——”
“No, thanks!” interrupted Phil. “We’d slide off that every time we tried to go to sleep, it’s so slippery.”
“Then there’s that Mission——” began the dealer, eagerly.
“No, we want one like that one which was in the window,” spoke Tom.
“By the way, with whom did you say you traded it?” asked Frank, casually, as if it did not matter.
“I don’t know his name,” spoke the dealer. “I’ve done some business with him before, but not much.”
“Is he in Haddonfield?” Phil wanted to know.
“No, he’s out in the country somewhere. Lives on a little farm, I believe, and does the furniture business as a side line. He also upholsters chairs, I understand. It was some name like Cohen, or Rosasky, or Isaacs—I really forget. But now, if you’re lookin’ for chairs——”
“No, thank you,” interrupted Tom. “I don’tthink we care to look at any to-day. If you could put us on the track of the one we saw, we might get that, and then we could buy others of you.” He added this as a bait to the trader.
“Well, I’m very sorry, but I can’t, for the life of me, think of the name of the man who took that old chair,” declared the dealer. “But if it was a spinning wheel now, or something in Mission, I could——”
“Come on, fellows,” interrupted Tom, sadly. “I—I guess we don’t want anything to-day.”
“Now I’ve got a real gem in Louis the Fourteenth,” went on the man eagerly.
“No,” said Phil, decidedly.
“Or early Flemish.”
“Nothing doing,” declared Sid.
“Or a Colonial sideboard and a warming pan—a warming pan is dead swell in the room of a college lad.”
“No, we don’t——” began Tom.
“Let’s jolly him along,” whispered Frank Simpson. “We want to get on the trail of that Hebrew. Now if we buy—say, a warming pan, of this man, he may give us more information.”
“Right!” whispered Tom, eagerly. “Why didn’t I think of it myself? Of course! We do need a warming pan,” he went on, winking at Phil and Sid, who at first thought their chum was out of his mind. “Now if we could get a nice copperone, pretty good sized, it might do in place of the chair.”
“For you to sit on,” murmured Sid, keeping a straight face.
“I’ve got just what you want!” declared the dealer, happy now at the prospect of business. “Come back this way to the warming pan department. I’ve got one that came over in the vessel that followed theMayflower.”
“It must have been theJilliflower,” murmured Sid, with a silent chuckle.
Half an hour later Tom Parsons and his chums left the antique upholstering shop, richer in the possession of an old warming pan, which they did not want, poorer in the sum of six dollars, but also possessing more information than they at first had regarding the Hebrew to whom had been traded their old chair—or, at least, the chair they hoped would prove to be theirs.
“His name is a common Hebrew one,” the dealer told them, when he had been thawed out by the trade, “but I don’t believe it was Cohen. Anyhow, he lives on the Medford Road, just beyond the village of Rosevale. I remember that, because he told me how long it took him to drive in from there. But if he shouldn’t have the chair on which you fellows seem so bent, I can fix you up. I’ve got an ancient Colonial one that——”
“I guess we’ve got all we need to-day,” said Phil, as he and his chums walked out. “Whew!” he exclaimed, as he stood on the sidewalk. “Ifwe hadn’t made a break when we did, he’d have sold us a Spanish sideboard or a Holland tiled fireplace. Come on, fellows, we must get on the trail of this Hebrew gentleman.”
“I’m afraid we can’t to-day,” spoke Tom.
“Why not?”
“Kindlings will want us to get into our football togs as soon as we get back, and jump out at practice. No chance to chase off around the country, looking for an unknown furniture dealer out Rosevale way.”
“That’s so,” agreed Sid. “Well, we can go to-morrow.”
“I’m full up with lectures to-morrow,” objected Phil.
“Well, some of us can go,” declared Frank. “We mustn’t let that chair get away again.” For, though he was a new chum, he felt the same interest in the recovery of the missing piece of furniture as did his friends. “I can stand a few more cuts, and I can get off right after practice.”
“Maybe I can go with you,” suggested Tom.
The two did manage to get away the next day, taking a trolley car as far as it went, and hiring a farmer to drive them to the village of Rosevale, a quaint little place. The farmer said he knew of no second-hand furniture dealers in that vicinity, but the boys had hopeful visions, and, dismissing their rig, as they intended to hire another in whichto drive back, they tramped along the country roads, making inquiries wherever they could.
But fate was against them. Late that afternoon, having covered many miles, they gave up, and made arrangements to be driven back to where they could get a trolley car to Randall.
They had called on many men who dealt in old furniture, and some who made a specialty of upholstering. Some were Hebrews, and some were not. But none had the chair they sought.
“I wonder if that Yankee was fooling us?” asked Tom.
“No, I guess he meant all right, but he couldn’t tell us any better than he did,” replied Frank.
“And we’re out six bones for that warming pan,” went on Tom, regretfully. “We’ll have to see him again.”
They did, but the dealer insisted that he had told them to the best of his ability. He offered to get the man’s name and correct address the next time he saw him, but this was not likely to be soon.
In the meanwhile our friends were without their chair, and their spasmodic efforts to discover the mystery of the clocks had amounted to nothing.
“I tell you what it is,” said Kindlings to them one day. “If you chaps don’t perk up, and come to practice a little oftener, you’ll find yourselveson the side lines when the Boxer game comes off.”
That put more “ginger” into Tom and his chums, for they had been rather neglecting practice of late in their efforts to locate their chair. They had, however, almost given up ever seeing the ancient piece of furniture again.
In the meanwhile matters concerning the lawsuit were not going any too smoothly. A most careful search had been made for the missing quit-claim deed, and without it, it was rumored, the court proceedings must soon come to an end, with the eviction of the college authorities from the ground in dispute.
There were dark days for Randall, and only the hope of winning the football championship kept up the hearts of the students. Nor was this hope any too strong, for there were whispers as to the prowess of Boxer Hall. Randall had won her final game before the big struggle, and now was devoting all her energies to playing off the championship tie.
New plays were tried and rejected. A different code of signals was put in vogue, for it was rumored that Boxer Hall was “on” to those in use.
“They say Langridge is playing his head off this year,” declared Tom one night, when a crowd of the football boys had gathered in the room of our friends.
“Maybe he’ll go stale,” suggested Holly Cross.
“He won’t if he can help it,” was Sid’s opinion. “He’s been waiting all season to get a whack at us fellows.”
“Well, it will make the game lively,” declared Kindlings. “We’ll give Boxer Hall all she wants.”
Jerry Jackson, who was sitting on the old couch with Sid, moved to a more comfortable position.
“I say,” he drawled, “it’s a wonder you fellows wouldn’t either renovate your furniture, or else get some new. Joe and I got some swell stuff the other day from an old Shylock of a chap that has a joint out Rosedale way.”
“Out where?” asked Tom, quickly, catching at the name.
“Out in a little place called Rosedale,” repeated Jerry.
“I guess you mean Rosevale, don’t you?” asked Sid. “We heard of that fellow, but we couldn’t find him.”
“No, I mean Rosedale—d-a-l-e,” spelled Jerry. “He’s an ancient Hebrew—rather a decent chap, too, and he had a lot of antique stuff. Joe and I bought a fine sofa.”
“A peach!” declared the twin brother. “You can go to sleep on it standing up.”
“What’s this fellow’s name?” asked Phil, quickly.
“Rosenkranz,” replied Jerry. “But he hasn’t got any more sofas. We bought the last one.”
“Has he any chairs?” inquired Sid.
“A raft of them.”
“And his place is in Rosedale, and not Rosevale?” spoke Tom.
“That’s it,” the Jersey twin asserted. “The two places are in opposite directions. I guess we ought to know. Joe and I were out on a walk one day, and we saw the sofa in his window. He has his shop in one side of his house—a queer old place with a lot of Russian brasses. He had one samovar that was a pippin, but he wanted eight dollars for it, and the sofa broke us.”
“Fellows!” cried Tom, excitedly, “I believe we are on the right track at last!”
“Track of what?” demanded Jerry.
“Our chair,” and Tom quickly told what little was known. “It’s evident,” he said, “that the Yankee dealer got twisted between Rosevaleand Rosedale. They’re as alike as two peas.”
“Then it’s Rosedalefor ours as soon as we can get there in the morning!” cried Phil. “This time I hope we’re on the right trail.”
“Yes, we’ve been in the right church, but the wrong pew, so often that it’s getting to be monotonous,” commented Sid.
Mr. Rosenkranz proved to be a Hebrew gentleman of the old-fashioned type—venerable,with a long, straggly beard. He greeted the boys courteously when they called on him two days later, as that was the first chance they had to make the trip.
With a voice that trembled with hope, Tom asked about an old-fashioned easy chair.
“Sure I have him,” declared the Hebrew, eagerly, scenting a trade. “Ven effer you vants an easy chair, comes you to Isaac Rosenkranz, und you get him. I show you!”
The boys followed him to the rear of the store. There, amid a pile of broken furniture, old stoves, odds and ends that seemed utterly worthless, but which seemed to constitute the entire stock-in-trade of the dealer, they saw a big chair.
“That’s it!” cried Phil, eagerly.
“Ours—ours!” gasped Sid.
“No mistake this time,” murmured Tom. “Chair, allow me to present you to our new member, Frank Simpson; this is the chair you have heard so much about.”
“Are you sure of it?” asked the big Californian, as he pretended to make a bow to the article of furniture.
“Sure, we can’t be mistaken,” declared Phil. “There are the claw feet, lions on the arms, and all that. That’s our chair.”
“Your chair?” asked the dealer, quickly. “Ha, yes, I see, if youbuyshim!”
The boys looked at each other. What was to be done? At length Tom hit upon the simplest plan. It was no doubt their chair, he explained, and he told how it had disappeared. They could recover it by process of law, he went on, when Mr. Rosenkranz evinced a desire to hold it, but they would pay a reasonable price for it.
“Mind you, only to get it back in a hurry, though,” declared Tom, “for it’s ours by right. But I think it will be a lucky hunch for the football team, if we get it before the big game with Boxer Hall Saturday. So, Mr. Rosenkranz, how much do you want for it?”
The dealer named a preposterous sum, but the boys were shrewd, and beat him down. Finally, when he had admitted that the chair was not likely to sell soon, because it was in poor repair, he consented to part with it for a reasonable sum. He confirmed what the Yankee dealer had said, that he had acquired it in a trade.
“Well, we’ll take it,” said Tom, passing over the money. “Now, how can we get it home?”
It was rather a problem, as the chair was big and clumsy, and they were quite a distance from Randall. But finally, on payment of a further small sum, the dealer offered to deliver it to the college.
“It doesn’t seem possible that we’ve got it,” said Tom, as they were on their way back thatafternoon, the Hebrew promising to bring the chair to them on the morrow. “We’ll have a celebration in honor of its return.”
“Nothing in the fancy eats line until after the big game, I’m afraid,” objected Sid. “Kindlings and Lighton will sit down on that. But we’ll have a double celebration after we do up Boxer Hall.”
“I wish it was to-morrow—I mean, so we could sit in the old chair,” went on Phil, almost as eager as a child.
But the chair did not come the next day, and after fretting and worrying, the boys received a badly written, and worse spelled, postal from Mr. Rosenkranz, explaining that his horse was sick, but that he would deliver the chair as soon as the animal was well.
“Say, there’s a hoodoo about that chair,” declared Tom, as he went out to football practice with his mates.
It was on the morning of the big game with Boxer Hall that an ancient wagon, drawn by a decrepit horse, drove up to Randall College. At first the students were inclined to make game of the outfit, but when Phil and Tom discovered that it was Mr. Rosenkranz with their chair, there was a change of heart. For the belief that the chair might prove to be a mascot or “lucky” hunch had grown.
“There she is!” cried Sid, seeing the old pieceof furniture on the wagon. “Now, up into our room with her, fellows.”
“Yes, and don’t stop to admire it all day, either,” called Kindlings. “I want you in practice right away.”
The chums promised, but they could hardly tear themselves away from the room where, once more, reposed the old chair. It looked as natural as it ever had, and its sojourn “in the land of the Philistines,” as Tom declared, had apparently not harmed it any.
“I declare, the old clock seems glad to see it back,” declared Phil.
“It sure does,” agreed Sid, sinking down on the sofa. That piece of furniture seemed to creak and groan out a welcome to its fellow.
“We’ll draw lots to see who has the honor of first sitting in the old chair, and then we’ll get out on the field,” suggested Tom.
He himself drew the lucky number. With something of a little ceremony he made ready to sink down into the depths of the chair. Slowly he let himself back.
A cloud of dust, as of yore, arose around him, making Phil, Sid and Frank sneeze.
“They’re greeting you, old chap!” cried Tom to the chair.
He leaned back. His chums, watching him, saw a look of wonder come over his face. Thenhis hand went under the seat, and began feeling there. Tom leaped up, raising more dust—a regular cloud.
“What’s the matter? A pin stick you?” asked Sid.
“A pin? No. But, say, fellows, this isn’t our chair!”
“Not our chair?” echoed Phil.
“Not—not——” faltered Sid.
“Not our chair!” exclaimed Tom, decidedly, as he sat down in it again. “Here, Phil, you try it. It looks like our chair, and it’s built like it—upholstery and all—it’s a dead ringer, in fact, but it’s notours!” and Tom moved aside while Phil got ready to make the test.
The quarter-back let himself down critically and easily into the chair. He was not in it more than a few seconds, ere he arose quickly.
“It seems to fit, just as our chair did,” he said, with a puzzled air. “I can’t tell——”
“It’snotour chair,” insisted Tom. “Of course when you sit in it it doesn’t feel any different. But look here!”
He tilted it over backwards with a sudden motion.
“What are you trying to do?” indignantly demanded Sid. “Break it?”
“I’m going to look under the seat,” replied Tom. “Don’t you remember how I nailed a board on last term to hold it together?”
“That’s right,” agreed Sid. “And I put on a cleat near the back legs. See if that’s there, Tom.”
Tom had the underside of the chair exposed to view now. Eagerly the lads peered forward. Totheir gaze was presented no indiscriminately-nailed-on boards or cleats, which they so well remembered. Instead, there was a smooth brown covering of cloth, such as is put under most upholstered chairs.
“What did I tell you?” cried Tom, in triumph. “I knew this wasn’t our chair as soon as I sat in it and ran my hand under it. You could feel the board I put on, and when that was missing I knew something was wrong.”
“You’re right, old man!” exclaimed Phil. “But if this isn’t our chair, we’ve got its twin brother. I never saw two more alike. But if it isn’t ours, whose is it?”
“And where’s yours?” asked Frank Simpson. “This mystery is only beginning, fellows.”
“That dealer gave us the wrong chair,” said Tom. “He must have another one in his shop.”
“I don’t believe so,” declared Phil. “If he had had two he’d have mentioned it when we were out there. Besides, we would have seen it. Frank, are you sure this is the chair you saw in the shop window of that Yankee dealer?”
“No, I can’t be sure of it, of course. It looks like it, though.”
“Well, we certainly are up against it,” declared Tom. “Wait a minute, I’ll soon find out what it means.”
He started from the room.
“Where you going?” called Sid.
“I’m going to see Rosenkranz and ask him about this mix-up.”
“It’s too late,” declared Phil. “Rosenkranz is quite a distance toward home by this time. We’ll see him later—to-morrow, after the game. But it sure is a queer mix-up. Who’d ever suppose there was another chair like ours.”
“This one is newer,” announced Tom, who had turned it right side up again, and was critically examining it.
“Not newer, I guess,” said Phil. “Only it hasn’t had the usage ours got. This is evidently of the same vintage, but has been reposing in some one’s back parlor for centuries, with the curtains down and the blinds closed to keep out the sun. But a fair exchange is no robbery, and I don’t know but what we’re just as well off. We have a better chair than ours.”
“I’d rather have our own,” declared Sid.
“So would I,” added Tom. “It sat easier,” and he dropped into the chair, and lolled back critically.
“Here, give me a show at it,” begged Sid. “I haven’t had my sitting yet.”
Tom arose reluctantly, and, as he did so, there came a knock on the door.
“Come!” cried Phil.
It was Wallops, the messenger.
“If you please,” he said, “Captain Woodhouse wants you gentlemen to come out on the gridiron at once, for practice.”
“Of course!” cried Tom. “We were nearly forgetting that in the excitement over the chair. Tell the captain we’ll be right out.”
There was hard, snappy practice against the unfortunate scrub, and as it progressed the captain and coach looked more gratified than at any time that season.
“They’re fit, all right,” declare Kindlings, with sparkling eyes.
“I think they’ll do,” agreed Mr. Lighton, “but you’ve got the fight of your life ahead of you, old man.”
“I know it—but we’ll win!”
Tom and his three chums returned from practice for a brief rest before the game. It was a holiday, with no lessons or lectures to mar the sport.
“First shot at the chair!” cried Tom, as he burst into the room. He threw himself into the big piece of upholstered furniture. There was a sudden cracking, breaking and tearing sound, and the whole bottom of the chair seemed to drop out. A cloud of dust arose. Tom was like a person who had sat upon a barrel, the head of which had collapsed.
“Oh, wow!” he cried, as he vainly struggledto get up. “I say, can’t some of you fellows give me a hand?”
“What’s the matter, hurt?” asked Phil, anxiously.
“No, but I’m wedged in here as if I’d sat on a drum.”
They pulled him out, and through the settling cloud of dust gazed at the ruin.
“Now you have gone and done it,” said Sid, reproachfully.
“I guess I have,” admitted Tom, regretfully, as he moved the chair to one side. Several of the bottom boards were on the floor. On top of them, amid a little pile of dirt and splinters, was a folded paper. Tom picked it up. He knocked the dust from it and slowly and wonderingly read several lines of writing on the front, and, as he read, a look of bewilderment came over his face.
“Why—why, fellows!” he exclaimed. “Look—look here! A deed—an old deed given by Simon Hess to Jacob Randall, in consideration of—and so forth and so forth—for the purpose of—um—setting aside land on which to erect a college. Why, great Cæsar’s grandmother’s pumpkin pie!” almost yelled Tom, “this is the missing quit-claim deed that everyone is looking for! The deed on which the title to the college depends! It was in that old chair!”
At first, Tom’s chums did not know whether or not he was joking. They crowded around him and looked over his shoulder as he unfolded the paper. The inner contents bore out the endorsement on the face of the document.
“That’s it, all right!” cried Frank. “It’s the quit-claim deed, as sure as you’re a foot high!”
“And does possession of it mean that Randall College is all right?” asked Sid.
“Sure!” asserted Tom.
“But how in the world did it ever get inside that chair?” demanded Phil. “This is the greatest mystery yet. The loss of our chair and clock aren’t in it.”
“I should say not!” agreed Frank.
“What had we better do?” asked Sid.
“Get this deed into the hands of Dr. Churchill as soon as possible,” decided Tom. “He’ll lock it in the safe, whence it can’t disappear again, and then they’ll call off the suit against Randall.I guess this will put a crimp in Lawyer Langridge, all right.”
“Who was this Jacob Randall mentioned in the deed?” asked Frank, who was carefully reading the document.
“Oh, he was some relative to the Randall who founded the college,” declared Phil. “Randall, the founder, got it later, and endowed the college. Jove! but this is a great find, all right, eh, fellows?”
“It’s a good thing I came down hard in that seat, or we’d never found the deed,” went on Tom. “Otherwise we might have traded back this chair for our own, and never would have known a thing about the quit-claim.”
“But whereisour chair?” asked Sid. “And how in the name of the sacred cow did the deed get in the seat of this one?”
“Say, don’t ask any more questions, or I’ll go batty,” declared Tom. “Come on, let’s take this deed to Prexy right away.”
It was such a momentous occasion that nothing less than a full delegation of the four “guardsmen” could do justice to it, so the quartette of chums invaded the office of Dr. Churchill, to that gentleman’s no small amazement. On the way our heroes met several of their chums, but they did not mention their find, thinking it best to let the proper authorities know of it first.
“Ahem! Is this a strike, gentlemen?” asked the president, with a twinkle in his eyes.
“It’s a ‘find’!” exclaimed Tom, and he held out the deed.
To say that Dr. Churchill was surprised would be but faintly to express it. He eagerly questioned the boys, who as eagerly answered, telling the story of their missing clock and chair from the beginning.
“I can’t understand it,” went on the president, with a puzzled shake of his head. “But I’ll take good care of this quit-claim deed, and we can make inquiries later. You have rendered a service to Randall to-day, gentlemen, that she will not soon forget. I thank you personally, and, later, I will see that you receive the recognition you deserve.”
“Come on!” whispered Tom to his chums, for the good old doctor was much affected. “It’s nearly time for the game, and we don’t want to miss that.”
Murmuring over and over again his thanks at the unexpected discovery, Dr. Churchill locked the deed in the safe, stating that he would take immediate steps to have the court matters brought to a close, if possible.
“For this, I think, settles forever the title of Randall College,” he said. “We are now secure.”
Tom and his chums hurried back to their room.Dr. Churchill had requested them to say nothing for a little while regarding the finding of the deed.
“Now for Boxer Hall,” remarked Phil, grimly, as he looked at his watch. “They’ll begin to arrive in about an hour.”
Wallops, the messenger, stepped toward our friends.
“There’s a gentleman just gone up to your room,” he said. “He was inquiring for you, and I sent him up. He said he’d wait outside until you came back from the president’s office.”
“Who is he?” asked Tom. “Maybe it’s some of our folks, fellows, come to see the big game.”
“No, I think he is a stranger,” remarked the messenger.
Wondering who could be paying them a visit at this time, our heroes hastened their steps. Outside, in the corridor, they saw a man excitedly pacing up and down. He approached them eagerly.
“Are you Mr. Parsons, Mr. Clinton, and—er——” He paused, as if trying to remember the other names.
“Simpson and Henderson,” finished Tom. “Did you want to see us?”
“Indeed I do, very much! Did you receive a big chair from a dealer named Rosenkranz, a few days ago?”
“We received it to-day,” spoke Phil. “Why?”
“May I look at it?” went on the man, eagerly. “I have reason to think that it is mine, and that I have yours.”
“At last!” murmured Tom. “Once more on the trail of the mystery at last! Like a prima donna’s final-final concert. Yes, you may see the chair, and welcome.”
He opened the door of their room, and at the first glance inside, the stranger noted the chair.
“Yes, that’s mine!” he cried, eagerly.
“That’s whatwethought—at first,” spoke Sid, calmly.
The stranger paid no attention to the boys now. He went over to the chair, in the bottom part of which the boards had again been fitted loosely. The man put his hand underneath, and, as he did so, the boards fell down once more.
“What’s this!” he cried. “Someone has been tampering with my chair! There is something missing! Something valuable! Did you lads take anything from this chair?”
“What might it have been?” inquired Tom, calmly, motioning to his chums to keep silent.
“A paper—a document—a valuable document! Did you take it?”
“We found a certain paper,” replied Tom. “I sat in the chair a little too hard, the boards dropped, and there was a paper in there.”
“It’s mine! Where is it now? I demand it!”
“Easy,” counseled Tom. “Do you know what that paper was?”
“I should say I do! Give it to me at once! You may keep the chair if you like, but give me the paper!”
The man was getting more and more excited.
“That paper,” said Tom, calmly, “was a missing quit-claim deed to property owned by Randall College. The loss of it entailed a lawsuit which is still pending. We found the deed, and, of course, that brings the suit to an end.”
“Where is that deed?” demanded the man, angrily. “It was in my chair, and I want it.”
“It was in the chair—it isn’t now,” said Tom. “It is where you can’t get it—in Dr. Churchill’s safe, and Randall College is rid of her enemies!”
“Give—me—back—my—deed!” fairly howled the man.
He seemed as if he would strike Tom, but the plucky end faced him fearlessly. Suddenly from outside came a burst of cheers. They welled to the ears of our heroes.
“The Boxer Hall crowd!” exclaimed Phil. “They’re here for the big game! Come on, fellows! Now to play for our lives!”
Once again came the burst of cheers. Looking from their windows, our friends could see a crowd of Boxer Hall students, arriving in big stages, which they had hired. Their cries ofgreeting and defiance were answered by those of the Randall lads, who came pouring out on the campus.
“My deed—where is my deed? Give it to me!” repeated the stranger, eagerly.
Tom turned on him like a flash.
“Look here!” the end cried. “I don’t know you, and I don’t know what your game is. But Idoknow that we’ve got the deed, and that we’re going to keep it. Now, you get out of here, and don’t come back. We’re going to play football, and if you want to make any claim, you go to the Randall lawyers. Now—vamoose!”
Tom pointed to the door. The man looked at him defiantly, and seemed about to leap at the lad. Then, with a slinking glance, he departed.
“Well,” remarked Phil, as the echoes of his footsteps died away down the corridor, “what do you think of that?”
“Isn’t it the limit?” demanded Sid.
“Worse and more of it,” added Frank. “I wonder——”
“No time to wonder now,” interrupted Tom, briskly. “We haven’t anything to worry about from that chap. The deed is safe. Now, come on, get into our togs, and wipe up the ground with Boxer Hall.”
What a crowd there was! It seemed to surge all over the grandstands, hiding the boards from sight, so that the structure looked like a solid mass of human beings. Old men there were, and elderly ladies, too, and young men—and maidens—girls, girls, girls, everywhere, their pretty hats and bright wraps making the otherwise dull and cloudy day seem like a fairy garden.
Nearly everyone from Fairview Institute was on hand, and the girls sat together, chanting songs—sometimes for Randall and sometimes for Boxer Hall. The former contingent was led by the friends of our heroes, Miss Tyler, Miss Harrison and Miss Clinton.
It was almost time for the game to start, and Bean Perkins had led his crowd of shouters, cheerers and singers in various calls and melodies. Out on the field were the players, nearly two score of them, for each college had plenty of substitutes.
“It’s going to be a game for blood, all right,” murmured Tom, who, standing with his threechums, watched Boxer Hall at practice. “Look how they get into play on the jump.”
“Oh, we can do it, too,” declared Phil.
“They’ve got some good kickers,” announced Sid, critically.
“So have we,” fired back Phil, who seemed to resent any implied slight of the Randall team.
“Have you heard where Langridge is going to play?” asked Frank Simpson.
“Against me, someone said,” replied Tom. “He’s been shifted to right end, I hear, and I wish he wasn’t. There’ll be some scrapping, sure.”
“Don’t let him get your goat,” advised Phil.
Speculation as to the position of the players was soon set at rest, when the list was announced This was the lineup.
It was stated that two halves of thirty minutes each would be played, and it was also known that some of the old-time rules, as regarded play, would be used, for the Tonaka Lake League had their own ideas on this subject.
The crowd continued to increase, and when Captain Miller, of Boxer Hall, and Captain Woodhouse, of Randall, met for a conference, the stands had overflowed into the field, where the officers had trouble keeping the crowd back of the ropes.
Boxer won the toss, and there was a momentary feeling of disappointment at this, but it soon passed away, for there was no wind, and little advantage to be gained by selecting a goal.
“I’m glad we’ve got ’em on our own grounds,” remarked Tom, in a low voice.
“Yes, that’s one advantage,” agreed Phil. “Oh, if we can only win, old man—if we only can! Then Randall will come into her own again, and down all her enemies.”
“We’regoingto win,” said Tom, simply, as if that settled it.
Boxer elected to defend the south goal, which gave the ball to Randall to be kicked off. Holly Cross topped it on a little mound of dirt. He looked to Kindlings for a confirmatory nod, which the captain gave, after a glance at his men. The Boxer Halls were on the alert. The whistle ofthe referee blew, and Holly’s toe made a dent in the new yellow ball. Away it sailed far into Boxer’s territory. Langridge made the catch, and started over the chalk marks with speed, protected by good interference. But with a fierceness which it seemed that nothing could stop, Tom Parsons circled in, and made one of the best tackles of his career, as he brought his old enemy down with a thud to the ground, on Boxer’s thirty-eight yard line.
“Now the real battle begins,” murmured Tom, as he ran to his place, while the opponents of Randall lined up, the quarter-back singing out his signal.
Fred Cooper was given the ball, and made a try at getting around Randall’s right end, but Jerry Jackson and his support were right there, and Cooper was nailed, after a gain of about four yards. It was a splendid defense on the part of Randall, and her cohorts were glad, for Boxer had some big players that year, and there was fear that she would smash through. In fact, so fearful was Captain Miller after that first try that he called for a kick.
It was well done, and Cook sent the pigskin sailing far back toward Randall’s goal posts. Joe Jackson caught it, and began a run which brought the crowd to its feet as if by magic, while thousands of throats yelled encouragement, and BeanPerkins broke his cane to slivers, in his excitement. Past man after man of the Boxer team did Joe dodge, until he was nearly in the centre of the field before he was downed.
“Now’s our chance,” murmured Phil, as he knelt to take the pigskin when Holly should snap it back.
Phil signaled for Sid Henderson to take the ball, and take it Sid did, smashing through the Boxer line for five yards. Joe Jackson was next called upon, and proved a good ground-gainer. Then came the turn of Pete Backus, who got into action on the jump. In less than three minutes of play Randall had ripped out seventeen yards through the hardest sort of a defense, and this exhibition of skill, pluck and line-smashing was a revelation to those who had feared for their favorite college. It was disheartening to Boxer Hall. Randall had had no need to kick.
Another signal came, and Frank Simpson, with a tremendous heave, opened up a big hole for Joe Jackson to dart through. Then, and not until then, did Boxer prove that she could hold, for, in response to the frantic appeals of her captain, his men stopped Joe, after a small gain.
Then came some kicking, and Boxer had the ball again. With desperate energy she began at her smashing tactics once more, and to such advantage that she was advancing the leather wellup the field. Something seemed to be the matter with Randall. She was giving way—a slump.
“Hold! hold! Hold ’em!” pleaded Dan Woodhouse.
His men braced, but either they did not work together, or they braced at the wrong moment, for on came Boxer Hall. Right up the field they went, until they were only twenty yards away from the Randall goal line.
There were glum feelings in the hearts of the supporters of the yellow and maroon, and wild, delirious joy in the ranks of the enemies, for the stands were rioting with cheers and songs, while above all came the deep-throated demand for:
“Touchdown! Touchdown!”
“And they’ll get it, too, if we don’t stop ’em,” thought Tom, in despair. He had been playing well, and taking care of all the men who came his way, but that was all he could do.
Then Randall braced, and, in the nick of time, and held to such advantage that Boxer had to kick. Joe Jackson caught the ball, and was gathering himself for a run back, when Langridge, who had broken through with incredible swiftness, tackled him, almost in the very spot where the Randall full-back had grabbed the pigskin. Langridge and Joe went down in a heap, and how it happened, Joe, with tears in his eyes, later,could not explain. But the leather rolled away from him.
Like a flash Langridge was up, had picked the ball from the ground, and amid a perfect pandemonium of yells, was sprinting for Randall’s goal, with not a man between him and the last chalk mark.
It was almost a foregone conclusion that he would touch down the ball, and he did, though Tom sprinted after him, with such running as he had seldom done before. But to no avail.
To the accompaniment of a whirlwind of cheers, Langridge made the score, and then calmly sat on the ball, while the others rushed at him. But he was safe from attack.
Oh, the bitterness in the hearts of the Randall lads! It was as gall and wormwood to them, while they lined up behind their goal posts and watched Lynn Railings kick the goal.
“Six to nothing against us,” murmured Phil, with a sob in his throat. “Oh, fellows——”
He could not go on, but walked silently back to the middle of the field.
“Now, boys, give ’em the ‘Wallop’ song!” cried Bean Perkins, with a joyousness that was only assumed, and the strains of that jolly air welled out over the field, mingling with the triumphant battle cries of Boxer.
But the Randall players heard, and it put someheart into them. The game went on, with slight gains on either side, for ten minutes more. There were forward passes and on-side kicks tried, and an exchange of punts. Once Randall was penalized for holding, and twice Boxer had the ball taken from her for off-side plays. The leather was kept near the middle of the field, and it was evident that a most stubborn battle would mark the remainder of the championship game. Yet the advantage of first scoring was with Boxer, and it gave them additional strength, it seemed.
“Fellows, wemustget a touchdown!” declared Kindlings, with tears in his eyes, when time was called, as Charles Baker was knocked out, and Ted Sanders went in as the Boxer left half.
Randall had the ball, and with the energy of despair, was rushing it down the field. The loss of Baker, who was one of the mainstays of the Boxer team, seemed to affect Randall’s opponents, for they appeared to crumple under the smashing attack directed at them. In turn, Sid, Pete and Joe rushed through the holes torn for them. They seemed resistless, and the sight brought forth a round of cheers.
“Now for the ‘Conquer or Die’ song,” called Bean, hoarsely, leaping to his feet and waving his battered cane and the tattered ribbons. “Now’s the time. We need that touchdown they’re going to get!”
His voice carried to the struggling players, for there was a moment of silence. Then, as the grand Latin strains broke forth, they seemed to electrify Tom and his chums. The players fairly jumped at the opposing line.
Within two yards of the goal chalk mark Pete Backus was given the ball. With tremendous strength, the big Californian opened a hole for him. Pete slipped through, and staggered forward. Cook, the Boxer full, tried to tackle him, and did get him down, but, with a wiggle and a squirm, Pete was free, and the next instant had made the touchdown.
Randall’s supporters went wild with delight, and Bean could not shout for some time after the fearful and weird yells he let loose. He had to take some throat lozenges to relieve the strain.
There was some disappointment when the goal was missed, leaving the score six to five, in favor of Boxer. But Randall felt that she now had the measure of her opponents.
The rest of the half was finished, with neither side scoring again, and then came a period of much-needed rest, for the lads had played with fierce energy.
The opening of the second half was rather slow. The ball changed hands several times, and it seemed as if both sides were playing warily for an opening.
“Fellows, we’ve justgotto get another touchdown,” declared Kindlings. “That one point may beat us.”
“We’ll get it,” asserted Phil, when time was being taken out to enable Sid Henderson to get back his wind, for he had been knocked out by a fierce tackle.
Then the battle was resumed. Up to now, Tom and his old enemy, Langridge, had not clashed much, though Langridge kept up a running fire of low-voiced, insulting talk against Tom, to which our hero did not reply.
“He’s only trying to get my goat,” Tom explained to Frank Simpson. Then came a play around Tom’s end, when Boxer had the ball, and Langridge deliberately punched his opponent. Like a flash, Tom drew back his arm to return the blow, and then he realized that he was in the game, and he got after the man with the ball. Following the scrimmage, he said, with quiet determination:
“Langridge, if you do that again, I’ll smash you in the eye,” and from the manner of saying it, Langridge knew he would carry it out. Thereafter he was more careful.
Try as Randall did, she could not seem to get the ball near enough to make an attempt for a field goal, or to rush it over for a touchdown. On the other hand, Boxer was equally unable tomake the needful gains. There was much kicking, and the time was rapidly drawing to a close.
“We’vegotto do it! We’vegotto do it! We’vegotto do it!” said the captain over and over again. He begged and pleaded with his men. The coach urged them in all the terms of which he was master.
There were but two minutes more of play, and Randall had the ball. It was within twenty-five yards of the Boxer goal, and one attempt to rush it through guard and tackle had resulted in only a little gain.
It was a critical moment, for on the next few plays depended the championship of the league. Phil was doing some rapid thinking. Sid had just had the ball, and had failed to gain. In fact, the plucky left half-back had not fully recovered from the effects of a fierce tackle.
“They won’t expect him to come at them again,” thought Phil. “But I wonder if old Sid can do it. I’m going to try him.”
The quarter-back was rattling off the signal. Somewhat to his surprise, Sid heard himself called upon for another trial. He almost resented it, for he was very weary, and his ears were buzzing from weakness.
And then he heard that song—the song that always seemed to nerve Randall to a last effort. The Latin words came sweetly over the field fromthe cohorts on the big stand—“Aut Vincere, Aut Mori!”—“Either We Conquer, or We Die!”
“Might as well die, as to be defeated,” thought Sid, bitterly. The ball came back to him. Like a flash he was in motion. The big Californian, as he had done before several times in the game, opened a hole so fiercely that the opposing players seemed to shrink away from him.
Forward leaped Sid, with all the power of despair. Forward! Forward!
“There! See!” cried Bean Perkins. “He’s through the line! He’s going to make a touchdown—the winning touchdown!”
Sidwasthrough. Staggering and weak, but through. Between him and the coveted goal line now was but one player—the Boxer full-back—William Cook. He crouched, waiting for Sid, but there were few better dodgers than this same Sid. On he came, wondering if his wind and legs would hold out for the race he had yet to run—a race with glory at the end—or bitter defeat on the way.
Cook was opening and shutting his hands, in eager anticipation of grasping Sid. His jaw was set, his eyes gleamed. On came the half-back, gathering momentum with every stride, until, just as Cook thought he had him, Sid dodged to one side, and kept on. There was now a clear field ahead of him, and he was urged forward by thefrantic yells of his fellow players and the wild, shouting crowds on the stands. Not a person was seated. They were all standing up, swaying, yelling, imploring, or praying, that Sid would keep on—or fall or be captured before he crossed that magical white line.
Sid kept on. Then there came a different yell. It was from the Boxer stands. Tom, picking himself out from a heap of players, saw Langridge sprinting after Sid. And how the former bully of Randall did run!
“Oh, Sid! Go on! Go on!” implored Tom, in a whisper, as if the youth could hear him.
And Sid went on. After him, fiercely, came Langridge. The distance between them lessened. Sid was staggering. His brain was reeling. His legs tottered. The ball seemed about to slip from his grasp, and he found himself talking to it, as to a thing alive.
“Stay there, now—stay there—don’t fall out. And—and you legs—don’t you give way—don’t you do it! Keep on, old man, keep on! You can do it! You can do it!”
Thus Sid muttered to himself. He heard the patter of the running feet behind him. He did not look to see who was coming—he dared not. He felt that if he took his eyes off the last white line ahead of him that he would stagger and fall.
The line was like the crystal globe that hypnotizes one. It held his gaze.
On, and on, and on——
Sid fell in a heap. His breath left him. There was a darkness before him. Down he went heavily.