“This is the room assigned to you,” said the monitor, pausing in a long corridor, after he had introduced Tom to Mrs. Blackford. “It is one of the best in the Manor, though I don’t quite understand why you picked out a double apartment.”
“Is it a double one?” asked Tom in some surprise. “I did not know it. As I was requested in the circular I received, I indicated the section of the building where I would like to be, and this room was assigned to me. I supposed it was a single one.”
“No, it is intended for two students, and I suppose it was assigned to you by mistake. I’m sorry, as it is too late to change now, since all the reservations are taken, and—”
“Oh, I don’t want to change!” exclaimed Tom quickly, as he entered the apartment shown him by the monitor. He saw that there were two beds in it, and that it was large and airy. “I’ll keep this,” our hero added. “It’s fine.”
“Have you a chum who might like to share it with you?” asked Blackford. “The expense may—”
“Oh, I don’t mind that part of it,” said Tom. “My father knew how much it was to cost, and he did not object. I haven’t a friend yet—that is, a Freshman friend—but I may find one.”
“There is one, a Sam Heller, who had this room last term,” went on the monitor. “He would doubtless be very glad to come in with you.”
“I’m afraid not,” replied Tom with a smile. “He and I had a little difference of opinion just now, and—”
“Very well,” interrupted Mr. Blackford. “You needn’t explain. Suit yourself about the room. It is yours for the term.” He knew better than to enter into a talk about the disagreements of the students. There were other troubles to occupy him.
Left to himself, Tom sat down and looked about the room that was to be his for the Freshman year. It had a good view of the campus and buildings, and he liked it very much.
“Though I should be glad if I had a good chum to come in with me,” reflected the new student. “I may get in with somebody, though. It’s rather lonesome to have two beds in one room, but I can sleep half the night in one, andhalf the night in the other I suppose,” he ended, with a smile.
Tom was unpacking his belongings from his valise when the expressman arrived with his trunk, and a little later the matron knocked at the door to ask if our hero found himself at home.
“Yes, thank you,” replied Tom, accepting the clean towels she brought. He had begun to hang up his clothes.
“I do hope you get a nice young man in with you,” suggested Mrs. Blackford. “One who won’t be cutting up, and doing all sorts of mischievous pranks.”
Tom proceeded with getting his room to rights as she left him, and a little later, finding that it wanted an hour yet to twelve o’clock, our hero strolled out on the campus.
He looked about for a sight of Sam Heller, or his crony, Johnson, who, it appeared later, had passed his examinations, and was a Sophomore, while Sam had to remain a Freshman, much to his disgust. But the two, whom Tom had come to feel were his enemies, were not in sight. Nor was Reddy Burke, and, though Tom strolled over past Elmwood Castle, he did not get a sight of Bruce Bennington.
Tom strolled about until lunch, and the mid-day meal was not a very jolly affair. About twentyFreshmen, who had come a day before the term formally opened, were at the tables and they were all rather miserable, like fishes out of water, as Tom reflected. Still our hero talked with them, experiences were exchanged, and the ice was broken.
“But I don’t exactly cotton to any of them enough to have one for a roommate,” reflected Tom.
That afternoon, having formally registered, and being told about the hours for chapel, and his lecture and recitation periods, Tom wrote a long letter to his father and mother.
He was coming back, from having posted it, when he noticed, standing on the steps of Opus Manor, a solitary figure.
“I hope that isn’t Sam Heller, waiting to renew the quarrel with me,” reflected Tom, as he drew nearer. “Still, if it is, I’ll meet him half way, though I don’t want to get into a fight my first day here.”
But he was soon made aware that it was not the bully who stood on the steps. It was a lad about his own age, a tall, straight youth, with a pleasant smiling face, and merry brown eyes. No, I am just a trifle wrong about that face. It was naturally a jolly one, but just now it bore a puzzled and unhappy look.
“Hello,” said Tom pleasantly, as he mounted the steps, and was about to pass in.
“Hello!” greeted the other. “Do you room here?”
“Yes. This is my first day.”
“Say, you’re in luck. It’s my first day too. I’m a stranger in a strange land, and I’m stuck.”
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom.
“Well, very foolishly, I delayed settling about my room until I got here. I thought there’d be plenty of places, and, when I did arrive I found that Opus Manor was the only desirable place for us Freshmen. Up I steps, as bold as brass, and asks for a room and bath. ‘Nothing doing,’ answers the worthy monitor, or words to that effect. Consequently, behold yours truly without a place to sleep, unless he goes into town to a common boarding house. And Ididwant to get in with the Freshmen! It’s tough luck!”
Tom was doing some rapid thinking.
“I don’t suppose you know of a good place in town; do you?” went on the other. “My name is Fitch—Jack Fitch. I’m from New York city.”
“Mine’s Tom Fairfield, from Briartown,” said our hero.
“Well, Tom Fairfield, have you been here long enough to recommend a place to room, where I can also get the eats; especially the eats, for I’m a good feeder. Know of a likely place?”
Tom’s mind was made up.
“Yes, there’s a place here,” he said.
“Here? Are you stringing me? They told me every room was taken.”
“So it is, but I have a large double one, and I was looking for a chum. So—”
“You don’t mean you’ll take me in?” cried Jack. “Oh, end the suspense! Fireman save my child! Don’t torture me!” and he gave a good imitation of a woe-begone actor.
“I’ll be glad to have you,” said Tom, who had taken a sudden liking to Jack. “That is, if you’d really like to come. You might look at the room.”
“Say no more! Come? Of course I’ll come! Will a duck swim? But I say, you know, you don’t know much about me.”
“I’ll take a chance—if you will,” said Tom, laughing.
“All right. Then we’ll call it square. Lead on and I’ll follow. To think that, after all, I’m going to get in Opus Manor! It’s great, Fairfield!”
“Call me Tom, if you like.”
“I like. I’m Jack to you, from now on. Shake!” and he caught Tom’s hand in a firm clasp. The two looked into each other’s eyes, and what they read satisfied them. They were chums from then on.
“I’ll take you to my room—ourroom,” Tom corrected himself. “It’s a fine one!”
“I’m sure it must be. But do you reckon the Lord and Lady of this castle will allow me to share it with you?”
“Yes. In fact Mrs. Blackford spoke of me getting some one in with me. So that will be all right.”
“Great! Do you mind if I do a little dance? Just a few steps to show my joy?” asked Jack, and Tom perceived at once that his new friend was a jolly lad.
“Not at all,” Tom answered, and Jack gravely did a hop skip and jump on the top platform of the steps.
As he finished there came a laugh from a couple of lads passing.
“Look at the ballet lady!” mocked a voice, and Tom saw Sam Heller and Nick Johnson approaching.
“Did you like it?” asked Jack, coolly. He was not to be easily disconcerted.
“Oh, it was great!” declared Sam with a sneer. “We’ll have you in the Patchwork Club if you keep on.”
There was no mistaking the sneering tone of his voice, and Jack flushed.
“Friends of yours?” he asked Tom.
“Just the reverse. But don’t bother with them now. We can attend to them later—if we have to.”
“And I think I shall have to,” said Jack quietly, as he looked Sam full in the face. “I don’t mind fun, but I like it to come from my friends. Lead on, Tom, and, as you say, we’ll attend to those two later.”
He followed Tom, and, as they disappeared into Opus Manor there floated to them the mocking laughs of the two cronies.
“Tom, did you ever balance a water pitcher on your nose? I mean full of water. The pitcher full, that is to say, not the nose.”
“Never, and I’m not going to begin now.”
“Well, I am. Watch me. I used to be pretty good at juggling.”
“Say, you want to be careful.”
“Oh, I will be. I’ve never done it, but there must always be a first time. And, though balancing water pitchers may not be an accomplishment taught in all schools, still there may come a time when the knowledge of how to juggle one will come in handy. Here goes.”
Tom and Jack were in their room—the room our hero had decided to share with his new chum. The matron and monitor had been interviewed, and Mrs. Blackford was very glad, she said, to know that Tom was to have a companion.
“And such a nice, quiet-appearing lad as he is, too,” she confided to her husband. Alas, she did not know Jack Fitch!
“The other one seems very quiet, also,” saidMr. Blackford. “I wish all the students were like those two.”
But if he and his wife could have looked into the chums’ room at that moment, perhaps they would not have held to that opinion.
For Jack had taken the large water pitcher, and was preparing to balance it on his nose, while Tom, rather fearing how the experiment would terminate, had gotten safely out of the way in case of an accident.
“I wouldn’t do it, if I were you,” spoke Tom, though he could not help laughing at his chum’s odd notion.
“Why not?” demanded Jack.
“Well—— Oh, because it might fall.”
“No reason at all, Tom. If would-be jugglers hesitated on that account there’d be no experts. Give me a hand until I get it up on my nose; will you?”
“I’d rather not.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid it will fall.”
“Oh, pshaw! Why fear? Never mind. I’ll balance it on my chin instead of my nose. On second thought it’s a little too heavy for the nose act, and my nose is like a bear’s—it’s tender. Watch me!”
Jack carefully lifted the pitcher of water, and managed to get it on his chin. He steadiedit with his two hands, bending his head back, and then, when he thought he had it where he wanted it, he lowered his palms, and the pitcher—for an instant—was balanced on his chin.
“Look!” he called to Tom, not taking his eyes from the vessel of water. “Talk about jugglers! Some class to me; eh, Tom?”
“Yes, I guess so.”
“Now bring me a chair,” requested Jack. “I’m going to do it standing on a chair.”
“You’ll never do it!” predicted Tom.
“Yes, I will. I’ll get the chair myself, then.”
This was his undoing. As long as he remained in one spot, with his head carefully held still, the pitcher did not tilt enough to upset. But, as soon as Jack moved, there was an accident.
“Look out!” yelled Tom, but his warning came too late.
Jack made a wild grab for the slipping vessel, but his hands did not grasp it in time. A moment later there was a heavy crash, pieces of china flew about the room, and a shower of water drenched the chums.
For a moment there was a grim silence. Then Jack said:
“Well, I’ll be jiggered!”
“You certainly ought to be!” and Tom laughed in spite of himself, for his new chum was much wetter than he.
The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps was heard.
“Oh pip!” whispered the luckless juggler.
“What is the matter? Has anything happened?” demanded the voice of Matron Blackford, in the corridor.
“Well—er—yes—we have had a slight—er—happening,” replied Tom, grabbing the clean towels, and proceeding to mop up the water from the carpet.
“Oh, is anyone hurt? May I come in?”
“Come!” called Jack, following his chum’s example, and the matron entered.
“What happened?” she asked, as she saw the water, the drenched boys, and the pieces of the broken pitcher.
“It—it sort of—fell,” replied Jack calmly, mopping away at the carpet.
“And broke,” added Tom. “We’re sorry——”
“And the water all spilled out,” needlessly interrupted Jack. “We are very sorry for that, too.”
“Oh you boys!” exclaimed the matron, raising her hands in despair. “I was afraid something would happen. What were you doing?”
“I was reciting my lesson in juggling,” replied Jack gravely. “And the pitcher slipped. I’ll pay for it.”
“Oh, no, as long as you were at your lessonswhen it happened, it was an accident, and you needn’t pay,” said the matron, but, later, Jack insisted, and then the story came out.
“I’ll bring you some clean towels,” said Mrs. Blackford. “Luckily there is a wooden ceiling below, or the plaster would have fallen, if there had been any,” and she hurried away.
Tom’s first day at Elmwood Hall ended quietly enough, as did Jack’s, at dinner in the big Freshman class dining room, and the two went to bed early, as they were rather tired. There was very little excitement in the school that night. A few of the older students sang some choruses on the campus, but the real life of the institution had not yet begun.
The next day was full of activity. Students—old and new—arrived by the score, and the professors, the matrons, the monitors, the proctor, and Doctor Meredith himself, had their hands full. Opus Manor filled with a laughing, chattering crowd, and Tom was glad he had selected his room in advance, as there were many disappointed boys, when they found they could not get the apartments they wanted.
“I struck it right!” declared Jack.
“And so did I!” added Tom, for he liked his new chum more and more. They made the acquaintance of several lads. On one side of them roomed Bert Wilson, to whom Tom and Jack atonce took a liking, and on the other side was George Abbot, a rather lonely little chap.
“I’m sure we’re going to like it here,” declared Jack, after their first lecture, when both he and Tom found that they were well up in the subject presented.
“Sure,” assented Tom.
“It’s a jolly place, all right,” declared Bert. “I wonder if there’ll be any hazing?”
“Of course,” declared Jack. “I don’t mind, though.”
“Nor I,” said Tom.
Several days passed, and nearly all the students, save a few Seniors, had arrived. Bruce Bennington was among the missing, and Tom found himself wondering if he would come back.
“Maybe his trouble will keep him out of college,” thought our hero, and he felt some regret, for he had formed a liking for the lad, though he had met him but once.
“Come on down to the river,” proposed Tom one day, after the last lecture for himself and his chum. “I’m just aching to get into a boat, and I understand there are some on the Ware river that a fellow can hire. I wish I had my motorboat here.”
“Why don’t you send for it?”
“Guess I will. Say, don’t you think the Latin is pretty stiff here?”
“A bit. But old Skeel makes it so. He’s fierce. I guess Reddy Burke was right about what he said of him.”
“Sure he was. But never mind. Maybe it’ll be easier when we’ve been here a few weeks. Here’s a short cut to the river,” suggested Tom, as they came to the rear of a fine residence. “Let’s take it.”
“Looks as if we’d have to cross private grounds. One of the profs. lives here, I understand.”
“What of it?” asked our hero. “He won’t mind, I guess. I like to take cut-offs when I can.”
“Go ahead. I’m with you,” answered Jack.
The two cut across a lawn in the rear of the house, for they could see the glittering river just beyond a fringe of trees, and they were glad of the by-path, as they had gone a longer and more roundabout way several times.
Tom was in the lead, and he had just passed a summer house, vine-encumbered, on the rear lawn, when an angry voice hailed him.
“Where are you going?” was demanded.
“To the river,” replied Tom.
“Who told you to go this way?”
“No one.”
As Tom answered he saw a man come from the summer house, a man he at once recognized as Professor Burton Skeel, the grim Latin instructor.
“Well, you boys can just go back the way you came,” went on the angry professor. “These are my private grounds, and I allow no students to trespass. If I find you doing it again I shall take sterner measures. Go back the way you came, and don’t come here again. Ah, I see that you are Elmwood students,” the professor went on. “That makes it all the worse. You should have known that I permit no trespassing, nor trifling. Be off!”
He fairly yelled the last words at the chums, who, though abashed, were not much alarmed by the angry instructor.
As they turned to retrace their steps Tom saw another figure in the summer house. He had a glimpse of the face, and it was that of Bruce Bennington. The Senior had been in close conversation with the angry professor.
“He looks sad,” mused Tom, referring to Bruce. “I guess his trouble isn’t over yet. I wonder if that glum professor can have anything to do with it?”
“Nice, pleasant sort of a chap for a professor—not!” exclaimed Jack, as he and Tom went a more roundabout, and public, way to the river.
“He certainly is grouchy,” agreed our hero. “Who’d think he’d rile up just because we cut through his back yard? He may take it out of us in class.”
“Shouldn’t wonder. His kind usually does.”
“Did you see who was with him?” asked Tom.
“I saw a fellow, but no one I knew.”
“That was Bruce Bennington, the Senior I was telling you about.”
“The one you said had some trouble?”
“Yes, and to judge by his looks he has it yet. I wonder what he was doing with old Skeel?”
“Maybe explaining why he hadn’t been to lectures before this.”
“No, I understand the Senior class doesn’t have to report as punctually as we poor dubs of Freshmen. It must be something else.”
“Well, we have our own troubles, Tom. Don’t go to looking for those of other fellows.”
“I won’t, Jack, only I’d like to help Bennington if I could.”
“So would I. Look, there are some boats we might hire,” and Tom pointed to a small structure on the edge of the river, where several boats were tied. A number of students from Elmwood Hall were gathered about, and some were out in the rowing craft.
Tom and Jack learned that the man in charge kept boats for hire, and the two chums were soon out in one, pulling up the river so, as Tom explained, they would have it easier coming back with the current.
“There goes the Senior shell!” exclaimed Jack, as from the college boathouse the long, slender craft was rowed out, looking not unlike some big bug, with long, slender legs. “They’re practicing for the race, I guess.”
“I wish I was with them,” remarked Tom. “I’m going to try for the Freshman crew.”
“And I’m with you.”
The two rowed on, and soon found a quiet, shady nook, where the trees overhung the river. There they tied their boat, and talked in the shadows.
Coming back they again saw the Senior shell, the lads in it rowing more slowly, for they were tired after their practice sprint. Turning in their hired boat, Tom and Jack went to the collegecrew’s headquarters, and there Tom, on making cautious inquiries, learned to his regret that there would be no Freshman crew organized that fall.
“You see,” explained Reddy Burke to the two lads, who were much interested in water sports, “our rowing season is in the spring. This is only a little supplementary race the head crew is going to row with Burkhardt college, which is five miles down stream. We beat them in the spring, but they asked for another meet, and we gave it to them.
“But rowing is practically over for this year, so I guess there’s no chance for you to get in a shell. Try in the spring, if you want to.”
“We will,” decided Tom.
“Meanwhile you’d better be thinking of football,” advised Reddy. “Candidates for the team as well as for the class elevens will soon be called for.”
“That hits us!” exclaimed Jack. “I’m going to train hard. Do you think our crew will win.”
“Sure,” declared Reddy, and I might add here that when the auxiliary race was rowed, two weeks later, Elmwood did win easily over her rival.
“Bennington is here,” remarked Tom, as with Jack he walked toward the campus with Reddy.
“Is that so? It’s about time he blew in. Where did you see him?”
Tom explained, telling of the peremptory mannerin which Professor Skeel had ordered them from his lawn.
“Oh, you mustn’t mind that,” advised Reddy. “He certainly is getting worse every term. I don’t see why Dr. Meredith keeps him. He’s the worst one of the faculty, and if he doesn’t look out he’ll get what’s coming to him.”
“Well, what shall we do this evening?” asked Jack, as he and his chum were in their room after supper. “I’ve done with my boning.”
“So have I. What do you say to a lark? Let’s run the guard and go to town.”
“I’m with you. Let’s get some of the other fellows,” proposed Jack. “Bert Wilson will come, and so will George Abbot, I guess, if he can stop asking questions long enough.”
“Sure we’ll go,” declared Bert, when the chums made the proposal to him.
“But what will we do when we get there?” George wanted to know.
“Oh. Why, we’ll stand on our heads!” exclaimed Tom with a laugh.
“All of us?” demanded the inquisitive lad.
“No, only you,” retorted Jack. “For cats’ sake, cut out some of those questions; will you? We’ll call you Interrogation Mark if you don’t look out, only it’s too much of a mouthful to speak in a hurry. Cut along now, before we’re caught.”
It was dark enough to elude a possible spyingmonitor, or one of the proctor’s emissaries, and soon the four lads were on their way to town. They went to a moving picture show, enjoying it greatly.
“Now if we can get in without being seen, we’ll be all right,” remarked Tom, when they had neared the college on the return trip.
“Pshaw, I shouldn’t much mind getting caught,” declared Jack. “It would be fun.”
“Doing double boning, or being kept in bounds for a week wouldn’t though,” declared Tom with conviction. “I vote we don’t get caught, if we can help it.”
“Maybe we can’t,” suggested Bert.
“Why not?” George wanted to know.
“Oh, ask us something easier,” laughed Tom. “Come on now, and don’t make too much noise.”
They were about to cross the campus, and make for their dormitory, when there was a movement behind a clump of shrubbery, and a figure was seen to emerge.
“There’s some one!” whispered Bert.
“Caught!” murmured Tom.
“I wonder who it is?” came from George.
“It’s Bruce Bennington, the Senior,” came from Tom. “We are safe.”
“You won’t be if you continue on this way,” came grimly from Bruce. “One of the proctor’s scouts is out to-night, just laying for innocent Freshies. You’d better cut around the side, andgo in the back basement door. It’s generally open, or if it isn’t I’ve got a key that will do the trick.”
“You know the ropes,” laughed Tom.
“I ought to. I was a Freshman once. Come on, I’ll show you the way, but don’t work the trick too often.”
Bruce walked up to Tom, and remarked:
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Fairfield. Glad to see you again. I didn’t recognize you in the darkness. I just got in to-day.”
“Yes, I saw you,” remarked our hero as he introduced his chums.
Bruce continued to walk on beside Tom, the others following. The Senior led the way along a little-used path, well screened by trees from spying eyes.
“Won’t you get caught yourself?” Tom wanted to know.
“No, we lordly Seniors are allowed a few more privileges than you luckless squabs. Though I shouldn’t much mind if I was nabbed. It would be like old times,” and Tom detected a sigh in the words. Clearly Bruce was still worrying.
“I saw you in Professor Skeel’s summer house this afternoon,” went on Tom.
“Oh, so you were the lads he warned away! Yes, Skeel is a—well I guess I’d better not say anything,” spoke Bruce quickly. “It might not be altogether healthy.”
“For you?” asked Tom.
“Yes. I’m under some obligations to him, and—well, I don’t like to talk about it,” he finished.
“Then you haven’t gotten over your trouble?” asked Tom sympathetically.
“No, it’s worse than ever. Oh, hang it all, what a chump I’ve been!” exclaimed Bruce. “This thing is worrying the life out of me!”
“Why can’t some of your friends help you?” asked Tom. “If I could——”
“No, thank you, Fairfield, no one can do anything but myself, and I can’t, just now. It may come out all right in the end. Don’t say anything about it. Here we are. Now to see if the door’s open.”
Letting Bruce lead the way, the other lads cautiously followed. They saw him about to try the knob of the basement portal, when suddenly Tom became aware of a light flickering through a side window.
“Hist!” he signalled to Bruce. “Someone’s coming!”
“All right. You fellows lay low, and I’ll take a look,” volunteered their guide. “I don’t mind being caught.”
“He’s got nerve,” said Jack, admiringly, as he and his chums crouched down in the darkness.
Tom and the others saw Bruce boldly look in the window through which the light shone.
“Maybe it’s Professor Skeel,” whispered George, apprehensively.
“Or Merry himself,” added Jack.
“Nonsense!” replied Tom. “Neither of them would be in our dormitory at this hour.”
“Unless they got wise to the fact that we went out, and they’re laying to catch us when we come in,” declared Bert. “If I’m nabbed I hope my dad doesn’t hear of it.”
“Come on, fellows,” came in a shrill whisper from Bruce. “It’s only Demy, our studious janitor. He’s boning over some book, and if you help him with his conjugation, or demonstrate a geometric proposition for him, he’ll let you burn the school down and say nothing about it. Come on; it’s all right.”
They entered through the door, which was not locked, so that Bruce did not have to use his key, and at their advance, into what was a sort of storeroom of the basement, the studious janitor looked up from a book he was reading.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “Is this—ahem!young gentleman, I hardly know what——”
“It’s all right, Demy,” interrupted Bruce with a laugh. “I brought ’em in. They want to help you do a little—let’s see what you’re at, anyhow?” and he looked at the book.
“It’s Horace,” said the janitor. “I want to read some of his odes in the original, but the translating is very hard, to say the least. Still, I am determined to get an education while I have the chance.”
“Good for you!” exclaimed the Senior. “I’ll help you, Demy. Horace is pie for me. You fellows cut along to your rooms,” he added, significantly. “You haven’t seen them, have you, Demy?”
“No, Mr. Bennington, not if you don’t wish me to,” and the janitor, with a grateful look at the Senior, prepared to listen to the Latin, while Tom and his chums, grateful for the aid given them, hurried up the stairs to their apartments.
“That was fine of him, wasn’t it?” remarked Jack, as good-nights were being whispered.
“It sure was,” declared Tom, wishing more than ever that he could help the unhappy Senior.
“I wonder why the janitor wants to know Latin?” came from the human question mark.
“Oh, answer that in your dreams,” advised Tom.
From the fact that no mention was made of their little night excursion, Tom and the others concluded that the studious janitor had kept his pact with Bruce. The latter told Tom afterward that he was kept busy giving Latin instruction until nearly midnight.
“It was good of you,” said our hero.
“Oh, pshaw! I’m glad I can do somebody good,” was the rejoinder. That was Bruce Bennington’s way. As Reddy had said, the Senior was his own worst enemy.
“Hear the news?” burst out Jack, as he entered the room where Tom was studying, a few afternoons later.
“No, what news?”
“Call for Freshmen and regular football candidates is posted. Practice begins to-morrow. Let’s get out our suits.”
“Fine!” cried Tom, tossing his book on the table, and scurrying for his trunk where he had packed away his moleskin trousers and canvas jacket. Jack soon had his out, looking for possible rents and ripped seams.
“I’ve got to do some mending—worse luck!” exclaimed Tom, as he saw a big hole in his trousers.
“Can you sew?” asked Jack.
“Oh, so-so,” laughed Tom. “I can make a stab at it, anyhow,” and he proceeded to close upthe rent by the simple process of gathering the edges together like the mouth of a bag, and winding string around them. “There! I guess that’ll do,” he added.
It was a clear, crisp day, and “the call of the pigskin” had been heard all through the college. Several score of lads, in more or less disreputable suits, that had seen lots of service, assembled on the gridiron under the watchful eyes of the coaches.
“I hope I make the regular eleven,” said Tom, as he sent a beautiful spiral kick to Jack.
“So do I,” was the reply. “But I hear there are lots of candidates for it, and almost a whole team was left over from last season, so there won’t be much chance for us.”
The practice was more or less ragged, and, in fact it was only designed to let the coaches see how the new lads “sized-up.” Several elevens were tentatively formed, and taken to different parts of the field to play against each other.
Tom worked hard, and he was glad to note that one of the older players had regarded him with what our hero thought were favorable eyes. Jack was also doing well.
This practice was kept up for several days, and about a week later Reddy Burke, meeting Tom, exclaimed:
“Say, you fellows are in luck!”
“How so?” asked Jack, who was with his chum.
“You’ve made the eleven, I hear. You’ll probably get notice to-day.”
“The regular?” cried Tom in delight.
“Hardly! There’s only one new fellow going on that, I understand, though you might fill in as subs. But you’re both going to play on the first Freshman eleven.”
“The Freshman team,” spoke Jack, somewhat disappointedly.
“Say, what do you want?” asked Tom. “I think it’s fine. Of course I wish it was the regular, but maybe next year——”
“That’s the way to talk,” declared Reddy, who was on the leading team himself. “But I tell you that you’re in luck to make the Freshman team. There are no end of candidates, but you two seemed to hit the mark.”
Tom rejoiced exceedingly, and when he received his formal notice, as did Jack, our hero at once wrote to his parents, who were soon to reach Australia. Tom had had several letters from them since leaving home, but had yet to hear of their safe arrival. He sent the letter to Sydney, in care of his father’s lawyer.
There were busy days for our hero and his chums now. With lectures to attend, studying to do, and football practice, their time was prettywell occupied. Bert Wilson had made the Freshman eleven, and the three chums played well together.
Tom had not seen much of Bruce Bennington since the night the Senior aided the first year lads, for Bruce was busy too, as he was on the ’varsity.
Tom found that football, as played at Elmwood, was very different from the Academy games, but he was made of tough material, and he soon worked well into his place as right half-back, while Jack was left tackle. Several scrub games had been played, and the Freshman coaches seemed satisfied with the work of their charges.
“Hurray!” yelled Tom, running up to Jack one afternoon, as his chum was strolling across the campus. “Yell, old man!”
“What for?”
“We play our first regular game Saturday against Holwell college. They’ve got a strong team, but we’re going to win! I’m going to make a touchdown!”
“Good! Oh, say, it’s great here!” and in the excess of their good spirits Tom and Jack fell to pummelling each other in hearty fashion.
“Come on now, boys, line up!”
It was the call of Coach Jackson for the final practice of the Freshmen eleven before their first big game. The regulars were to play against the scrub, and, as some of the positions were yet in doubt, there were some anxious hearts. For not a substitute but wanted to fill in on the regular eleven.
Tom and Jack, because of the good showing they had made, were assured of places, but Sam Heller, who, to do him credit, was a fairly good player, was not so certain. It lay between him and Bert Wilson, as to who would be quarter-back.
“But if I had my rights, and if that Fairfield chap hadn’t come butting in,” declared Sam to his crony, Nick, “I would be sure of my place.”
“That’s right,” agreed Nick. “We’ll have to get up something on Fairfield, and make him quit Elmwood.”
“I wish I could. Say, the Sophs haven’t done any hazing this term yet; have they?”
“No, but they will.”
“I suppose so. Well, just have ’em let me down easy; will you? I’m a Soph myself, by rights, if old Hammond hadn’t marked me low in maths. But have the Sophs give it to Fairfield and his chum good and proper; will you?”
“Sure I will. We’re going to do some hazing after the football game. We thought we’d put it off until then.”
“All right, only do Tom Fairfield up if you can.”
“I will. I don’t like him any more than you do. He’s got too many airs to suit me—he and that Jack Fitch.”
“Line up! Line up!” called the coach, and the practice began. Sam Heller was called on to take his place in the scrub, which he did with no good grace, casting envious eyes at Bert Wilson, and with a feeling of bitterness in his heart toward Tom. And with no good cause, for Tom had done nothing to Sam.
“Now, boys, play your heads off!” ordered the coach. “I want to see what sort of stuff you’re made of. The best players will go against Holwell to-morrow.”
Then the scrub game began, with the Freshmen players doing their best to shove back their opponents, and the latter equally determined to make as good a showing as possible. Back and forththe battle of the gridiron waged, with Tom jumping into every play, looking for openings where he might wriggle through with the ball, or help the man who had it to gain a yard or two.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” yelled the members of the first eleven, as they got the ball well down toward the scrub goal. “Make it a touchdown!”
It would have been, but for the fact that Bert Wilson fumbled the ball in passing it back from centre. A scrub player broke through, grabbed the pigskin, and was off down the field like a shot.
“Get him, boys!” cried Morse Denton, the Freshman captain, and Jack Fitch, who was as fleet as some ends, was after the fleeing youth. He caught him in time to prevent a score being made, but the coach shook his head at the next line up.
“Heller, you go in at quarter to replace Wilson,” he said. “I am sorry,” the arbiter added, at the look of gloom on the face of Tom’s chum, “but fumbles are costly. I can’t afford to take any chances.”
Bert said nothing, but he knew that he was not altogether at fault, for the centre had not passed the ball accurately. Sam Heller, with a triumphant smile at Tom, went to quarter, and the game proceeded. But it was noticed that Sam, who was giving signals, and deciding on most ofthe plays, did not give Tom as many chances as when Bert had been in place behind the centre.
“You want to look out for Sam in the game to-morrow,” said Jack to Tom that night, when, after gruelling practice, the regular Freshmen had shoved the scrub all over the field.
“Why so?”
“Because I think he has it in for you. He’ll spoil your plays if he can, and he won’t give you a chance. Look out for him.”
“I will. But at the same time I don’t believe he’d do anything to spoil the chance of the team winning.”
“I wouldn’t trust him. At the same time he may do nothing worse than not give you a chance. It’s going to be a big game, I hear, and the fellow who makes good will be in line for the ’varsity next season.”
“I’ll watch out. Now let’s do something. Come on in Bert’s room. He feels bad about not playing to-morrow.”
“I know. But it’s forbidden to visit in other fellows’ rooms after hours.”
“Oh, what of it?” asked Tom, who liked to take chances. “We’ve got to do something. It isn’t so late, and there are no lectures to-morrow.”
“All right, go ahead. I’m with you. But I hope we don’t get caught. It might mean being ruled out of the game to-morrow.”
Bert was grateful for the sympathy of his chums, and soon felt in better humor. Jack offered to repeat his water pitcher juggling act, and was only prevented by force on the part of Tom. There was a merry scuffle, and George Abbot came in to see what was going on, at the same time bringing warning that a sub-monitor had been patroling the corridors.
“Then we’ve got to be quiet,” declared Tom. “Cut out your juggling, Jack.”
The four chums talked for an hour or more, and then the three, who were out of their rooms, taking a cautious survey of the hall, prepared to go to bed, ready for the big game on the morrow. Jack and Tom just escaped being caught as they slipped into their apartment, but, as Tom remarked, “A miss was as good as a mile.”
Then came the day of the great game.
“Line up! Line up!”
“Over here, Elmwood!”
“This way, Holwell!”
“Rah! Rah! Rah!”
“Toot! Toot! Toot!”
These were only some of the cries that burst forth from hundreds of throats at the annual game between the Elmwood and Holwell schools, as the Freshmen prepared to clash in their gridiron battle.
The game was to take place on the Elmwoodgrounds, and both teams were out for practice. The crowds were beginning to arrive, and the bands were playing.
“Say, there’s a mob here all right,” remarked Jack to Tom. “A raft of people.”
“Yes. I hope we win.”
“Oh, sure we will. Don’t get nervous. I only wish Bert was at quarter instead of Sam Heller.”
“So do I, but it can’t be helped. I guess it will be all right.”
“Line up!”
It was the final call. The preliminaries had been all arranged, the goals chosen, and the practice balls called in. Elmwood was to kick off, and the new yellow pigskin was handed to her burly centre, who was poising it on a little mound of earth in the middle of the field.
“Ready?” asked the official.
“Ready!” answered both captains.
The whistle shrilled out its signal, and the toe of the big centre met the ball squarely. It was well kicked into the Holwell territory.
The full-back on the latter team caught it skillfully, and started to return with it, well protected by interference, but Jack Fitch worked his way through it, and tackled his man hard.
“Good! Good!” screamed the Elmwood enthusiasts, and then the first scrimmage was prepared for.
I am not going to describe for you that game in detail, for it formed but a small part in the life of Tom Fairfield. Sufficient to say that the gridiron battle was fairly even, and that at the end of the third quarter the score was a tie.
“But we’ve got to win!” declared the Elmwood captain, during the rest period. “We’vegotto.”
“And we will, if there’s a change made,” declared Jack Fitch boldly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Tom Fairfield isn’t getting a fair show.”
“Oh, Jack!” exclaimed Tom.
“That’s right! You’re not!” declared his chum. “Sam hasn’t called on you three times during the game. It’s been all wing shift plays, or place kicks, or forward passes, or fake kicks or something like that. Why can’t we have some straight, old-fashioned football, with a rush of the half-back through tackle and guard or centre? Tom’s a good ground-gainer.”
“I’ve played him as much as I saw proper,” snapped Sam.
“You have not!” declared Jack hotly.
“Easy, boys,” cautioned the coach. “There must be no personal feeling. Perhaps some straight football would go well, Heller.”
“All right, I’ll give it to ’em.”
The whistle blew to start the last quarter.
“Remember, boys, a touchdown will do the trick, and win the game!” pleaded the Elmwood captain.
“Look out for yourself, Tom,” cautioned Jack.
“Why?”
“Because Sam is just mad enough to make you fumble the ball and spoil a play. Then he’ll accuse you of losing the game.”
“I’ll watch out.”
The play was resumed. It was give and take, hammer and tongs, with the best players making the most gains. The ball was slowly forced down the field toward the Holwell goal.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” screamed the supporters of our hero’s college, and there were many of them.
“Seven, eleven, thirty-three, Elmwood! Eight—nine—twenty-one!” called Sam.
It was the signal for the full-back to take the ball through centre. It was almost the last chance, for the time was nearly up, and Tom had not been given a single opportunity that quarter. His heart burned against his enemy; yet what could he do?
The quarter-back dropped his hands as a signal for the centre to snap the ball back. Sam caught it fairly, and turned to pass it to the full-back. Then, that always fatal element in football developed.There was a fumble. The ball was dropped.
“Grab it! Fall on it!” yelled half a dozen Holwell players.
The Elmwood line wavered. Could it hold?
Tom Fairfield, a mist before his eyes, saw the pigskin rolling toward him. He picked it up on the jump. In another moment Jack Fitch and Joe Rooney, his guard, had torn a hole in the opposing line.
“Come on, Tom!” yelled Jack hoarsely.
And Tom, with lowered head, with the ball held close to his breast, plunged into the line. He hit it hard. It yielded. He went through with a rush, pushed by Jack and Joe. Then, seeing but a single man between himself and the coveted goal, he rushed for it.
All but the opposing full-back had been drawn in at the sight of the fumble, and the chance to secure the ball. Tom rushed at this lone player.
There was a shock. Tom reeled, but managed to retain his footing. He shoved the full-back aside, and ran on.
“Oh, great!” he heard hundreds yell. “Go on! Go on!”
How he ran! It was the opportunity for which he had waited. In spite of Sam Heller it had come to him. Over the white chalk marks Tom scudded, until, with panting breath, with a heartthat seemed bursting, and with eyes that scarcely saw, he fell over the last line, and planted the ball between the goal posts, making the winning touchdown. The other players—his own and his opponents—straggled up to the last mark. The whistle blew, ending the game.
“Oh wow!” shrilled hundreds of voices. “Elmwood! Elmwood! Elmwood forever!”
“Tom, you won the game! You won the game!” yelled Jack in his chum’s ear, as Tom got up, holding his foot on the ball. “You won in spite of Sam!”
“I—I’m glad—of—it!” panted Tom, scarcely able to breathe even yet, for he had run hard.
“Three cheers for Fairfield!”
“Rah! Rah! Rah!—Elmwood!”
“Three cheers for Holwell!”
There were shouts, cries and cheers of joy at the victory on the part of our hero’s followers, while there was corresponding gloom in the camp of their unsuccessful rivals.
“Great work, old man!” complimented Tom’s captain. “You did the trick for us!”
“It was an accident. I just managed to get the ball, and run,” explained Tom.
“Lucky for us you did. It was an accident that might have counted heavily against us. What was the matter with you, Sam, in passing the ball?”
“Aw, it wasn’t my fault. It slipped. Anyhow our full-back had his hands on it, and he dropped it.”
“I did not!” declared that player. “You didn’t pass it to me fairly.”
“That’ll do!” interrupted the captain sharply.“We don’t want any quarrels. Besides, we won the game.”
Tom was surrounded by a joyous crowd of his chums, and other admirers, as the team raced from the field, and the throng of spectators filed out of the stands.
“Well, how do you feel?” asked Jack of his chum, as they were in their room together, after a refreshing bath in the gymnasium.
“Great! I expect I’ll be a little lame and stiff tomorrow though. Somebody gave me a beaut dig in the ribs.”
“And I guess our whole team, and half of the other one, was piled on me at one stage of the game,” remarked Jack ruefully, as he rubbed his back reflectively. “But it was a glorious win all right. And how you did run, Tom!”
“I just had to, to make that touchdown.” And then the two boys fell to talking of the game, playing it all over again in detail.
“I just thought Sam would be mean enough not to give you a chance,” remarked Jack.
“Oh, maybe it wasn’t intentional,” replied our hero, who did not like to think ill of anyone.
“Get out! Of course it was. Ask any of the fellows. But he fooled himself. That fumble spoiled his plans, and you grabbed your opportunity.”
“And the ball too,” added Tom, as there came a knock on their door.
“Come!” called Jack, and Bert Wilson and George Abbot entered.
“Came to pay our respects,” spoke Bert. “How does it feel to be hero? Aren’t your ears burning, with the way the fellows are talking about you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why should his ears burn?” asked George. “Is it because he—”
“Now you quit, or I’ll fire the dictionary at you,” threatened Bert. “I told you I’d bring you in on one condition, and that was that you wouldn’t be a question box.”
“But I just wanted to know,” pleaded George.
“Then look it up in an encyclopedia,” directed Jack, with a laugh. “I’m not going to answer any more questions.”
“I hope you get a chance next game,” said Tom to Bert. “Maybe you will after the fumble Sam made.”
And Bert did. For there was a conference between the Freshman captain and coach that night, which resulted in Sam being sent back to the scrub. He protested mightily.
“It wasn’t my fault—that fumble,” he declared.
“I think it was,” spoke the coach. “Anyhowyou didn’t run the team as well as I thought you would. Why, you didn’t give Fairfield half a chance, and he showed what he could do when he did get a show.”
“Aw, he can’t play football.”
“I think he can. Anyhow, you’ll shift back, but if you do good work I’ll play you on the regular team again before the season is over.” And with this Sam had to be content.
Football practice was resumed on Monday, and the team seemed to do better with the change in quarter-backs. There was a match in the middle of the week, and again Elmwood won handily, Jack Fitch distinguishing himself by a long run, while Tom made some star tackles, once saving a touchdown by catching the player a short distance from the goal.
“I’ll get even with Fairfield yet!” threatened Sam to Nick. “He needn’t think he can run things here.”
“Go in and do him,” advised his crony. “Can’t you pick a quarrel with him, and have it out?”
“I’ll try. If you see a chance, sail in and lick him.”
“I will,” promised Nick, but Sam’s chance came sooner than he expected, or, rather, he made the opportunity.
There is a certain fine powder, a sort of apepper-snuff so fine that it can not be seen floating about, yet which, if scattered about a room, will irritate the eyes, nose and throat in a marked degree. Sam bought some of this powder, and making it up into a small paper parcel, he watched his chance to slip it into Tom’s handkerchief pocket.
“He’ll pull it out in class,” Sam explained to Nick, “and set the whole room to sneezing. I’ll try and have him do it in Latin recitation, and Skeel won’t do a thing to him, for Tom sits in the front row, and the prof. will see him.”
“Suppose Fairfield catches you?”
“I’ll take care that he doesn’t,” declared Sam, and he was lucky enough to bring about his cowardly trick undetected. As the students went into the Latin class, presided over by Professor Skeel, Sam slipped the sneezing powder into Tom’s pocket, on top of his handkerchief. It was quickly done, and, in the press, our hero never noticed it. Then Sam quickly joined one of his classmates, with whom he was more or less thick, to prevent detection.
The recitation was about half over, and Tom, who had been called on, had made a failure, for a very hard question, and one he had never dreamed would be brought up in class, was asked him.
“Remain after the session, and write me outfifty lines of Cæsar,” ordered the mean instructor. Tom shut his laps grimly. A little later he pulled out his handkerchief, and, as might have been expected, the powder flew out, scattering from the paper. A few moments later a boy began to sneeze, and soon the whole room was doing it—even the professor.
Now Professor Skeel was no simpleton, if he was mean, and he at once detected the irritating powder. He realized at once that some one had done it for a trick, and he had seen the paper fall from Tom’s pocket, as the stuff scattered.
“Fairfield!” he exclaimed angrily, “did you scatter that powder?”
“Not intentionally, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I did not know it was there. Some one must have put it in my pocket for a joke.”
“Nonsense! Do you expect me to believe that?” the professor asked sharply of Tom.
“It’s the truth, sir.”
“Preposterous! I don’t believe you!”
“Sir!” exclaimed our hero, for he was not in the habit of being told that he spoke an untruth.
“Don’t contradict me!” stormed the teacher. “I say you did it on purpose—er—a-ker-choo! On purpose—ker-choo! I have known it to bedone before, in other classes, but never in mine. I will have no nonsense! Ker-choo!”
The professor was having hard work to talk, for he sneezed quite often, as, in fact, did every one in the class.
“This foolishness will have to stop!” he declared. “I am certain you put that powder in your own pocket, Fairfield.”
“I did not, sir.”
“Ha! Did any one here put that powder in Fairfield’s pocket?” asked the professor.
Naturally the guilty Sam did not answer.
“There, you see!” exclaimed Mr. Skeel, triumphantly. “I knew you did it—ker-choo! But I have no doubt others may have been implicated, and I will punish the whole class. You will all of you write me out a hundred lines of Cæsar.”
“That is not fair, sir,” spoke Tom boldly.
“What! You dare to tell me that!” stormed Mr. Skeel.
“It is not fair,” insisted Tom. “Either I alone am responsible, which I deny, or some one else is. I assure you, sir, that no one in the class entered with me into any trick to do this thing.”
“I don’t believe you. The whole class will be punished unless the guilty one confesses—and that includes you!” and the professor looked angrily at Tom.
Sam, of course, would not admit his part in the affair, and as it was impossible to have the class remain longer in the powder-infested room, the students were dismissed. But Professor Skeel would not remit the punishment.
“Say, this is tough luck—to have to write out all that Latin, for something we didn’t do,” complained Frank Nelson.
“I should say so,” added Harry Morse. “Why don’t you own up to it, Fairfield, and save our hides.”
“Because I didn’t do it intentionally.”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“Say, if Tom says he didn’t do it, he didn’t,” declared Jack.
“I guess that’s right,” agreed Harry. “Excuse me, Tom,” and, to the credit of Tom’s classmates, one and all expressed their belief in his innocence. That is, all but Sam, and he kept quiet, avoiding our hero. But, to ward off suspicion, Sam growled louder than anyone about the task.
“I’d like to get hold of the fellow who used that powder,” complained Ed. Ward.
“You won’t have to look far for him, I guess,” said Jack, in a voice that only Tom heard.
“Do you think Sam did it?” asked Tom.
“I sure do. But you want to be certain of your proof against him before you accuse him!”
“I will,” declared Tom. “I’ll do a bit of detective work.”
But he had no clews to work on, and, though he was sure his enemy had made him and the others suffer, he could prove nothing, for the paper in which the powder was wrapped was blank.