10323	----	THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE OR THE RIGHT ROAD AND THE WRONG BY ARTHUR M. WINFIELD Author of "The Rover Boys at School," "The Rover Boys on the Ocean," "The Rover Boys on Treasure Isle," Etc. MCMX BY THE SAME AUTHOR * * * * * THE ROVER BOYS AT SCHOOL, THE ROVER BOYS ON THE OCEAN, THE ROVER BOYS ON LAND AND SEA, THE ROVER BOYS IN CAMP, THE ROVER BOYS ON THE PLAINS, THE ROVER BOYS IN SOUTHERN WATERS, THE ROVER BOYS ON TREASURE ISLE. CONTENTS I ON THE TRAIN II AT THE SANDERSON HOUSE III LIKE KNIGHTS OF OLD IV WHAT HAPPENED AT THE CAMPUS FENCE V GETTING ACQUAINTED VI A HAZING, AND WHAT FOLLOWED VII THE ARRIVAL OF SONGBIRD VIII THE COLORS CONTEST IX TOM IN TROUBLE X SONGBIRD MAKES A DISCOVERY XI HOW TOM ESCAPED PUNISHMENT XII IN WHICH THE GIRLS ARRIVE XIII THE ROWING RACE XIV WILLIAM PHILANDER TUBES XV AN AUTOMOBILING ADVENTURE XVI SOMETHING ABOUT A CANE XVII A MISUNDERSTANDING XVIII THE GREAT FOOTBALL GAME XIX MORE COMPLICATIONS XX DAYS OF WAITING XXI HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS XXII WORD AT LAST XXIII THE SPRINGTIME OF LIFE XXIV AT THE HAUNTED HOUSE XXV IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY XXVI THE EVIDENCE AGAINST THEM XXVII IN DISGRACE XXVIII DARK DAYS XXIX WHAT THE GIRLS DISCOVERED XXX A BEGINNING AND AN ENDING THE ROVER BOYS AT COLLEGE CHAPTER I ON THE TRAIN "We're making time now, Tom." "Making time?" repeated Tom Rover as he gazed out of the car window at the telegraph poles flashing past. "I should say we were, Sam! Why, we must be running sixty miles an hour!" "If we are not we are making pretty close to it," came from a third boy of the party in the parlor car. "I think the engineer is trying to make up some of the time we lost at the last stop." "That must be it, Dick," said Sam Rover. "Gracious, how we are rocking!" he added as the train rushed around a sharp curve and nearly threw him from his chair. "I hope we get to Ashton on time," remarked Tom Rover. "I want to take a look around the grounds before it gets dark." "That's Tom, wanting to see it all before he sleeps!" cried Sam Rover with a grin. "You look out, Tom, that you don't get into disgrace the first thing, as you did when we went to Putnam Hall Don't you remember that giant firecracker, and how Josiah Crabtree locked you up in a cell for setting it off?" "Ugh! Will I ever forget it!" groaned Tom, making a wry face. "But I got the best of old Crabtree, didn't I?" he continued, his face brightening. "Wonder if we'll make as many friends at college as we did at Putnam Hall," remarked Dick Rover. "Those were jolly times and no mistake! Think of the feasts, and the hazings, and the baseball and football, and the rackets with the Pornell students, and all that!" "Speaking of hazing, I heard that some of the hazing at the college we're bound for is fierce," came from Sam Rover. "Well, we'll have to stand for what comes, Sam," answered his big brother. "No crying quit' here." "Right you are, Dick," said Tom, "At the same time if--Great Caesar's ghost, what's up now!" As Tom uttered the last words a shrill whistle from the locomotive pierced the air. Then came the sudden gripping of the air brakes on the car wheels, and the express came to a stop with a shock that pitched all the passengers from their seats. Tom and Sam went sprawling in a heap in the aisle and Dick came down on top of them. "Hi, get off of me!" spluttered Sam, who was underneath. "What's the matter? Have we run into another train?" asked Tom as he pushed Dick to one side and arose. "I don't know," answered the older brother. "Something is wrong, that's certain." "Are you hurt, Sam?" asked Tom as he helped the youngest Rover to his feet. "No--not much," was the panting reply. "Say, we stopped in a hurry all right, didn't we?" With the shock had come loud cries from the other people in the car, and it was found that one young lady had fainted. Everybody wanted to know what was the matter, but nobody could answer the question. The colored porter ran to the platform and opened the vestibule door. Tom followed the man and so did Sam and Dick. "Freight train ahead, off the track," announced Tom. "We ran into the last car." "Let us go up front and see how bad it is," returned Dick. "Maybe this will tie us up here for hours." "Oh, I hope not," cried Sam. "I want to get to the college just as soon as possible. I'm dying to know what it's like." "We can be thankful we were not hurt, Sam," said his older brother. "If our engineer hadn't stopped the train as he did we might have had a fearful smashup." "I know it," answered Sam soberly, and then the boys walked forward to learn the full extent of the damage done and what prospects there were of continuing their journey. To my old readers the lads just mentioned will need no special introduction, but for the benefit of those who have not read the previous volumes in this "Rover Boys Series" let me state that the brothers were three in number, Dick being the oldest, fun-loving Tom coming next and Sam the youngest. They were the sons of one Anderson Rover, a rich widower, and when at home lived with their father and an aunt and an uncle on a beautiful farm called Valley Brook. From the farm, and while their father was in Africa, the boys had been sent by their Uncle Randolph to school, as related in the first book of the series, called "The Rover Boys at School." At this place, called Putnam Hall, they made many friends and also a few enemies and had "the time of their lives," as Tom often expressed it. A term at school had been followed by a short trip on the ocean, and then the boys, in company with their uncle, went to the jungles of Africa to rescue Mr. Rover, who was a captive of a savage tribe of natives. After that came trips out West, and to the Great Lakes, and to the mountains, and, returning to school, the lads went into camp with the other cadets. Then they took another long trip on land and sea and led a Crusoe-like life on an island of the Pacific Ocean. "I think we'd better settle down now," said Dick on returning home from being cast away, but this was not to be. They took a house-boat trip down the Ohio and the Mississippi rivers, had a number of adventures on the plains and then found themselves in southern waters, where they solved the mystery of a deserted steam yacht. They returned to the farm and to Putnam Hall, and for a time matters went along quietly. On account of attending to some business for his father, Dick had fallen somewhat behind in his studies, and Tom and Sam did their best to catch up to him, and, as a consequence, all three of the youths graduated from Putnam Hall at the same time. "And now for college!" Sam had said, and all were anxious to know where their parent intended to send them next But instead of settling this question Mr. Rover came forward with a proposition that was as novel as it was inviting. This was nothing less than to visit a spot in the West Indies, known as Treasure Isle, and made a hunt for a large treasure secreted there during a rebellion in one of the Central American countries. "A treasure hunt! Just the thing!" Dick had said, and his brothers agreed with him. The lads were filled with excitement over the prospect, and for the time being all thoughts of going to college were thrust aside. From Mr. Rover it was learned that the treasure belonged to the estate of a Mr. Stanhope, who had died some years before. Mr. Stanhope's widow was well known to the Rover boys, and Dick thought that Dora Stanhope, the daughter, was the finest girl in the whole world. There was also another relative, a Mrs. Laning--the late Mr. Stanhope's sister--who was to share in the estate, and she had two daughters, Grace and Nellie, two young ladies who were especial favorites with Sam and Tom. "Oh, we've got to find that treasure," said Tom. "Think of what it means to the Stanhopes and the Lanings." "They'll be rich--and they deserve to be," answered his brother Sam. It may be added here that the Rovers were wealthy, so they did not begrudge the treasure to others. A steam yacht was chartered and a party was made up, consisting of the Rovers, several of the boys' school chums, Mrs. Stanhope and Dora and Mrs. Laning and Grace and Nellie. The steam yacht carried a fine crew and also an old tar called Bahama Bill, who knew the exact location of the treasure. Before sailing it was learned that some rivals were also after the treasure. One of these was a sharper named Sid Merrick, who had on several occasions tried to get the best of the Rovers and failed. With Merrick was Tad Sobber, his nephew, a youth who at Putnam Hall had been a bitter foe to Dick, Tom and Sam. Sobber had sent the Rovers a box containing a live poisonous snake, but the snake got away and bit another pupil. This lad knew all about the sending of the reptile and he exposed Tad Sobber, and the latter, growing alarmed, ran away from the school. The search for the treasure proved a long one, and Sid Merrick and Tad Sobber did all in their power to keep the wealth from falling into the hands of the Rovers and their friends. But the Rovers won out in the quest and sailed away with the treasure on board the steam yacht. The vessel of their enemies followed them, but a hurricane came up and the other ship was lost with nearly all on board. "Well, that's the end of Sid Merrick and Tad Sobber," said Dick when he heard this news. "If they are at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean they can't bother us any more." But Dick was mistaken in his surmise. It was true that Sid Merrick had been drowned, but Tad Sobber was alive, having been rescued by a schooner bound for London, and he was now on his way back to the United States, more bitter than ever against the Rovers, and with a determination to do all in his power to bring Dick, Tom and Sam to grief and gain possession of the money which he and his uncle had claimed belonged to them instead of to the Stanhope estate. On arriving at Philadelphia from the West Indies the treasure was deposited in a strong box of a local trust company. From it the expenses of the trip were paid, and the sailors who had aided in the search were suitably rewarded. Later on the balance of the treasure was divided according to the terms of Mr. Stanhope's will. This placed a large sum of money in the hands of Mrs. Stanhope, both for herself and Dora, and also a goodly amount in the hands of Mrs. Laning for herself and Grace and Nellie. The Stanhopes had always been fairly well off, but not so the Lanings. John Laning was a farmer, and this sudden change to riches bewildered him. "Why, mother," he said to his wife, "whatever will you and the gals do with the money?" "Several things, John," she answered. "In the first place, you are not going to work so hard and in the next place the girls are going to have a better education." "Well, I'm not afraid of work," answered the farmer. "About eddication, if they want it--well, it's their money and they can have all the learnin' they want." "Dora is going to a boarding school and Nellie and Grace want to go with her," went on Mrs. Laning. "Where is Dora going?" "To a place called Hope Seminary. Her mother knows the lady who is the principal." "Well, if it's a good place, I reckon the gals can go too. But it will be terrible lonesome here without 'em." "I know, John, but we want the girls to be somebody, now they have money, don't we?" "Sure we do," answered Mr. Laning readily. So it was arranged that the three girls should go to Hope Seminary, located several miles from the town of Ashton, in one of the Central States. In the meantime the Rover boys were speculating on what college they were to attend. Yale was mentioned, and Harvard and Princeton, and also several institutions located in the Middle West. "Boys, wouldn't you like to go to Brill College?" asked their father one day. "That's a fine institution--not quite so large as some but just as good." And he smiled in a peculiar manner. "Brill? Where is that?" asked Dick. "It is near the town of Ashton, about two miles from Hope Seminary, the school Dora Stanhope and the Laning girls are going to attend." And Mr. Rover smiled again. "Brill College for mine," said Sam promptly and in a manner that made his brothers laugh. "Sam wants to be near Grace," said Tom. "Well, don't you want to be near Nellie?" retorted the youngest Rover. "Of course I do. And I reckon Dick won't be angry at being where he can occasionally see Dora," went on the fun-loving Rover with a sly wink. "Of course it's nice enough to write letters and send boxes of chocolates by mail, but it's a good deal better to take a stroll in the moonlight and hold hands, eh, Dick?" "Is that what you do?" asked Dick, but his face grew very red as he spoke. "Never in the wide, wide world!" cried Tom. "I leave that for my sentimental brothers, big and little." "Who is sentimental?" exclaimed Sam. "Maybe I don't remember you and Nellie on the deck of the steam yacht that moonlight night--" "Aw, cut it out!" muttered Tom. He turned to his father, who had been called from the room for a moment. "If you think Brill College a good one, dad, it will suit me." "And it will suit me, too," added Sam. "I mentioned Brill for two reasons," explained Mr. Rover. "The one was because it is near Hope Seminary and the other is because I happen to know the president, Dr. John Wallington, quite well; in fact, we went to school together. He is a fine gentleman--as fine a fellow as Captain Putnam--and I am sure his college must be a good one." "If it's as good as dear old Putnam Hall, I shall be well content," answered Dick. "Then you are satisfied to go there, Dick?" "Yes, sir." So it was settled and arrangements were at once made for the three boys to go to Brill. Fortunately it was found that their diplomas from Putnam Hall would admit them to the freshmen class without examination. All of the boys wrote letters to the girls and received answers in return. The college was to open two weeks before the seminary, so that to journey to Ashton together would be out of the question. "Well, we'll see the girls later, anyway," said Dick. "I hope they like it at Hope and we like it at Brill; then we'll have some splendid times together." "Right you are," answered Sam, and Tom said the same. At last came the day for the boys to leave home. Trunks and dress-suit cases were packed, and not only their father but also their Uncle Randolph and their Aunt Martha went to the depot to see them off. "Now be good and take care of yourselves," said Mr. Rover on parting. "Learn all you can," added Uncle Randolph. "Remember that knowledge is better than wealth." "Oh, I'm going to cram my head full of learning this trip," answered Tom with a grin. "Take care of yourselves and don't get sick," was Aunt Martha's warning. "If you do, get a doctor right away." And then she gave each of the boys a warm, motherly kiss and a hug. She thought the lads the very best in all this wide world. The train came and the boys were off. After a two hours' ride they had to change to the main line and got into the parlor car already mentioned. Then they had dinner in the diner and went back to the other car to read and to look at the scenery. Thus several hours slipped by, when of a sudden came the jar and shock that told them something out of the ordinary had happened. CHAPTER II AT THE SANDERSON HOUSE When the Rover boys reached the head of the train they found an excited crowd beginning to collect. The locomotive of the express had cut into the last freight car a distance of several feet, smashing a number of boxes and barrels and likewise the headlight of the engine. Nobody had been hurt, for which everybody was thankful. But the engineer of the express was very angry. "Why didn't you send a man back with a flag or put a torpedo on the track?" he demanded of the freight train conductor. "Did send a man back," was the answer, "but he didn't go back far enough--hadn't time. This happened only a few minutes ago." "You can't expect me to stop in a hundred feet," growled the engineer. As a matter of fact he had not stopped in many times that distance. "Well, I did what I could," grumbled the freight conductor. By making inquiries the Rover boys learned that the freight train had jumped a frog at a switch and part of the cars were on one track and part on another. Two trucks were broken, and nobody could tell how long it would take to clear the track upon which the express stood. "May be an hour, but more likely it will be six or eight," said one of the brakemen to Tom. "This section of the road is the worst managed of the lot." "And how far is it to Ashton?" asked Dick. "About twelve miles by the railroad." "Then walking is out of the question," came from Sam. "I shouldn't mind hoofing it if it was two or three." "The railroad has to run around the hill yonder," went on the train hand. "If you go up the tracks for a quarter of a mile you'll come to a country road that will take you right into Ashton, and the distance from there isn't more than seven or eight miles." "Any houses on that road?" asked Tom. "Of course--farmhouses all along." "Then come on," went on Tom to his brothers. "We can hire a carriage to take us to Ashton and to the college. Some farmer will be glad of the chance to earn the money." "Let us wait and see if the train moves first," answered Dick. "She won't move just yet," answered the brakeman with a sickly grin. The boys stood around for a quarter of an hour and then decided to walk up to the country road that had been mentioned. Their trunks were checked through, but they had their dress-suit cases with them. "We'll have to carry these," said Sam dolefully. "Let us see if we can't check them," returned his big brother. But this was impossible, for the baggage car was locked and they could not find the man who had charge of it. "Oh, well, come on," said Tom. "The cases are not so heavy, and it is a fine day for walking," and off he started and his brothers followed him. It was certainly a fine day, as Tom said. It was early September, clear and cool, with a faint breeze blowing from the west. On the way they passed an apple orchard, laden with fruit, and they stopped long enough to get some. "I declare this is better than sitting in that stuffy car," remarked Sam as he munched on an apple. "I am glad to stretch my legs." "If we don't have to stretch them too long," remarked Dick. "Say, I wonder if we'll pass anywhere near Hope Seminary!" cried Tom, "It may be on this road." "What of it?" returned his younger brother. "The girls are not here yet--won't be for two weeks." "Oh, we might get a view of the place anyway, Sam." "I want to see Brill first," came from Dick. "If that doesn't suit us--" He ended with a sigh. "Oh, it will suit, you can bet on it!" cried Sam. "Father wouldn't send us there if he wasn't sure it would be O.K. He's as much interested as we are." Walking along the highway, which ran down to a little milk station on the railroad, the three boys soon discovered a farmhouse nestling between some trees and bushes. They threw their baggage on the grass and walked up to the front door. They had to knock several times before their summons was answered. Then an old lady opened the door several inches and peeped out. "What do you want?" she demanded in a cracked voice. "Good afternoon," said Dick politely. "Can we hire somebody to drive us to Ashton? We were on the train, but there has been a smash-up, and we--" "Land sakes alive! A smash-up, did you say?" cried the old lady. "Yes, madam." "Was my son Jimmie killed?" "Nobody was killed or even hurt." "Sure of that? My son Jimmie went to Crawford yesterday an' was coming back this afternoon. Sure he wasn't on that train?" "If he was he wasn't hurt," answered Dick. "Can we hire a carriage to take us to Ashton?" "How did it happen--that accident?" "The express ran into the end of a freight train." "Land sakes alive! The freight! Maybe it was the one we sent the cows away on. Was there any cows killed, do you know?" "I don't think so." "Well, tell me the particulars, will you? I don't go out much an' so I don't hear nuthin'. But an accident! Ain't it awful? But I always said it was risky to ride on the railroad; I told Jimmie so a hundred times. But he would go to Crawford an' now maybe he's a corpse. You are sure you didn't see a tall, thin young man, with a wart on his chin, that was cut up?" "What do you mean, the wart or the young man?" asked Tom, who was bound to have his fun. "Why, the young man o' course; although I allow if he was cut up the wart would be, too. Poor boy! I warned him a hundred--" "Can we hire a carriage here or not?" demanded Dick. The talk was growing a little tiresome to him. "No, you can't!" snapped the old lady. "We never hire out our carriage. If we did it would soon go to pieces." "Is there anybody who can drive us to Brill College? We'll pay for the service, of course." "No. But you might get a carriage over to the Sanderson place." "Where is that?" asked Sam. "Up the road a piece," and the old lady motioned with her head as she spoke. "But now, if my son Jimmie was in that accident--" "Good day, madam," said Dick and walked away, and Sam and Tom did the same. The old lady continued to call after them, but they paid no attention. "Poor Jimmie! If he isn't killed in a railroad accident, he'll be talked to death some day," was Sam's comment. "Don't you care. We know that Jimmie's got a wart, anyway," observed Tom, and he said this so dryly his brothers had to laugh. "Always add to your fund of knowledge when you can," he added, in imitation of his Uncle Randolph. "I hope we have better success at the next farmhouse," said Sam. "I don't know that I want to walk all the way to Ashton with this dress-suit case." "Oh, we're bound to find some kind of a rig at one place or another," said Dick. "All the folks can't be like that old woman." They walked along the road until they came in sight of a second farmhouse, also set in among trees and bushes. A neat gravel path, lined with rose bushes, ran from the gate to the front piazza. "This looks nice," observed Sam. "Some folks of the better sort must live here." The three boys walked up to the front piazza and set down their baggage. On the door casing was an electric push button. "No old-fashioned knocker here," observed Dick as he gave the button a push. "Well, we are not wanting electric push buttons," said Tom. "An electric runabout or a good two-seat carriage will fill our bill." The boys waited for fully a minute and then, as nobody came to answer their summons, Dick pushed the button again. "I don't hear it," said Sam. "Perhaps it doesn't ring." "Probably it rings in the back of the house," answered his big brother. Again the boys waited, and while they did so all heard talking at a distance. "Somebody in the kitchen, I guess," said Tom. "Maybe we had better go around there. Some country folks don't use their front doors excepting for funerals and when the minister comes." Leaving their dress-suit cases on the piazza, the Rover boys walked around the side of the farmhouse in the direction of the kitchen. The building was a low and rambling one and they had to pass a sitting-room. Here they found a window wide open to let in the fresh air and sunshine. "Now, you must go, really you must!" they heard in a girl's voice. "I haven't done a thing this afternoon, and what will papa say when he gets back?" "Oh, that's all right, Minnie," was the answer in masculine tones. "You like us to be here, you know you do. And, remember, we haven't seen you in a long time." "Yes, I know, Mr. Flockley, but--" "Oh, don't call me Mr. Flockley. Call me Dudd." "Yes, and please don't call me Mr. Koswell," broke in another masculine voice. "Jerry is good enough for me every time." "But you must go now, you really must!" said the girl. "We'll go if you'll say good-by in the right kind of a way, eh, Dudd?" said the person called Jerry Koswell. "Yes, Minnie, but we won't go until you do that," answered the young man named Dudd Flockley. "Wha--what do you mean?" faltered the girl. And now, looking through the sitting-room window and through a doorway leading to the kitchen, the Rover boys saw a pretty damsel of sixteen standing by a pantry door, facing two dudish young men of eighteen or twenty. The young men wore checkered suits and sported heavy watch fobs and diamond rings and scarf-pins. "Why, you'll give us each a nice kiss, won't you?" said Dudd Flockley with a smile that was meant to be alluring. "Of course Minnie will give us a kiss," said Jerry Koswell. "Next Saturday I'm coming over to give you a carriage ride." "I don't wish any carriage ride," answered the girl coldly. Her face had gone white at the mention of kisses. "Well, let's have the kisses anyway!" cried Dudd Flockley, and stepping forward, he caught the girl by one hand, while Jerry Koswell grasped her by the other. "Oh, please let me go!" cried the girl. "Please do! Oh, Mr. Flockley! Mr. Koswell, don't--don't--please!" "Now be nice about it," growled Dudd Flockley. "It won't hurt you a bit," added Jerry Koswell. "I want you to let me go!" cried the girl. "I will as soon as--" began Dudd Flockley, and then he gave a sudden roar of pain as he found himself caught by the ear. Then a hand caught him by the arm and he was whirled around and sent into a corner with a crash. At the same time Jerry Koswell was tackled and sent down in a heap in another corner. The girl, thus suddenly released, stared at the newcomers in astonishment and then sank down on a chair, too much overcome to move or speak. CHAPTER III LIKE KNIGHTS OF OLD The Rover boys had acted on the impulse of the moment. They had seen that the girl wanted the two dudish young men to leave her alone, and stepping into the kitchen, Dick had tackled Dudd Flockley while Tom and Sam had given their attention to Jerry Koswell. "You cowards!" cried Dick, confronting Flockley. "Why can't you leave a young lady alone when she tells you to?" "They ought to be kicked out of the house," added Tom. "You--you--" spluttered Dudd Flockley. He did not know what to say. He gathered himself up hastily and Jerry Koswell followed. "Who are you?" he demanded, facing Dick with clenched fists. "Never mind who I am," was the reply of the oldest Rover. "Aren't you ashamed of yourself?" "This is none of your affair," came from Koswell. "Well, we made it our affair," answered Tom. He turned to the girl "I hope we did right," he added hastily. "Why--er--yes, I think so," faltered the girl. She was still very white and trembling. "But--but I hope you didn't hurt them." "See here, Minnie, are you going to stand for this?" growled Dudd Flockley. "It ain't fair! We're old friends, and--" "You had no right to touch me, Mr. Flockley," answered the girl. "I told you to let me go. I--I thought you were a--a--gentleman." And now the tears began to show in Minnie Sanderson's eyes. "I am a gentleman." "You didn't act like one." "Oh, come, don't get prudish, Minnie," put in Jerry Koswell. "We didn't mean any harm. We--" "I want you to leave this house!" said the girl, with a sudden show of spirit. "You had no warrant to act as you did. It--it was--was shameful! Leave at once!" And she stamped her small foot on the floor. Her anger was beginning to show itself and her face lost its whiteness and became crimson. "We'll leave when we please," muttered Dudd Flockley. "So we will," added Jerry Koswell. On the instant Dick looked at his brothers, and the three advanced on the two dudish-looking young men. "You do as the young lady says," said Dick in a cold, hard voice. "I don't know you, but you are not wanted here, and that is enough. Go!" And he pointed to the door. "See here--" blustered Flockley. But he got no further, for Dick suddenly wheeled him around and gave him a shove that sent him through the doorway and off the back porch. "Now the other fellow," said the oldest Rover, but before Tom and Sam could touch Jerry Koswell that individual ducked and ran after Flockley. Then both young men stood at a safe distance. "We'll fix you for this!" roared Flockley. "We don't know who you are, but we'll find out, and--" "Maybe you want a thrashing right now," came from Tom impulsively. "I'm in fighting trim, if you want to know it." And he stepped out of the house, with Sam at his heels. Dick followed. At this hostile movement Flockley and Koswell turned and walked hurriedly out of the garden and down the country road, a row of trees soon hiding them from view. "They are as mad as hornets," observed Sam. "If they belong anywhere near Ashton we'll have to look out for them." "Right you are," answered Tom. "But I am not particularly afraid." Having watched the two young men out of sight, the three Rover boys returned to the farmhouse. Minnie Sanderson had now recovered somewhat and she blushed deeply as she faced them. "Oh, wasn't it awful," she said. "I--I don't know what you think of it. They had no right to touch me. I thought they were gentlemen. They have called here several times, but they never acted that way before." "Then we came in the nick of time," answered Dick. "Will you allow me to introduce myself?" and he bowed. "My name is Dick Rover and this is my brother Tom and this my brother Sam. You are Miss Sanderson, I suppose." "Yes, Minnie Sanderson." "We are strangers here. We were on the train, but there was a little accident and we were in a hurry to get to Ashton, so we got off and walked up this road, thinking we could hire somebody to drive us to Brill College." "Oh, do you go to Brill?" And the girl's eyes opened widely. "We don't go yet, but we are going." "Then--then you'll meet Mr. Flockley and Mr. Koswell again." "What, are they students there?" cried Tom. "Yes. This is their second year, I believe. I know they were there last spring, for they called here." Sam gave a low whistle. "We are making friends first clip, aren't we?" he murmured to his brothers. The boys related a few of the particulars of the accident and their experience at the farmhouse near the railroad. "Oh, that's old Mrs. Craven!" cried Minnie Sanderson. "She would talk you out of your senses if you'd let her. But about a carriage, I don't know. If papa was here--" At that moment came the sound of carriage wheels on the gravel path near the barn. "There is papa now!" cried Minnie Sanderson. "You can talk to him. I guess he'll take you to the college quick enough." "How did those two young fellows get here?" asked Sam. "I don't know. And please--that is--you won't say anything to my father about that, will you? It would make him very angry, and I don't know what he'd do." "We'll not say a word if you wish it that way," answered Dick. "I don't think they'll bother me again after the way you treated them," added the girl. She led them toward the barn and introduced her father, a fat and jolly farmer of perhaps fifty. Mr. Sanderson had been off on a short drive with one horse and he readily agreed to take them to Brill College for two dollars. "Just wait till I put in a fresh team," he said. "Then I'll get you over to the college in less than an hour and a quarter." While he was hooking up he explained that he had been to a nearby village for a dry battery for the electric doorbell. "We don't use the bell much, but I hate to have it out of order," he explained. "That's why it didn't ring," said Sam to his brothers. The carriage was soon ready and the three dress-suit cases were piled in the rear. Then the boys got in and Mr. Sanderson followed. "Good-by!" called the boys to Minnie Sanderson. "Good-by," she returned sweetly and waved her hand. "Maybe we'll get down this way again some day," said Dick. "If you do, stop in," returned the girl. The farmer's team was a good one and they trotted out of the yard and into the road in fine shape. Dick was beside the driver and his brothers were in the rear. The carriage left a cloud of dust behind as it bowled along over the dry country road. "First year at Brill?" inquired Mr. Sanderson on the way. "Yes," answered Dick. "Fine place--no better in the world, so I've heard some folks say--and they had been to some of the big colleges, too." "Yes, we've heard it was all right," said Tom. "By the way, where is Hope Seminary?" "About two miles this side of Brill." "Then we'll pass it, eh?" came from Sam. "Well, not exactly. It's up a bit on a side road. But you can see the buildings--very nice, too--although not so big as those up to Brill. I'll point 'em out to you when we get there." "Do you know any of the fellows at Brill?" questioned Tom, nudging Sam in the ribs as he spoke. "A few. Minnie met some of 'em at the baseball and football games, and once in a while one of 'em stops at our house. But we are most too far away to see much of 'em." Presently the carriage passed through a small village which the boys were told was called Rushville. "I don't know why they call it that," said Mr. Sanderson with a chuckle. "Ain't no rushes growing around here, and there ain't no rush either; it's as dead as a salted mackerel," and he chuckled again. "But there's one thing here worth knowing about," he added suddenly. "What's that?" asked Dick. "The Jamison place--it's haunted." "Haunted!" cried Tom. "What, a house?" "Yes, a big, old-fashioned house, set in a lot of trees. It ain't been occupied for years, and the folks say it's haunted, and nobody goes near it." "We'll have to inspect it some day," said Sam promptly. "What--you?" cried the fat farmer. "Sure." "Ain't you scared?" "No," answered the youngest Rover. "I don't believe in ghosts." "Well, they say it's worth a man's life to go in that house, especially after dark." "I think I'd risk it." "So would I," added Tom. "We'll pay the haunted house a visit some day when there is no session at the college," said Dick "It will give us something to do." "Hum!" mused the farmer. "Well, if you do it you've got backbone, that's all I've got to say. The folks around here won't go near that Jamison place nohow." The road now became hilly, with many twists and turns, and the farmer had to give his entire attention to his team. The carriage bounced up and down and once Sam came close to being pitched out. "Say, this is fierce!" he cried. "How much more of it?" "Not more'n a quarter of a mile," answered Mr. Sanderson. "It is kinder rough, ain't it? The roadmaster ought to have it fixed. Some of the bumps is pretty bad." There was one more small hill to cross, and then they came to a level stretch. Here the horses made good time and the farmer "let them out" in a fashion that pleased the boys very much. "A fine team and no mistake," said Dick, and this pleased Mr. Sanderson very much, for he was proud of but two things--his daughter Minnie and his horses. "There is Hope Seminary," said Mr. Sanderson presently and pointed to a group of buildings set in among some large trees. "That's a good school, I've been thinking of sending my daughter there, only it's a pretty long drive, and I need her at home. You see," he explained, "Minnie keeps house for me--has ever since my wife died, three years ago." The boys gazed at the distant seminary buildings with interest, and as they did so Dick thought of Dora Stanhope and Tom and Sam remembered the Lanings. All thought how jolly it would be to live so close together during the college term. "Now we've got only two miles more," said Mr. Sanderson as he set his team on a trot again. "I'll land you at Brill inside of fifteen minutes, even if the road ain't none of the best." The country road ran directly into the town of Ashton, but there was a short cut to the college and they turned into this. Soon the lads caught sight of the pile of buildings in the distance. They were set in a sort of park, with the road running in front and a river in the rear. Out on the grounds and down by the stream the Rover boys saw a number of students walking around and standing in groups talking. With a crack of his whip Mr. Sanderson whirled from the road into the grounds and drove up to the steps of the main building. "This is the place where new students report," he said with a smile. "I'll take your grips over to the dormitory." "Thank you, Mr. Sanderson," said Dick. "And here are your two dollars," and he handed the money over. While Dick was paying the farmer Sam turned to the back of the carriage to look at the dress-suit cases. He gave an exclamation. "What's the matter?" asked Tom. "Didn't you have a suit case, Tom?" "Certainly." "Well, it's gone." CHAPTER IV WHAT HAPPENED AT THE CAMPUS FENCE "Gone?" "Yes, gone Are you sure you put it in the carriage?" "Positive," was Tom's answer. "I put it on top of yours and Dick's." "Then it must have jounced out somewhere on the road." "What's up?" asked Dick, catching a little of the talk. "Tom's case is gone. He put it on top of ours, and I suppose coming over that rough road jounced it out." "One of the satchels gone, eh?" came from Mr. Sanderson. "Sure you put it in?" "Yes, I am positive." "Too bad. Reckon I'd better go back at once and pick it up." "I'll go with you," said Tom. The matter was talked over for a minute and then Tom and the farmer reëntered the carriage and drove off. As they did this a man came out to meet Dick and Sam. "New students?" he asked shortly. "Yes," replied Dick. "Please step this way." The doorman led them along a broad hall and into a large office. Here they signed a register and were then introduced by an under teacher to Dr. Wallington, a gray-haired man of sixty, tall and thin, with a scholarly aspect. The president of Brill shook hands cordially. "I feel that I know you young gentlemen," he said. "Your father and I were old school chums. I hope you like it here and that your coming will do you much good." "Thank you, I hope so too," answered Dick, and Sam said about the same. The two boys felt at once that the doctor would prove their friend so long as they conducted themselves properly, but they also felt that the aged president of Brill would stand for no nonsense. Having been questioned by the doctor and one of the teachers, the boys were placed in charge of the house master, who said he would show them to their rooms in the dormitory. Dick had already explained the absence of Tom. "Your father wrote that you would prefer to room together," said the house master. "But that will be impossible, since our rooms accommodate but two students each. We have assigned Samuel and Thomas to room No. 25 and Richard to room No. 26, next door." "And who will I have with me?" asked Dick with interest. He did not much fancy having a stranger. "Well, we were going to place a boy with you named Stanley Browne, a very fine lad, but day before yesterday we received a new application and the applicant said he desired very much to be put with the Rovers. So he can go with you, if you wish it." "Who was the applicant?" asked Dick quickly. "John A. Powell. He said he was an old school chum of yours at Putnam Hall and had been on a treasure hunt with you during the past summer." "Songbird!" cried Dick, and his face broke out in a smile. "Oh, that's good news! It suits me perfectly." "Did you call the young man Songbird?" queried the house master. "Yes, that's his nickname." "Then he must be a singer." "No, he composes poetry--or at least verses that he calls poetry," answered the eldest Rover. "I wish some more of the old Putnam Hall crowd were coming," put in Sam. "Think of having Hans Mueller here!" And the very idea made him grin. "Hans isn't fit for college yet, Sam. But there may be others," added Dick hopefully. They soon reached the dormitory, located across the campus from the main building and followed the house master up-stairs and to rooms No. 25 and 26. Each was bright, clean and cheerful, with big windows looking to the southward. Each contained two clothes closets, two beds, two bookshelves, a bureau, a reading table, two plain chairs and a rocker. The walls were bare, but the boys were told they could hang up what they pleased so long as they did not mar the plaster. "The lavatories are at the end of the hall," said the house master. "And the trunk room is there, too. Have you had the trunks sent up yet?" "No, sir," answered Dick. "Then let me have your checks and I will attend to it. I see the man has already brought up your suit cases. I hope your brother has no trouble in recovering the one that was lost." "When is John Powell coming?" asked Dick. "To-morrow, so he telegraphed." The house master left Dick and Sam and the two boys looked over the rooms and put some of the things from their suit cases in the closets and in the bureaus. Then they walked down to one of the lavatories and washed and brushed up. Everything was so new and strange to them that they did not feel at all at home. "It will take a few days to get used to it I suppose," said Sam, with a trace of a sigh. "I know I felt the same way when first I went to Putnam Hall." "Let us go down and take a look around and watch for Tom," replied his brother. "Say, but I'm glad Songbird is coming," he added. "I don't care much for his doggerel, but John's a good fellow just the same." "None better," replied Sam heartily. "And his poetry isn't so very bad, always." The two brothers went below and strolled around. They found the main building formed the letter T, with the top to the front. In this were the offices and the classroom and also the private apartments of the president and his family and some of the faculty. To the east of the main building was a long, one-story structure, containing a library and a laboratory, and to the west the three-story dormitory the lads had just left. Somewhat to the rear was another dormitory and beside it a large gymnasium, with a swimming pool attached. A short distance away was a house for the hired help and a stable and carriage sheds. Down by the river was a boathouse, not unlike that at Putnam Hall but larger. "This is a fine layout and no mistake," observed Dick with satisfaction. "Did you see that fine athletic field beyond the campus?" returned Sam. "That means baseball and football galore." Having walked around the outside of the various buildings the Rover boys made their way to the highway to watch for the coming of Tom. Hardly had they reached the road when they saw a crowd of six students approaching. Among the number were Dudd Flockley and Jerry Koswell. "See those two, Dick?" whispered Sam. "Won't they be mad when they see us here?" "Well, I don't care," answered Dick coolly. "If they say anything, let me do the talking." And thus speaking, Dick sat down on the top of a stone fence and his brother hopped up beside him. The six students came closer, and of a sudden Dudd Flockley espied the Rovers. He stopped short and pulled his crony by the arm, and Jerry Koswell likewise stared at Dick and Sam. "You here?" demanded Flockley, coming closer and scowling at the youths on the fence. "We are," answered Dick briefly. "Freshmen?" "Yes." "Humph!" And Flockley put as much of a sneer as possible in the exclamation. "How did you get here?" asked Koswell. "Got a carriage at the Sanderson place," answered Sam with a grin. "You did!" cried Flockley. "Say, you're a fresh lot, aren't you?" he went on, glaring at Dick and Sam. "Where's the third chap?" "None of your business," answered Dick sharply. "Don't you talk to me like that!" cried Dudd Flockley, and then his face took on a look of cunning. "Freshmen, eh? Then you don't know what we are. We are sophs, and we want you to answer us decently." "That's the talk!" cried Koswell. "Boys, these are freshmen, and on the fence, too. We can't allow this, can we?" "No freshies allowed on that fence!" answered another boy of the crowd. "Off you go and quick!" As he spoke he approached Sam and tried to catch him by the foot to pull him off. Sam drew in his foot and then sent it forth so suddenly that it took the sophomore in the stomach and sent him reeling to the grass. "At them!" yelled Flockley. "Show them how they must behave! Sophs to the front!" "Wait!" The command came from Dick, and he spoke so clearly and firmly that all the sophomores paused. "Is this an affair between Flockley and Koswell and ourselves or is it simply two freshmen against six sophs?" "Why--er--have Flockley and Koswell anything against you two?" demanded one of the boys curiously. "I think so," answered Dick. "We had the pleasure of knocking them both down a few hours ago. As it was a private affair, we won't go into details." "Didn't do it because you were freshmen?" asked another lad. "Not at all. We were total strangers when the thing occurred." "Yes, but--" came from another sophomore. "Sorry I can't explain. Flockley and Koswell can if they wish. But I advise them to keep a certain party's name out of the story," added Dick significantly. He felt bound to protect Minnie Sanderson as much as possible. "It's all stuff and nonsense!" roared Dudd Flockley. "They are freshies and ought to be bounced off the fence and given a lesson in the bargain." "That's it--come and hammer 'em!" added Jerry Koswell. "What's the row here?" demanded a tall lad who had just come up. He had light curly hair, blue eyes and a face that was sunshine itself. "Two freshies on the stone fence, Holden," said one of the sophomores. "We can't allow that, you know." At this Frank Holden, the leader of the sophomore class, laughed. "Too bad, fellows, but they've got you. Term doesn't begin until to-morrow and they can sit where they please until twelve o'clock midnight. After that"--he turned to Dick and Sam--"well, your blood will be on your own heads if you disturb this fence or the benches around the flagstaff." "My gracious! Frank's right, term isn't on until to-morrow," cried another student. "I beg your pardon, boys!" And he bowed lowly to the Rovers. "Gee, it's a wonder you fellows wouldn't say something before I was kicked off the earth!" growled the sophomore who had been sent to the grass by Sam. "Don't thank me for what I did," said Sam pleasantly, and this caused some of the other college fellows to grin. "Don't say a word," cried the one who had gone down. "Only--well, if I catch you on the fence, it will be who's best man, that's all." "Aren't we to do anything to these freshies?" demanded Dudd Flockley. He did not at all relish the turn affairs had taken. "Can't do a thing until to-morrow," answered Frank Holden decidedly. "Bah! I believe in making a freshie toe the mark as soon as he arrives." "So do I," added Jerry Koswell. "Can't be done--against the traditions of Brill," answered the class leader. "You've got to give a freshman time to get his feet planted on the ground, you know," he added kindly and with a smile at Dick and Sam. "Thank you for that," answered the older Rover. "We'll be ready for the whole sophomore class by to-morrow." "We'll see," answered Holden and passed on, and the majority of the second-year fellows followed. Flockley and Koswell lingered behind. "See here, you chaps," said Flockley. "What are your names?" "If you want to know so bad, my name is Dick Rover and this is my brother Sam." "And who was the other fellow?" asked Koswell. "My brother Tom." "Three brothers, eh, and named Rover!" growled Dudd Flockley. "All right, I'll remember that, and I'll remember how you treated us up to the Sanderson place." "And I'll remember it too and square up," added Koswell. "We'll make Brill too hot to hold you," snapped Flockley, and then he turned into the gateway leading to the campus and his crony followed. CHAPTER V GETTING ACQUAINTED "Dick, we have made two enemies, that's sure," remarked Sam to his brother as they watched Flockley and Koswell depart. "It couldn't be helped if we have, Sam," was the reply. "You are not sorry for what we did at the Sanderson house, are you?" "Not in the least. What we should have done was to give those chaps a sound thrashing." "They seem to have a number of friends here. Probably they will do all they can to make life at this college miserable for us." "Well, if they do too much, I reckon we can do something too." Some new students had been standing at a distance watching the scene described in the last chapter. Now one of them approached and nodded pleasantly. "Freshmen?" he asked. "Yes," answered both of the Rovers. "So am I. My name is Stanley Browne. What's yours?" "Dick Rover, and this is my brother Sam." "Oh, are you Dick Rover? I've heard about you. My cousin knows you real well." "Who is your cousin?" "Larry Colby." "Larry!" cried Dick. "Well, I guess he does know us well. We've had some great times together at Putnam Hall and elsewhere. So you are Larry's cousin? I am real glad to know you." And Dick held out his hand. "Larry is one of our best chums," said Sam, also shaking hands. "I remember now that he has spoken of you. I am glad to know somebody at this place." And Sam smiled broadly. Soon all three of the boys were on good terms, and Stanley Browne told the Rovers something about himself. "I come from the South," he said. "My folks own a large cotton plantation there. Larry was down there once and we had a lot of fun. He told me of the sport he had had with you. You must have had great times at Putnam Hall." "We did," said Sam. "I thought there were three of you, from what Larry said." "So there are," answered Dick, and told about Tom and the missing dress-suit case. "Tom ought to be getting back," he added. Stanley had been at Brill for two days and had met both Flockley and Koswell. He did not fancy either of the sophomores. "That Frank Holden is all right," he said, "but Flockley and Koswell are very overbearing and dictatorial. I caught them ordering one of the freshmen around like a servant. If they had spoken that way to me I'd have knocked them down." And the eyes of the Southern lad flashed darkly. "Where do you room?" asked Dick. He remembered what the house master had said about Stanley and felt that the youth would make a nice roommate for anybody. "I'm in No. 27, right next to you fellows. Mr. Hicks was going to put me in with you first, but afterward said a friend of yours was going to fill the place." "Yes," said Dick. "But you will be right next door, so it will be almost the same thing. Who is your roommate?" "A fellow named Max Spangler. I don't know much about him, as he only came this noon. But he seems all right. Here he comes now." As Stanley spoke he motioned to a short, stout lad who was walking across the campus. The boy had a distinctly German face and one full of smiles. "Hello, Friend Browne," he called out pleasantly and with a German accent. "Did you find somebody you know?" "I've made myself known," answered Stanley, and then he introduced the others. "They bunk next door to us," he added with a nod toward Dick and Sam. "Hope you don't snore," said Max Spangler. "I can go anybody but what snores." "No, we don't snore," answered Sam, laughing. "Then I'm your friend for life and two days afterward," answered the German-American lad, and said this so gravely the others had to laugh. Max put the Rovers in mind of their old friend Hans Mueller, but he spoke much better English than did Hans, getting his words twisted only when he was excited. Dick suggested that they all walk down the road to meet Tom, and this was done. The conversation was a lively one, Stanley and Max telling of their former schooldays and the Rovers relating a few of their own adventures. Thus the four got to be quite friendly by the time the carriage with Tom and Mr. Sanderson came in sight. "Find it?" sang out Sam to his brother. "No," was Tom's reply. "You didn't!" cried Dick. "How far back did you go?" "Way back to Rushville. I know it was in the carriage at that place, for I saw it." "Too bad," said Sam. "Did you have much of value in it?" "Not a great deal. Most of my stuff is in my trunk. But the case alone was worth six dollars, and it had my comb and brush and toothbrush and all those things in it." "Want me any more?" asked Mr. Sanderson. "If you don't, I'll get home. It's past milking time now." "No, I'll not need you," answered Tom and hopped to the ground. A minute later the farmer turned his team around and was gone in a cloud of dust. Tom was introduced to Stanley and Max, and the whole crowd walked slowly back to the college grounds. Then Tom was taken to his room, the others going up-stairs with him. He washed and brushed up, went to the office and registered, and then the bell rang for supper. The dining hall at Brill was a more elaborate affair than the messroom at Putnam Hall, but the Rovers were used to dining out in fine places, so they felt perfectly at home. Dick and Sam had already met the instructor who had charge of their table, Mr. Timothy Blackie, and they introduced Tom. Stanley and Max were at the same table and also a long-haired youth named Will Jackson, although his friends called him "Spud." "I don't know why they call me Spud," he said to Dick, "excepting because I like potatoes so. I'd rather eat them than any other vegetable. Why, when I was out in Jersey one summer, on a farm, I ate potatoes morning, noon and night and sometimes between times. The farmer said I had better look out or I'd sprout. I guess I ate about 'steen bushels in three weeks." "Phew!" whistled Sam. "That's a good one." "Oh, it's a fact," went on Spud. "Why, one night I got up in my sleep and they found me down in the potato bin, filling my coat pockets with potatoes, and--" "Filling your coat pocket?" queried Stanley. "Do you sleep with your coat on?" "Why, I--er--I guess I did that night," answered Will Jackson in some confusion. "Anyway, I'm a great potato eater," he added lightly. Later on the others found out that Spud had a vivid imagination and did not hesitate to "draw the long bow" for the sake of telling a good story. The meal was rather a stiff and quiet one among the new students, but the old scholars made the room hum with talk about what had happened at the previous term. There was a good bit of conversation concerning the last season of baseball and more about the coming work on the gridiron. From the talk the Rovers gathered that Brill belonged to something of a league composed of several colleges situated in that territory, and that they had held the football championship four and three seasons before, but had lost it to one of the colleges the next season and to another college the season just past. "Football hits me," said Dick to Stanley. "I'd like to play first-rate." "Maybe you'll get a chance on the eleven, although I suppose they give the older students the preference," was the reply. Stanley had met quite a few of the other students, and after supper he introduced the Rovers and Max and also Spud. Thus the Rovers were speedily put on friendly terms with a score or more of the freshmen and also several of the others. One of the seniors, a refined young man named Allan Charter, took the crowd through the library and the laboratory and also down to the gymnasium and the boathouse. "We haven't any boat races, for we have no other college to race against," said the senior. "The students sometimes get up contests between themselves, though. Dick Dawson used to be our best oarsman, but last June a fellow named Jerry Koswell beat him." "Koswell!" cried Sam. "I thought he was too much of a dude to row in a race." At this remark the senior smiled faintly. "Evidently you have met Mr. Koswell," he remarked pointedly. "We have," answered Tom. "Well, he can row, if he can't do anything else." "I'd like to try my skill against him some day," said Tom, who during the past year had taken quite a fancy to rowing. "Perhaps Koswell will be glad to let you have the chance," said Allan Charter. A little later the senior left the freshmen, and the latter strolled back in the direction of the college buildings. It was now growing dark, and the Rovers concluded to go up to their rooms and unpack their trunks, which had just come in from the depot. "You fellows want to keep your eyes wide open to-night," cautioned Stanley, who came up with them. "Hazing?" asked Dick. "So I was told." "Will they start in so early?" asked Sam. "Any time after midnight. I hate to think of it, but I reckon a fellow has got to submit." "That depends," answered Dick. "I'll not stand for everything. I'll not mind a little hazing, but it mustn't be carried too far." "That's the talk," cried Tom. "If they go too far--well, we'll try to give 'em as good as they send, that's all." "Right you are!" came from Sam. They unpacked their trunks and proceeded to make themselves at home as much as possible. As Dick was alone in his room, he went over to his brothers' apartment for company, locking his door as he did so. "I'll tell you what I'd do if I were you, Dick," said Tom. "Stay here to-night. My bed is big enough for two on a pinch. Then, if there is any hazing, we can keep together. To-morrow, if Songbird comes, it will be different." This suited the oldest Rover, and he brought over such things as he needed for the night. The boys were tired out, having put in a busy day, and by ten o'clock Sam and Tom were both yawning. "I think I'll go to bed," said Sam. "If anything happens wake me up." "Oh, you'll wake up fast enough if they come," answered Tom. "But I am going to lay down myself. But I am not going to undress yet." Taking off their shoes and collars, ties and coats, the boys said their prayers and laid down. Sam was soon in the land of dreams, and presently Tom and Dick followed. Two hours passed and the three lads were sleeping soundly, when suddenly Tom awoke with a yell. A stream of cold water had struck him in the head, making him imagine for the instant that he was being drowned. "Hi, stop" he spluttered and then stopped, for the stream of water took him directly in the mouth. Then the stream was shifted and struck first Dick and then Sam. All three of the Rovers leaped from the beds as quickly as possible. Although confused from being awakened so rudely, they realized what it meant. They were being hazed. CHAPTER VI A HAZING, AND WHAT FOLLOWED The stream of water came from a small hose that was being played through a transom window over the door of the room. A lad was holding the hose, and in the dim light Dick recognized the face of a youth named Bart Larkspur, a sophomore who did not bear a very good reputation. Larkspur was poor and Dick had heard that he was used by Flockley, Koswell and others to do all sorts of odd jobs, for which the richer lads paid him well. "Stop that, you!" cried the oldest Rover, and then, rushing to the door, he flung it open and gave a shove to what was beyond. This was a short step-ladder upon which Larkspur and several others were standing, and over the ladder went with a crash, sending the hazers to the floor of the hallway in a heap. "Get the hose," whispered Tom, who had followed his brother, and while the sophomores were endeavoring to get up, he caught the squirming hose and wrenched it, nozzle and all, from Bart Larkspur's hand. "Hi, give me that!" yelled Larkspur. "All right, here you are," answered Tom merrily, and turned the stream of water directly in the sophomore's face. Larkspur spluttered and shied and then plunged to one side into a fellow student standing near. This was Dudd Flockley, and he was carried down on his back. "Play away, Six!" called out Tom in true fireman style, and directed the stream on Flockley. It hit the dudish student in the chin and ran down inside his shirt collar. "Stop, I beg of you! Oh, my!" screamed Flockley, trying to dodge the water. "Larkspur, grab the hose! Knock that rascal down! Why don't somebody do something?" "Give me that hose, you freshie!" called out Jerry Koswell, who was in the crowd. "Don't you know better than to resist your superiors? I want you to understand--" "Keep cool, old man, don't get excited," answered Tom brazenly. "Ah, I see you are too warm. Will that serve to keep your temperature down?" And now he turned the hose on Koswell, hitting the fellow directly in the left ear. Koswell let out a wild yell and started to retreat and so did several others. "Don't go! Capture the hose!" called out Flockley, but even as he spoke he took good care to get behind another sophomore. "Capture it yourself!" growled the youth he was using as a shield. "Say, you're making too much noise," whispered another student. "Do you want the proctor down on us? And turn that water off before you ruin the building. Somebody has got to pay for this, remember," he added. As it was an unwritten law of Brill that all hazers must pay for any damage done to college property while hazing anybody, one of the sophomores started for the lavatory where the hose had been attached to a water faucet. But while the water still ran, Tom, aided by Dick and Sam, directed the stream on the sophomores, who were forced to retreat down the hallway. "Now rush 'em! Rush 'em!" yelled Flockley, when the water had ceased to run. "Bind and gag 'em, and take 'em down to the gym. We can finish hazing 'em there!" "Get into the room!" whispered Dick. "Hurry up, and barricade the door!" "Right you are, but no more hose water for me," answered Tom, and pulled on the rubber with all his might. It parted about half way down the hallway, and into the room he darted with the piece in his hands. Then Sam and Dick closed the door, locked it, and shoved a bed and the table against the barrier. They also turned the button of the transom window so that the glass could not be swung back as before. "Now they can't get in unless they break in," said Dick grimly, "and I doubt if they'll dare to do that." "Say, maybe I'm not wet," remarked Sam, surveying his dripping shirt. "Never mind; we sent as good as we got, and more," answered Tom with a grin. "Let us put on our coats so we don't catch cold. No use of putting on dry clothing until you are sure the ball is over." "Tom, you're a crack fireman," said Dick with a smile. "I'll wager those sophs are mad enough to chew nails." "What's sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander," quoted the fun-loving Rover. "What's the good of living if you can't return a compliment now and then?" For several minutes all was silent outside. Then came a light knock on the door. Dick held his hand up for silence and the knock was repeated. "Don't answer them," whispered the oldest Rover. "Say, I want to talk to you fellows," came in low tones. "This is important." "Who are you?" asked Dick after a pause. "I'm Larkspur--Bart Larkspur, I want to tell you something." "Well, what is it?" demanded Tom. "Your resistance to our class won't do you any good. If you'll come out and take your medicine like men, all right; but if you resist it will go that much harder with you." "Who sent you--Frank Holden?" asked Sam. "What has Holden to do with it?" growled Larkspur. "We know he's the leader of your class." "He is not. Dudd Flockley is our leader." "Then Flockley sent you, eh?" put in Dick. "Yes, if you want to know it." "Well, tell Flockley to mind his own business," answered Dick sharply. "If Frank Holden wants us we'll come, but not otherwise." "Are you hazing any of the other fellows?" asked Tom. "We'll haze them after we get through with you," growled Larkspur, and then the Rovers heard him tiptoe his way down the hall. "I think this attack was gotten up by the Flockley-Koswell crowd," was Dick's comment. "Maybe it wasn't sanctioned by the other sophs at all." The Rovers waited a while longer and then with caution they pulled back the bed and the table and opened the door. By the dim light in the hallway they saw that the place was deserted. Somebody had run a mop over the polished floor, thus taking up most of the water. "I guess they have given it up for to-night," said Dick, and his words proved correct. After waiting a good hour the three Rovers rearranged the room, hanging up some of the bedding and rugs to dry near the window, which they left wide open. Then they locked the door and went into Dick's room, which had not been disturbed. As they did this another door opened, and Stanley poked out his head, followed by Max. "We heard it all," said the Southern lad with a chuckle. "Hope you doused 'em good!" "We did," answered Tom. "They didn't tackle you, did they?" "No; but I suppose they will later, or to-morrow." "I am ready for them if they come," came from Max. "I got this," and he held up a long, white sack. "What is it?" asked Sam. "Plaster of Paris. If they tackle me I'll make 'em look like marble statues already." And the German-American youth winked one eye suggestively. Despite the excitement the Rover boys slept soundly for the rest of the night. All were rather sleepy in the morning, but a good wash in cold water brightened them greatly. While getting ready for breakfast they looked for Flockley and Koswell, but those two students, as well as Larkspur, kept out of sight. "They don't like the way matters turned out last night," said Dick. On entering the dining-room they saw the sophomores at a nearby table. Flockley and Koswell glared darkly, while as they passed, Larkspur put out his foot to trip Sam up. But Sam was on guard, and instead of stumbling he stepped on the fellow's ankle, something that caused Larkspur to utter a gasp of pain. "What did you do that for?" he demanded savagely. "Sorry, but you shouldn't sprawl all over with your feet," answered the youngest Rover coldly, and passed on to his seat. When he looked back, Larkspur, watching his chance so that no teacher might see him, shook his fist at Sam. "We have got to keep our eyes wide open for that bunch," was Dick's comment. "Last night's affair will make Flockley and Koswell more sour than ever, and Larkspur is evidently their tool, and willing to do anything they wish done." After chapel the Rovers were assigned to their various classes and given their text-books. It was announced that no regular classes would be called until the following Monday morning. "That gives us plenty of time to study our first lessons," said Sam. "Yes, and gives us time to get acquainted with the college layout and the rest of the students," added Tom. "Do you know, I think I am going to like it bang-up here." "Just what I was thinking," returned Dick. "It isn't quite so boyish as Putnam Hall was--some of the seniors are young men--but that doesn't matter. We are growing older ourselves." "Gracious, I'm not old!" cried Tom. "Why, I feel like a two-year-old colt!" And to prove his words he did several steps of a jig. Only about half of the students had as yet arrived, the others being expected that day, Friday, and Saturday. The college coach was to bring in some of the boys about eleven o'clock, and the Rovers wondered if Songbird Powell would be among them. "You'll like Songbird," said Dick to Stanley Browne. "He's a great chap for manufacturing what he calls poetry, but he isn't one of the dreamy kind--he's as bright and chipper as you find 'em." The boys walked down to the gymnasium, and there Sam and Tom took a few turns on the bars and tried the wooden horses. While they did this Dick talked to a number of the freshmen with whom he had become acquainted. "We are to have a necktie rush Monday," said one boy. "Every fellow is to wear the college colors. Meet on the campus an hour before supper time." "I'll be there," said Dick. He knew what was meant by a necktie rush. All the freshmen would don neckties showing the college colors, and the sophomores, and perhaps the juniors, would do their best to get the neckties away from them. If more than half the boys lost their ties before the supper bell rang the freshmen would be debarred from wearing the colors for that term. Shortly before eleven o'clock a shout was heard on the road, and a number of the students made a rush in that direction. The college coach swung into sight in a cloud of dust. It was fairly overflowing with boys and young men, all yelling and singing and waving their hats and caps. At the sight those on the campus set up a cheer. "This is something like!" cried Tom enthusiastically. He wanted to see things "warm up," as he expressed it. The coach was followed by three carriages, and all deposited their loads at the main building steps and on the campus. There were more cheers and many handshakes. "There he is!" cried Sam, and rushing forward, he caught John Powell by the hand, shook it, and relieved the newcomer of his suit case. "Hello, Sam!" cried Songbird, and grinned from ear to ear. "Hello, Dick! Hello, Tom! Say, did I surprise you?" And now he shook hands with the others. "You sure did," replied Dick. "I was afraid I was going to have a stranger for a roommate. Your coming here suits me to a T!" "I didn't write to you because I wanted to surprise you," explained Songbird. "I've composed some verses about it. They start--" "Never mind the verses now," interrupted Tom. "Come on in and we'll introduce you to the fellows, and then we'll listen to your story. And we'll tell you some things that will surprise you." "And I'll tell you some things that will surprise you, too," returned John Powell, as he was led away by the three Rover boys. CHAPTER VII THE ARRIVAL OF SONGBIRD "So you've made some enemies as well as some friends, eh?" remarked Songbird Powell, after he had been registered, taken up to his room, and had listened to what the Rover boys had to tell. "No use of talking, it doesn't take you fellows long to stir things up!" "You said you had a surprise for us, Songbird," returned Tom. "I'm dying by inches to know what it is." "Maybe it's a new poem," put in Sam with a grimace at his brothers. "I've got a poem--several of them, in fact," answered Songbird, "but I didn't have those in mind when I spoke. Who do you suppose I met yesterday morning, in Ithaca, while I was waiting for the train?" "Dora Stanhope and the Lanings," answered Tom promptly. "No. Tad Sobber." "Tad Sobber!" exclaimed the Rover boys in concert. "Songbird, are you sure of it?" demanded Dick. "Sure? Wasn't I talking to him!" "But--but--I thought he was lost in that hurricane, when the _Josephine_ was wrecked." "No. It seems he escaped to a vessel bound for England; but his uncle, Sid Merrick, was lost, and so were most of the others. Sobber just got back from England--came in on one of the ocean liners, so he told me." "How did he act?" asked Tom. "Where was he going?" added Sam. "Did he seem to have any money?" came from Dick. All of the Rovers were intensely interested, and showed it plainly. "Say, one question at a time, please!" cried Songbird, "You put me in mind of a song I once wrote about a little boy: "'A little lad named Johnny Spark Was nothing but a question mark. He asked his questions night and day, When he was resting or at play. One minute he would tackle pa, And then he'd turn and tackle ma; And then his uncle he would quiz--" "And let that line please end the biz," finished Tom. "Say, Songbird, please don't quote poetry when we are waiting to hear all about Tad Sobber. Have some pity on us." "Yes, tell us of Sobber," added Sam and Dick. "All right, if you don't appreciate my verses," returned the would-be poet with a sigh. "Well, to start with, Tad Sobber was well dressed, and looked as if he had all the money he needed. He wore a brown checkered suit, so evidently he hasn't gone into mourning for his uncle. He told me he had had a rough experience on the ocean during the hurricane, and he blames you Rovers for all his troubles." "That's just like Sobber," was Dick's comment. "He wouldn't tell me where he was going or what he was going to do, but he did let drop a remark or two about the fortune you discovered on Treasure Isle. He said that he was firmly convinced that the money belonged to him and to his uncle's estate, and that he meant some day to make a fight for it." "In the courts?" asked Tom. "If he does that he'll get beaten. Father says the treasure belongs to the Stanhope estate and to nobody else." "No, he didn't say he was going to court about it, but he said he was bound to get hold of it some day." "I hope he doesn't try to get it by force," said Sam. "That would mean trouble for the Stanhopes and the Lanings." "The money is in the banks now, Sam," said Dick. "He couldn't get hold of it excepting on an order from those to whom it belongs." "And they'll never give him any such order," added Tom. "Do you suppose he was going to see the Stanhopes and the Lanings?" questioned the oldest Rover anxiously. "He didn't say, I wanted to question him further, but a man who was standing on a corner, some distance away, beckoned to him, and he left me and joined the man, and the two walked off." "Who was the man?" "I don't know." The boys talked the matter over for some time, but Songbird had nothing more to tell, and at last the subject was dropped. Songbird was introduced to Stanley, Max, and a number of the other students, and soon he felt quite at home. That evening there was a bit of hazing. Dick and Tom escaped, but Sam, Songbird and Stanley were caught in the lower hallway by a number of the sophomores and carried bodily to the gymnasium. Here they were tossed in blankets and then blindfolded. "We'll take them to the river," said one of the sophomores. "A bath will do them good." "Let's give 'em a rubbing down with mud!" cried Jerry Koswell. He had some tar handy, and if the mud was used he intended to mix some of the tar with it on the sly. "That's the talk!" cried Larkspur, who knew about the tar, he having purchased it for Koswell and Flockley. The three had at first intended to smear the beds of the Rovers with it, but had gotten no chance. "Give them a good dose!" said Dudd Flockley. He had joined in the blanket-tossing with vigor. Sam, Songbird and Stanley were being led to the river when Max came rushing up to Tom and Dick, who happened to be in the library, looking over some works of travel. "Come on mit you!" he cried excitedly in broken English. "Da have got Sam and Stanley and dot friend of yours alretty! Hurry up, or da was killed before we git to help 'em!" "They? Who?" asked Dick, leaping up. "Sophs--down by der gym!" And then Max cooled down a bit and related what he had seen. "We must surely go to the rescue!" cried Tom. "Wait! I'll get clubs for all hands!" And he rushed up to his room, where in a clothing closet lay the end of the hose he had taken away from the sophomores. With his knife he cut the section of hose into eight "clubs," and With these in his hands he hurried below again. At a cry from Dick and Max the freshmen commenced to gather on the campus, and Tom quickly handed around the sections of hose. Other first-year lads procured sticks, boxing gloves, and other things, and looked around for somebody to lead them. "Come on!" cried Dick, and he sprang to the front, with Tom on one side and Max on the other. The German-American boy had a big squirtgun filled with water, a gun used by the gardener for spraying the bushes. The sophomores had captured four more freshmen, and marched all of the crowd down to the river front, when the band under Dick, sixteen strong, appeared. The latter came on yelling like Indians, and flourishing their sections of hose, and sticks and other things. "Let 'em go! Let 'em go!" was the rallying cry, and then whack! whack! whack! down came the rubber clubs and the sticks on the backs of the second-year students. "Fight 'em off!" came from the sophomores. "Chase 'em away!" yelled Dudd Flockley; but hardly had he spoken when Max discharged the squirtgun, and the water took Flockley in the eye, causing him to yell with fright and retreat. Then Max turned the gun on Larkspur, soaking the latter pretty thoroughly. Attacked from the rear, the sophomores had to let go their holds on their victims, and as soon as they were released Sam, Songbird and the others ran to the right and the left and joined the force under Dick. All told, the freshmen now numbered twenty-three, while the sophomores could count up but fourteen. The second-year students were hemmed in and gradually forced nearer and nearer to the bank of the river. "Let up! let up!" yelled several in alarm. "Don't knock us overboard!" "It's nothing but mud here! I don't want my new suit spoiled!" cried one. "I can't swim!" added another. "I've got an idea," whispered Tom to the others near him. "Shove 'em in the mud and water, or else make 'em promise not to take part in the necktie rush." "That's the talk!" replied Dick. He caught hold of the sophomore in front of him. "All shove, fellows!" And the second-year students were gradually forced to the very edge of the river at a point where there was a little water and a good deal of dark, sticky mud. Of course they fought desperately to push the freshmen back, but they were outnumbered, as already told. "Now, then, every fellow who will promise not to take part in the necktie rush Monday will be allowed to go free," said Dick loudly. "The others must take their ducking in the water--and mud." "Let me go!" roared Dudd Flockley. "I'm not going to have this suit ruined!" "I don't want to get these patent leathers wet!" cried Jerry Koswell, who had on a new pair of shiny shoes. "Then promise!" cried Sam, and "Promise!" "Promise!" came from many others. Without delay several of the sophomores promised, and they were allowed to depart. Then the others began to show fight, and three managed to escape, among them being Dudd Flockley. The others were forced into the water and mud up to their knees. Then they cried out in alarm, and while two finally escaped, the others also promised to keep out of the necktie contest. "Just wait!" snarled Jerry Koswell as he at last managed to pull himself out of the sticky mud. "Just wait, that's all!" His patent-leather shoes were a sight to behold. "Not so much fun when you are hazed yourself, is it?" asked Sam coolly. "We'll give it to 'em yet," put in Bart Larkspur. "Lots of time between now and the closing of the term." And then he and Koswell ran off to join Dudd Flockley. The three went to their rooms and cleaned up as best they could, and then took a walk down the road in the direction of Rushville. "It was that Dick Rover who led the attack," said Dudd Flockley. "Do you know what I think? I think he is going to try to make himself leader of the freshies." "Just what I thought, too," answered Larkspur. "And if that's the fact we ought to do all we can to pull him down." "Tom Rover is the fellow I am going to get after," came from Jerry Koswell. He had not forgotten how Tom and Sam had sent him to the floor in the presence of Minnie Sanderson. The three students walked a distance of half a mile when they saw approaching them a trampish-looking man carrying what looked to be a new dress-suit case. They looked at the fellow rather sharply and he halted as he came up to them. "Excuse me," he mumbled, "but did any of you gents lose this case?" "Why, it must be Rover's case!" cried Flockley. Nearly every one in the college had heard about the missing baggage. "I found it in the bushes alongside the road," went on the tramp. "Thought it might belong to some of the college gents." "Let me look at it," said Koswell, and turned the case around. "Yes, it's Rover's," he added, seeing the initials and the address. "Better take it up to the college," put in Larkspur. "Wait, I'll take it up," said Jerry Koswell suddenly. "This belongs to a poor chap," he added to the tramp. "He won't be able to reward you, but I will. Here's a quarter for you." And he passed over the silver piece. "Much obliged," said the tramp. "Want me to carry it up to the buildings?" "No, I'll do that," said Koswell, and then he winked at his cronies. The tramp went on and the three watched him disappear in the distance. "What did you do that for, Jerry?" asked Flockley with interest. He surmised that something new was afoot. "Oh, I did it for the fun of the thing," answered Koswell coolly. "But maybe I can work it in somehow against that Rover bunch. Anyway, I'll try." CHAPTER VIII THE COLORS CONTEST The next morning Tom was much surprised to find his missing dress-suit case standing in front of his room door. "Hello! How did this get here?" he cried as he picked up the baggage. "What's that?" asked Sam, who was just getting up. "Look!" answered his brother, and brought the case in. "Somebody must have found it and left it here while I was asleep." "Very kind, whoever he was," said Sam. "Are the contents all right?" Instead of answering Tom placed the suit case on a chair and started to unlock it. "Hello, it's unlocked!" he murmured. "I thought I had it locked." He shoved back the clasps and threw the case open. The contents were much jumbled, but he had expected this from the fact that the bag had been jounced out of the carriage. "I guess the stuff is all here," he said slowly, turning over the clothing and other things. "Somehow, I thought I had more in the case, though," he added presently. "Don't you know what you had?" "Well--er--I packed it in a hurry, you know. I wanted to go fishing, and so I got through as soon as I could. Oh, I guess it's all right." Tom was too lively a youth to pay much attention to his personal belongings. Often he hardly knew what suit of clothing he had on or what sort of a necktie. The only times he really fixed up was when Nellie Laning was near. Why he did that only himself (and possibly Nellie) knew. Sunday passed quietly. Some of the boys attended one or another of the churches in Ashton, and the Rovers went with them. Dudd Flockley and his cronies took a walk up the river, and reaching a warm, sunny spot, threw themselves down to smoke cigarettes and talk. "Well, what did you do about the dress-suit case, Jerry?" asked Flockley with a sharp look at his crony. "Returned it, as you know," was the answer, and Jerry winked suggestively. "I'd have flung the bag in the river before I would give it to such a chap as Tom Rover," growled Larkspur. "You trust me, Larky, old boy," answered Jerry Koswell. "I know what I'm doing." "Humph!" "I said I returned the case, but I didn't say I returned all that was in it." "What do you mean by that?" demanded Flockley. "If you've got a secret, out with it." Koswell looked around to make certain that no outsider was near. "I kept a few things out of the bag--some things that had Tom Rover's name or his initials on them." "And you are going to--" went on Flockley. "I am going to use 'em some day, when I get the chance." "Good!" cried Flockley. "I'll help you, Jerry!" "And so will I," added Larkspur. "If we work it right we can get Tom Rover in a peck of trouble." On Monday morning the college term opened in earnest, and once again the Rovers had to get down to the "grind," as Sam expressed it. But the boys had had a long vacation and were in the best of health, and they did not mind the studying. "Got to have a good education if you want to get along nowadays," was the way Dick expressed himself. "If you don't learn you are bound to be at the mercy of anybody who wants to take advantage of your ignorance." "Dick, what are you going to do when you get out of college?" asked Tom. "I don't know--go into business, I imagine." "Oh, he'll marry and settle down," chimed in Sam. "He and Dora will live in an ivy-covered cottage like two turtle doves, and--" Sam got no further, for a pillow thrown by Dick caught him full in the face and made him stagger. "Sam is thinking of what he and Grace are going to do," said Dick. "And you and Nellie will likely have a cottage across the way," he added, grinning at Tom. "Really!" murmured Tom, and got as red as a beet. "Say, call it off," he added. "Do you know we have the necktie rush this afternoon?" "It won't amount to much," answered Sam. "Too many sophs out of it." "Don't you believe it," said Dick. "Remember, the juniors come into this as well as the sophs." "Say, I've thought of a plan!" cried Tom. "Greatest ever! I'm going to patent it!" And he commenced to dance around in his excitement. "What's loose?" asked Songbird, coming up at that moment, followed by some others. "Tom, have you got a pain in your inwards?" "No, an idea--it's about the same thing," responded Tom gaily. "We want to get the best of the second and third-year fellows during the necktie rush, and I think I know how we can do it. We'll all sew our neckties fast!" For a moment there was silence, and then, as the others caught the idea, they commenced to laugh. "That's it!" cried Sam. "I'll sew mine as tight as a drum!" "I'll rivet mine on, if that will do any good," added Dick. "Sure thing!" came from Songbird, and he commenced to recite: "Oh, the sophs and the juniors will try To steal from the freshies each tie; But they will not win, For we'll fight them like sin--" "And bust 'em right plumb in the eye!" finished Tom. "Oh, say, but will you all sew your neckties fast?" "Sure!" "And we'll tell the rest to do so, too," added another freshman who was present. The news soon circulated, and was kept from all but the first-year students. It must be confessed that many of the students found it hard to fix their minds on their lessons that afternoon. One boy, Max Spangler, brought on a great laugh when the following question was put to him: "What great improvement in navigation did Fulton introduce?" "Neckties," answered Max abstractedly. "Neckties?" queried the instructor in astonishment. "I--er--I don't mean neckties," stammered the German-American student, "I mean steamboats." When the afternoon session was over the students hurried to their various rooms. The sophomores and the juniors who were to take part in the contest talked matters over, and as far as possible laid out a plan of action. It was decided that the largest and heaviest of the second and third-year students were to tackle the smallest freshmen first, while the others were to hold the rest of the first-year men at bay. "We'll get fifteen or twenty neckties first clip that way," said one of the sophomores, "and it doesn't matter who we get them from. A little chap's tie counts as much as that of a two-hundred pounder." In the meantime the freshmen were busy following Tom's advice and sewing their ties fast to their collars, shirts, and even their undershirts. Then Dick, who had, unconsciously almost, become a leader, called the boys into an empty recitation-room. "Now, I've got a plan," said he. "We want to bunch up, and all the little fellows and lightweights get in the center. The heavy fellows can take the outside and fight the others off. Understand?" "Yes!" "That's a good idea!" "Forward to the fray!" yelled Stanley, "and woe be to him who tries to get my tie! His blood be on his own head!" he added tragically. "Forward!" cried Sam, "and let our watchword be, 'Die, but no tie!'" "Now don't get excited," said Dick. "Take it coolly, and I'm certain that when the time is up we'll have the most of our ties still on." It was the custom to go out on the campus at a given time, and when the chapel bell sounded out the hour Dick led the freshmen forward. They came out of a side door in a body and formed around the flagstaff almost before the sophomores and juniors knew they had appeared. The seniors took no part, but three had been "told off" to act as referees, and they stood around as if inspecting the buildings and the scenery. The instructors, who also knew what was coming, wisely kept out of sight. "Come on, and at 'em!" called out Dudd Flockley, and this cry was quickly taken up by all the others who were to take part in the contest. "Hello! They know a thing or two," said Frank Holden, who was the sophomore leader in the attack. "They've got the little fellows in the middle." As tightly as possible the freshmen gathered around the flagstaff. Each wore a necktie of the college colors and it was fastened as tightly as strong thread could hold it. "At 'em!" was the yell of the second and third-year lads. "Tear 'em apart! Pull the ties from 'em!" And then they leaped in at the big freshmen, and on the instant a battle royal was started. Down went four boys on the campus, rolling over and over. Others caught each other by the hands and shoulders and wrestled valiantly. Dick and Tom were in the front rank, with Sam directly behind them. Dick was caught by Frank Holden, and the two wrestled with might and main. Frank was big and strong, but Dick managed to hold him so that all the sophomore leader could do was to get his finger tips on the sought-for necktie. Flockley tackled Tom, and much to his surprise was tripped up and sent flat on his back. Mad with sudden rage, Flockley scrambled up and let out a savage kick for Tom's stomach. But Tom was too quick for the sophomore, and leaped to one side. "Foul!" cried Tom. "Don't do that again!" called one of the seniors to Dudd. "If you do you'll be ruled out." Kicking and punching were prohibited by the rules. All the boys could do was to wrestle and throw each other, and either try to pull the neckties away or hold on to them. On and on the battle waged, each minute growing hotter. Many of the students were almost winded, and felt that they could not endure the struggle much longer. Dick, Tom and Sam managed to keep their neckties, although Sam's was torn loose by two sophomores who held him as in a vise until Stanley came to his assistance. When the time was half up eleven neckties had been captured--two of them almost torn to shreds. "At 'em!" yelled Frank Holden. "We haven't begun yet!" "Hold 'em back!" was Dick's rallying answer. "Don't let 'em get near the little fellows!" Again the contest raged, and this time with increased bitterness. In the melee some few blows were exchanged, but it must be admitted that one side was about as much to blame for this as the other. Three additional neckties were captured, making fourteen in all. As thirty-seven freshmen were in the contest, the sophomores and juniors had to capture five more neckties to win. "Only three minutes more!" sang out one student, looking at his watch. "At 'em! Rip 'em apart!" "Three minutes more!" yelled Dick. "Hold 'em back and we'll win!" The enemy fought with increased fury, and one more necktie was taken--the collar and collar band coming with it. But then of a sudden the chapel bell tolled out the hour. "Time's up!" was the cry. "And we win!" came from a score of freshmen in huge delight. "Look out! Look out!" cried several small youths in the center of the crowd. Crack! It was the flagstaff, and all looked in that direction. The pole, old and decayed, was falling. It looked as if it would crush all who stood in its path. CHAPTER IX TOM IN TROUBLE "Look out, the flagpole is coming down!" "Stand from under, or you'll be killed!" Crack! came from the pole, and now many saw that it was breaking off close to the ground. Some of the students had clung to it during the contest, and the strain had been too much for the stick, which was much rotted just where it entered the ground. Those on the outside of the crowd ran away with ease, but not so those who were hemmed in. Two of the smallest of the freshmen, Billy Dean and Charley Atwood, could not move fast enough, and one fell over the other, and both went down. "Save me!" gasped one of the lads. "Don't let the pole come down on me!" screamed the other. The flagstaff was falling swiftly, and Dick and many others saw that it would fall directly across Dean and Atwood unless its progress was stayed. "Hold it up! Hold it up!" yelled Dick. "Hold it up, or they'll be killed!" He put up his hands to meet the pole, which was coming down across the front of the campus. Tom did likewise, and so did Frank Holden, Stanley Brown, and several others, including an extra tall and powerful senior. It was a heavy weight, and for the moment the boys under it thought they would have to let it go. Over came the pole, and when it rested on the boys' hands the top overbalanced the bottom and struck the ground, sending the lower end into the air. As this happened Billy Dean and Charley Atwood were hauled out of harm's way. Then the pole was dropped to the campus with a thud. For several seconds all who stood near were too dazed to speak. Then a cheer arose for those who had held the flagstaff up long enough for the small youths to be rescued. "Say, that was a close shave!" exclaimed Sam, He, like a good many others, was quite pale. "It was indeed," said a senior who had come up. "The fellows who held the pole up deserve a good deal of credit." "Dick Rover suggested it," said Songbird, "Good for you, Dick!" he added warmly. The falling of the flagstaff sobered the whole party of students, yet the freshmen were jubilant over the fact that they had won in the colors contest. "And we'll wear the colors this term," cried Tom proudly. "So we will!" called out others in a chorus. "We'll wear 'em good and strong, too!" And they did. The very next day some of the lads came out with neckties twice the ordinary size, and with hat bands several inches wide, all, of course, in the Brill colors. Billy Dean and Charley Atwood were much affected by what had occurred, and quickly retired from the scene. But later both of the small students thanked Dick and the others for what had been done for them. The broken flagstaff was hauled away by the laborers of the place, and inside of a week a new pole, much larger than the old one, and set in concrete, was put up. For several days after the contest over the colors matters ran along smoothly at Brill. The Rover boys made many more friends, and because of his work during the necktie rush Dick was chosen as the leader of the freshmen's class. "On Friday I am going to fix Tom Rover," said Jerry Koswell to Dudd Flockley. "Just wait and see what I do--and keep your mouth shut." "I'll keep my mouth shut right enough," answered Dudd, "but what's in the wind?" "I'm going to pay off Professor Sharp for some of his meanness--and pay off Tom Rover at the same time." "Give me a map of the proceedings. I'm too tired to guess riddles, Jerry." "Well, you know how Sharp called me down to-day in English?" "Sure!" "Well, I've learned that he just received a new photograph of some lady--I think his best girl. He has it on the mantle in his room. I'm going to doctor that picture, and I'm going to lay the blame on Tom Rover." "How will you do it?" "By using something I got out of Rover's dress-suit case." "Oh, I see!" "Sharp will suspect Rover at once, because he and Rover had a few words yesterday." "Good! I hope he catches it well--Rover, I mean," answered Dudd Flockley. Saturday was more or less of a holiday at Brill, and the three Rover boys planned to go to town. Incidentally, they wished to learn if Dora Stanhope and the Laning girls had as yet arrived at Hope Seminary. They had received no letters from the girls since coming to Brill, and were growing anxious. Tom was dressing to go to town when there came a knock on his door, and one of the proctors presented himself. "Thomas Rover, you are wanted at the office immediately," said the man. "What for?" asked Tom. "Don't ask me, ask Professor Sharp," answered the proctor, and looked at Tom keenly. Wondering what could be the matter, Tom finished dressing, and in a few minutes presented himself at the office. President Wallington and Professor Sharp were both waiting for him. "So you've come at last, have you, you young rascal!" cried Abner Sharp angrily. "How dare you do such an outrageous thing?" "Gently, professor," remonstrated the president of Brill. "You are not yet certain--" "Oh, he did it, I am sure of it!" spluttered Professor Sharp. "I declare I ought to have him locked up!" "Did what?" demanded Tom, who was much mystified by what was going on. "You know well enough, you young reprobate!" stormed the instructor. "See here, Professor Sharp, I'm neither a rascal nor a reprobate, and I don't want you to call me such!" cried Tom, growing angry himself. "You are, and I will have you to understand--" "I am not, and if you call me bad names again I'll--I'll--knock you down!" And Tom doubled up his fists as he spoke. "Rover, be quiet!" exclaimed Doctor Wallington, so sternly that both Tom and Professor Sharp subsided. "I'll have no scene in this office. You must behave yourself like a gentleman while you are here. Professor, you must not call a student hard names." "But this outrage, sir!" spluttered the instructor. "We'll soon know the truth of the matter." "I'd like to know what you are talking about," said Tom. "I haven't committed any outrage, so far as I know." "Didn't you do this?" cried Abner Sharp, and thrust under Tom's nose a photograph of large size. The picture had once represented a fairly good-looking female of perhaps thirty years of age, but now the hair was colored a fiery red, and the end of the nose was of the same hue while in one corner of the dainty mouth was represented a big cigar, with the smoke curling upward. Under the photograph was scrawled in blue crayon, "Ain't she my darling?'" The representation struck Tom as so comical that he was compelled to laugh outright; he simply couldn't help it. It was just such a joke as he might have played years before, perhaps on old Josiah Crabtree, when at Putnam Hall. "Ha! So you are even willing to laugh in my face, are you!" almost screamed Abner Sharp, and rushing at Tom he caught the youth and shook him roughly. "Do you--er--know that this lady is my--my affianced wife?" "Let me go!" cried Tom, and shook himself loose. "Excuse me, sir. I know I hadn't ought to laugh, but it looks so--so awfully funny!" And Tom had to grin again. "Rover!" broke in the president of Brill sternly, "aren't you ashamed to do such a thing as this?" "Why--er--what do you mean, sir?" "Just what I said." "Oh!" A light began to break in on the fun-loving Rover's mind. "Do you think I did this?" "Didn't you?" "Of course he did!" fumed Professor Sharp. "And now he is willing to laugh over his dastardly work!" "I didn't do it, sir," said Tom firmly. "You are certain?" It was the head of the college who asked the question. "Yes, sir. I never saw that picture before." "But I have the proof against you!" fairly shouted Abner Sharp. "It is useless for you to deny your guilt." "I say I am not guilty." "Isn't this your box, Rover?" As Professor Sharp uttered these words he brought to light a German silver case which Tom had picked up in a curiosity shop in New York. The case had his name engraved on it, and contained pencils, crayons, and other things for drawing. "Where did you get that?" demanded the youth. "Never mind where I got it. Isn't it yours?" "Yes." "Ha! Do you hear that, Doctor Wallington?" cried Abner Sharp in triumph. "He admits the outfit is his!" "So I see," said the president of Brill, and if anything his face grew a trifle more stern. "Then you admit your guilt, Rover?" he questioned. "What! That I defaced the photograph?" "Yes." "No, sir! Didn't I say I had never seen the picture before?" "This photograph was in Professor Sharp's room, on the mantel. The room was locked up, and the professor carried the key. This box was found on the table, beside some books. You had some difficulty with the professor a day or two ago in the classroom." "I didn't touch the picture, and I haven't been near Professor Sharp's room," answered Tom stoutly. "If I was there, would I be fool enough to leave that box behind, with my name engraved on it? And if the door was locked how would I get in?" "Did you lend the box to anybody?" "No. The fact is, I--er--I thought I had left the box home. I--Oh!" "Well?" "I think maybe the box was in my dress-suit case, the case I lost. But it wasn't in the case when it was left at my door that morning." "Oh, nonsense!" muttered Professor Sharp. "He is guilty, sir, and he might as well own up to it first as last." "I have told the strict truth!" cried Tom hotly. "I am not in the habit of telling falsehoods." "Have you any other proof against Rover, Professor Sharp?" "Not now, but I may be able to pick up more later." "Hum! This is certainly a serious matter. Rover, you will go to your room and remain there until I send for you again." "Can't I go down to town?" asked Tom. "Not for the present. I intend to get to the bottom of this affair, if I possibly can. If you are innocent you shall not suffer. But at present it looks to me as if you were guilty. You may go." "But, sir--" "Not another word at present. I have other matters to attend to. I shall call on you later. But remain in your room until I send somebody for you." An angry answer arose to Tom's lips, but he checked it. In the college Doctor Wellington's word was law, and he knew he would only make matters worse by attempting to argue. With a heavy heart he turned, gazed coldly at Professor Sharp, and left the office. CHAPTER X SONGBIRD MAKES A DISCOVERY "It's all up with me," said Tom to his brothers when he met them in the hall. "I can't go to town." "Why not?" asked Sam. "Got to remain in my room until Doctor Wallington sends for me." "What have you been doing, Tom?" came from Dick. "Nothing." And then Tom told of what had occurred in the office. His brothers listened with much interest. "This is the work of some enemy," said Sam quickly. "And the one who got hold of the dress-suit case," added Dick. "Tom, do you suspect any one?" "Only in a general way--Koswell, Flockley, Larkspur, and that crowd." "It's too bad." "Say, but that picture was a sight!" cried the fun-loving Rover, and gunned broadly. "No wonder old Sharp was mad. I'd be mad myself, especially if it was a photo of my best girl." "I hope the doctor doesn't keep you in the room all day," said Sam. "You and Dick might as well go to town without me," returned Tom with a sigh that he endeavored to suppress. "Your staying here won't do me any good." "What will you do?" "Oh, read or study. It will give me a chance to catch up in my Latin. I was a bit rocky in that yesterday. I can bone away until the president sends a special message for me." "Want us to get anything for you?" questioned Dick. "Yes, a good fat letter from--well, a fat letter, that's all." "Postmarked Cedarville, and in Nellie Laning's handwriting," came from Sam slyly. "I didn't know they postmarked letters in handwriting," answered Tom innocently. "Oh, you know what I mean." "Sure, Sam, for I know you're looking for a letter, too. Well, run along, children, and play," said Tom, and a minute later Sam and Dick set off for Ashton. Tom did not feel as lighthearted as his words would seem to indicate. He knew that the charge against him was a serious one, and he saw no way of clearing himself. The finding of the box with his name on it seemed to be proof positive against him. "No use of talking, the minute I get to school I seem to get into trouble," he soliloquized. "Wonder if they'll put me in a cell, like old Crabtree did at Putnam Hall? If they do I'll raise a kick, sure as eggs are unhatched chickens!" Tom sat down to study, but he could not fix his mind on his lessons. Then he heard somebody come along the hallway and turn into the next room. "Must be Songbird, or else one of the servants," he thought. "Guess I'll take a look." If it was Songbird, he could chat with his friend for a while. He went to the next room. As he opened the door he saw Songbird, with his back toward him. The so-styled poet was waving his arms in the air and declaiming: "The weeping winds were whispering through the wood, The rolling rill ran 'round the ragged rock; The shepherd, with his sunny, smiling face, Was far away to feed his flitting flock. Deep in the dingle, dank and dark--" "I thought I heard an old crow bark!" finished Tom. "Say, Songbird, how much is that poetry by the yard--or do you sell it by the ton?" he went on. At the sound of Tom's voice the would-be poet gave a start. But he quickly recovered. He scowled for a moment and then took on a look of resignation. "You've spoiled one of the best thoughts I ever had," he said. "Don't you believe it, Songbird," answered Tom. "I've heard you make up poetry worth ten times that. Don't you remember that little sonnet you once composed, entitled 'Who Put Ink in Willie's Shoes?' It was great, grand, sublime!" "I never wrote such a sonnet!" cried Songbird. "Ink in shoes, indeed! Tom, you don't know real poetry when you see it!" "That's a fact, I don't. But, say, what's on the carpet, as the iceman said to the thrush?" "Nothing. I thought I'd write a few verses, that's all. Thought you were going to town with Sam and Dick?" "Can't." And once again Tom had to tell his story. He had not yet finished when Songbird gave an exclamation. "It fits in!" he cried. "Fits in? What?" asked Tom. "What I heard a while ago." "What did you hear?" "Heard Flockley, Koswell and Larkspur talking together. Koswell said he had fixed you, and that you were having a bad half hour with the president." "Where was this?" "In the library. I was in an alcove, and they didn't see me. I was busy reading some poetry by Longfellow--fine thing--went like this--" "Never mind. Chop out the poetry now, Songbird. What more did they say?" "Nothing. They walked away, and I--er--I got so interested in making up verses I forgot all about it until now." "I wish you had heard more. Do you know where they went to?" "No, but I can look around if you want me to." "I wish very much that you would. I can't leave, or I'd go myself." A few more words followed, and then Songbird went off to hunt up the Flockley crowd. On the campus he met Max Spangler. "Yes, I saw them," said the German-American student in answer to a question. "They are down along the river, just above the boathouse." "Thank you." "I'll show you if you want me to," went on Max. "You might come along, if you have nothing else to do," answered Songbird. The two walked toward the river, and after a few minutes espied Flockley and the others sitting on some rocks, in the sun, talking earnestly. "I want to hear what they are saying," said Songbird. "I have a special reason." And at Max's look of surprise he told something of what had happened. "If Koswell is that mean he ought to be exposed," said Max. "I don't blame him for playing a trick on old Sharp, but to lay the blame on Tom--why, that's different." "Will you come along?" "If you want me to." "I don't want to drag you into trouble, Max." "I dink I can take care of myself," answered the German-American student. The pair passed around to the rear of the spot where Flockley and his cronies were located. Here was a heavy clump of brushwood, so they were able to draw quite close without being seen. The talk was of a general character for a while, embracing football and other college sports, and Songbird was disappointed. But presently Jerry Koswell began to chuckle. "I can't help but think of the way I put it over Tom Rover," he exclaimed. "I'll wager old Sharp will make him suffer good and proper." "Maybe they'll suspend Rover," said Bart Larkspur. "But that would be carrying it pretty far, wouldn't it?" "They won't suspend him, but he'll surely be punished," came from Dudd Flockley. "By the way, are you sure it was a photo of Sharp's best girl?" "Yes; but she isn't a girl, she's a woman, and not particularly good-looking at that," answered Jerry Koswell. "Well, Sharp isn't so very handsome," answered Larkspur. "His nose is as sharp as his name." "I suppose Rover will wonder how somebody got hold of that case of pencils and crayons," remarked Flockley. "If he--" "Hello, Max!" cried a voice from behind the bushes, and the next moment a stout youth landed on Max Spangler's back, carrying him down with a crash in the brushwood. "What are you doing here, anyway?" At the interruption the whole Flockley crowd started to their feet, and turning, beheld not only Max and the boy who had come up so suddenly, but also Songbird. The latter was nearest to them, and Koswell eyed him with sudden suspicion. "What are you doing here?" he demanded, while Max and his friend were wrestling in a good-natured way in the bushes. "Oh, I've been listening to some interesting information," answered Songbird. "Playing the eavesdropper, eh?" came from Flockley with a sneer. "If so, it was for a good purpose," answered the would-be poet warmly. "Say, Jerry, you want to look out for him!" cried Larkspur warningly. "He rooms with Dick Rover, remember. They are old chums." "I know that," said Koswell. He faced Songbird again. "How long have you been here?" he cried angrily. "That is my business, Koswell. But I heard enough of your talk to know how you tried to put Tom Rover in a hole. It's a mean piece of business, and it has got to be stopped." "Bah!" "You can 'bah!' all you please, but I mean what I say. To play a joke is one thing, to blame it on a fellow student who is innocent is another. As the poet Shelley says--But what's the use of wasting poetry on a chap like you? Max, you heard what was said, didn't you?" By this time the German-American student was free of his tormentor, a happy-go-lucky student named Henry Cale. He nodded to Songbird. "Yes, I heard it," he said, and gave Koswell a meaning look. "Fine business to be in, listening around corners," sneered Larkspur. "Say that once more and I'll punch your head!" cried Max, doubling up his fists. "What are you fellows going to do?" questioned Koswell. He was beginning to grow alarmed. "That depends on what you fellows do," returned Songbird. "Why--er--do you think I am going to the doctor and--er--confess?" "You have got to clear Tom Rover." "Our word is as good as yours," said Larkspur. "Then you are willing to tell a string of falsehoods, eh?" said Songbird coldly. "I didn't say so." "But you meant it. Well, Larkspur, it won't do. I know about this, and so does Max. Koswell has got to clear Tom Rover, and that is all there is to it." "Will you keep quiet about me if I clear Rover?" asked Jerry Koswell eagerly. "That depends on what Tom Rover says. I am going right to him now and tell him what I heard." "And I'll go along," said Max. He turned to Henry Cale. "You will have to excuse me, Henry. This is a private affair of importance." "Sure," was the ready answer. "I wouldn't have butted in if I had known something was doing," and Henry walked off toward the college buildings. "Just tell Tom Rover to wait--we'll fix it up somehow," cried Jerry to Songbird and Max as the pair departed. "It's all a--er--a mistake. I'm--er--sorry I got Rover into it--really I am." "No doubt of it, now!" answered Songbird significantly. "Evildoers are usually sorry--after they are caught!" CHAPTER XI HOW TOM ESCAPED PUNISHMENT Dick and Sam were good walkers, so it did not take them long to reach Ashton. While covering the distance they talked over Tom's dilemma, but failed to reach any conclusion concerning it. "It's too bad," said Sam, "especially when the term has just opened. It will give Tom a black eye." "I don't think he'll stand for too much punishment, being innocent, Sam. He'll go home first." "I was thinking of that. But we don't want to be here with Tom gone." Arriving at Ashton, the boys hurried to the post-office. The mail for the college was in, and among it they found several letters from home and also epistles from Dora Stanhope and the Laning girls. "Here's one for Tom--that will cheer him up a bit," said Dick, holding up one addressed in Nellie Laning's well-known hand. The boys sat down in an out-of-the-way corner to read their letters. Dick had a communication of ten pages from Dora, and Sam had one of equal length from Grace. Then there was one for all the boys from their father, and another from their Aunt Martha. "The girls are coming next Wednesday," said Dick. "I hope we can get down to the depot when they arrive." "Don't forget poor Tom, Dick," "Yes. Isn't it too bad?" "Nellie will cry her eyes out if he is sent away." "Oh, we've got to fix that up somehow." Having read the letters carefully, the boys went to one of the stores to make some purchases, and then drifted down to the depot. A train was coming in, but they did not expect to see anybody they knew. As a well-dressed young man, carrying a suit case, alighted, both gave an exclamation: "Dan Baxter!" The individual they mentioned will need no introduction to my old readers. During their days at Putnam Hall the Rover boys had had in Dan Baxter and his father enemies who had done their best to ruin them. The elder Baxter had repented after Dick had done him a great service, but Dan had kept up his animosity until the Rovers imagined he would be their enemy for life. But at last Dan, driven to desperation by the actions of those with whom he was associating, had also repented, and it was the Rovers who had set him on his feet again. They had loaned him money, and he had gotten a position as a traveling salesman for a large wholesale house. How he was faring they did not know, since they had not seen or heard of him for a long time. "Hello! You here?" cried Dan Baxter, and dropped his suit case on the depot platform. "Thought you were at the college." "Came down for an airing," answered Dick. He held out his hand. "How goes it with you, Dan?" "Fine! Couldn't be better." Baxter shook hands with both boys, and they could not help but notice how clean-cut and happy he appeared, quite in contrast to the careless, sullen Dan of old. "Come on business?" inquired Sam. "Yes." "What are you selling?" asked Dick. "I am in the jewelry line now, representing one of the biggest houses in the United States. I was going through to Cleveland, but I made up my mind to stop off here and see you. I heard from one of the old boys that you were here." "I am sure I am glad to see you, Dan," said Dick, "and glad to know you are doing well." "Maybe you'll be a member of the firm some day," added Sam with a smile. "I don't know about that. I'm willing to work, and the traveling suits me first-rate. They pay me a good salary, too--thirty dollars per week and all expenses." "Good enough!" cried Dick. "I came to see you fellows," went on Dan Baxter in a lower voice. "I haven't forgotten what you did for me when I was on my uppers. It was splendid of you. I realize it more every day I live. My father is with me now--that is, when I'm home. We are happier than we ever were before." "That's good," murmured Sam. "I want to see you all. Where is Tom?" "Up to the college." Sam did not deem it necessary to go into particulars. "I'd like to see him, too. I've got something for each of you." "What is that?" "Before I tell you I want you to promise you'll accept it. And by the way, you got that money back, didn't you?" "Yes." "Well, will you accept what I want to give you? I want to show you I appreciate your kindness." "We didn't expect anything, Dan," said Dick. "Oh, I know that, Dick, but please say you'll take what I have for you. It isn't so very much, but it's something." "All right, if you want it that way," answered the oldest Rover, seeing that his former enemy was very much in earnest. Dan Baxter put his hand in an inner pocket and brought forth three small packages. "This is for you, Dick, and this for you, Sam," he said. "The other is for Tom. They are all alike." The two Rovers undid the packages handed to them. Inside were small jewelry cases, and each contained a beautiful stickpin of gold, holding a ruby with three small diamonds around it. "Say, this is fine!" murmured Sam. "Dan, we didn't expect this," said Dick. "But you said you'd accept," pleaded Baxter. "They are all alike, as I said before. I had the firm make them to order, so there is nothing else like them on the market. The three diamonds represent you three brothers, and the ruby--well, when you look at that you can think of me, if you want to. And another thing," went on Baxter, his face flushing a trifle, "the pins are settled for. They didn't come out of my stock. I mention this because--because--" The young traveling salesman stopped in some confusion. "Dan, we know you are not that kind," said Dick hastily. "Well, I was, but I'm not that kind any longer--everything I do is as straight as a string. I paid for those stickpins out of my wages. I hope you will all wear them." "I certainly shall," said Dick. "I shall prize this gift very highly." "And so shall I," added Sam. Dan Baxter had heard something about their search for the fortune on Treasure Isle, and as they walked over to the hotel for lunch the Rovers gave him some of the details. In return he told them of some of his experiences on the road while representing a carpet house and another concern, as well as the jewelry manufacturers. He told them of several of the former pupils of Putnam Hall, including Fenwick better known as Mumps, who he said was now working in a Chicago hotel. "You boys can rest assured of one thing," said Dan Baxter during the course of the conversation, "if I can ever do you a good turn I'll do it, no matter what it costs me." "That is very kind to say, Dan," answered Dick. "And let me say, if we can do anything more for you we'll do it." The three youths spent several hours together and then Sam and Dick said they would have to get back to college. Secretly they were worried about Tom. "Well, please give the pin to Tom," said Baxter, "and if you feel like it, write me a letter some day," and he told them of the cities he expected to visit during his next selling tour. Then the Rovers and their one-time enemy separated. "Not at all like the old Dan Baxter," was Sam's comment, "He is going to make a fine business man, after all," returned Dick. "Well, I am glad of it, and glad, too, that he and his father are reconciled to each other." Sam and Dick had covered about half the distance back to Brill when they saw a figure striding along the country road at a rapid gait. "Why, say, that looks like Tom!" cried Sam. "It is Tom," returned his big brother. "Do you suppose he has run away?" "I don't know. Perhaps the doctor has suspended him." "Hello!" called Tom as he came closer. "Thought I'd find you in town yet. Come on back and have some fun." "What does this mean, Tom?" demanded Dick, coming to a halt in front of his brother. He saw at a glance that Tom looked rather happy. "What does what mean, my dear Richard?" asked the fun-loving Rover in a sweet, girlish voice. "You know well enough. Did you run away?" "No. Walked away." "Without permission?" asked Sam. "My dear Samuel, you shock me!" cried Tom in that same girlish voice. "See here, let us in on the ground floor of the Sphinx," cried Dick impatiently. "I will, kind sirs," answered Tom, this time in a deep bass voice. "I went to the room and remained there about an hour. Songbird went out on a still hunt, Max with him. The two overheard Jerry Koswell and his cronies talking, learned Jerry did the trick, came back and told me, and--" "You told the president," finished Sam. "Not on your collar button," answered Tom. "I waited. The president sent for me. I went. He tried to get me to confess, and then the telephone rang, and that did the biz." "Say, Tom, are you crazy?" demanded Dick. "Crazy? Yes, I'm crazy with joy. Who wouldn't be to get free so easily?" "But explain it," begged Sam. "I can't explain it. As I said, the president tried to make me confess, and of course I had nothing to confess. When the telephone rang I heard one voice and then two others, one after another. I think they belonged to Koswell, Flockley and Larkspur, but I am not sure. The voices talked to Doctor Wallington about ten minutes. He got mad at first and then calmed down. I heard him ask, 'In Professor Sharp's room?' and somebody said 'Yes.' Four times he asked for names, but I don't think he got them. Then he went out of the office and was gone about a quarter of an hour. When he returned he said, 'Now, on your honor, for the last time, Rover, did you mar that photograph?' and I said 'No,' good and hard. Then he said he believed me, and was sorry he had suspected me, and he added that I could go off for the rest of the day and enjoy myself, and here I am." "And you didn't squeal on Koswell & Company?" asked Sam. "Nary a squeal." "Do you imagine they confessed?" "I think they told the president over the 'phone that I was innocent, maybe the three swore to it, but I don't think they gave their names." "What did they mean about Sharp's room?" "I was curious about that, and I found out from one of the servants. Sharp found an envelope under the door. It contained a five-dollar bill, and on it was written in a scrawl, 'For a new photograph.'" "Koswell & Company got scared mightily," mused Dick. "Well, I am glad, Tom, that you are out of it." "And as a token of your escape we'll present you with this," added Sam, and brought forth the package from Dan Baxter. Tom was much surprised, and listened to the story about the former bully of Putnam Hall with interest. "Good for Dan!" he cried. "I'll write him a letter the first chance I get." "And here's a letter from Nellie," said Dick, "and one from father, and another from Aunt Martha." "Hurrah! That's the best yet!" exclaimed Tom. "I've got to read 'em all. Sit down and rest." And he dropped down on a grassy bank and his brothers followed suit. CHAPTER XII IN WHICH THE GIRLS ARRIVE "You may be sure of one thing, Tom," remarked Dick while he and his brothers were walking back to Brill, some time later, "Jerry Koswell has it in for you. You had better watch him closely." "I intend to do so," answered Tom. "But there is another thing which both of you seem to have forgotten. That's about the dress-suit case. Did Koswell find it, and if so, did he take anything else besides the box of pencils and crayons?" "He'll never admit it," put in Sam. "Not unless you corner him, as Songbird did about the photo." "He'll have to tell where he got the box, Sam." "I doubt if you get any satisfaction." And Sam was right, as later events proved. When Tom tackled Koswell the latter said positively that he knew nothing of the dress-suit case. He said he had found the box on a stand in the hallway near Professor Sharp's door, and had used it because it suited his purpose. "But you saw it had my name on it," said Tom. "No, I didn't. It was rather dark in the hall, and all I saw was that it contained pencils and crayons," answered Jerry Koswell. "Well, I don't believe you," answered Tom abruptly. "You did it on purpose, and maybe some day I'll be able to prove it." And he walked off, leaving Koswell in anything but a comfortable frame of mind. Tom was curious to see how Professor Sharp would act after the affair. During the first recitation the instructor seemed ill at ease, but after that he acted as usual. Tom half suspected the professor still thought him guilty. "Well, it was a pretty mean thing to do," soliloquized the fun-loving Rover. "If anybody did that to a picture of Nellie I'd mash him into a jelly." All of the Rovers were awaiting the arrival of the girls with interest, and each was fearful that some poor recitation might keep him from going to meet them at the Ashton depot on Wednesday. But, luckily, all got permission to go to town, and they started without delay as soon as the afternoon session was ended. "Where bound?" asked Songbird, in some surprise, as he saw them driving off in a carriage Dick had ordered by telephone. "Going to meet Dora and Nellie and Grace," answered Dick. "Do you--er--want to come along?" "Oh, sure. I'll see them all home myself," answered the would-be poet with a wink of his eye. "No, thank you. I know enough to keep out of somebody else's honey pot. Give them my regards," he added, and strolled off, murmuring softly: "If them love me as I love thee, How happy thee and I will be!" The boys got down to the depot ahead of time, and were then told that the train was fifteen minutes late. They put in the time as best they could, although every minute seemed five. "Hello! There is Dudd Flockley!" exclaimed Sam presently, and pointed to the dudish student, who was crossing the street behind the depot. "Maybe he came down to meet somebody, too," said Tom. "More than likely there will be quite a bunch of girls bound for the seminary." At last the train rolled in, and the three Rovers strained their eyes to catch the first sight of their friends. "There they are!" shouted Dick, and pointed to a parlor car. He ran forward, and so did his brothers. The porter was out with his box, but it was the boys who assisted the girls to alight, and Dick who tipped the knight of the whisk-broom. "Here at last!" cried Dick. "We are so glad you've come!" "Thought the train would never get here," added Sam. "Longest wait I've had since I was able to walk," supplemented Tom. "Oh, Tom, you big tease!" answered Nellie merrily, and caught him by both hands. "Yes, we are late," said Dora a bit soberly. She gave Dick's hand a tight squeeze. They looked at each other, and on the instant he saw that she had something to tell him. "How long it seems since we saw you last," said Grace as she took Sam's hand. Then there was handshaking all around, and all the girls and boys tried to speak at once, to learn how the others had been since they had separated after the treasure hunt. "We'll have to look after our trunks," said Dora. "There they are," and she pointed to where they had been dumped on a truck. "I'll take care of the baggage," said Tom. "Just give me the checks." "And we've got to find a carriage to take us to Hope," added Grace. "All arranged," answered Sam. "We are going to take you up. Dick is going to take Dora in a buggy, and Tom and I are going to take you and Nellie in a two-seated. The baggage can go in a wagon behind." "But I thought there was a seminary stage," began Grace. "There is, and if you'd rather take it--" "Oh, no! The carriage ride will be much nicer." And Grace looked at Sam in a manner that made his heart beat much faster than before. "Do you know, it seems awfully queer to be rich and to be going to a fine boarding school," said Nellie. "I declare, I'm not used to it yet. But I'm glad on papa and mamma's account, for neither of them have to work as hard as they did." "Papa is going to improve the farm wonderfully," said Grace. "He is going to put up a new barn and a carriage house and a new windmill for pumping water, and he has bought a hundred acres from the farm in the back, and added, oh, I don't know how many more cows. And we've got a splendid team of horses, and the cutest pony you ever saw. And next year he is going to rebuild the wing of the house and put on a big piazza, where we can have rocking-chairs and a hammock--" "Yum! yum!" murmured Sam. "The hammock for mine, when I call." "Built for two, I suppose," remarked Dick dryly. "Dick Rover!" cried Grace, and blushed, "He'll want it for himself and Dor--" began Sam. "Here comes Tom," interrupted Dick hastily. "All right about the baggage?" he asked loudly. "All right. The trunks and cases will go to the seminary inside of an hour," answered Tom, "so we might as well be off ourselves. We can drive slowly, you know." "Well, you can go ahead and set the pace," answered his elder brother. The buggy and the carriage were already on hand, and soon the boys and girls were in the turnouts, and Tom drove off, with Dick following. As they did so they saw Dudd Flockley standing near, eyeing them curiously. They had to drive close to the dudish student, who was attired in his best, and he stared boldly at Dora and the Laning girls. "What a bold young man!" was Dora's comment after they had passed. "He's a student at Brill," answered Dick. "Not a very nice kind, either." Dick was much put out, for he did not like any young man to stare at Dora. Ashton was soon left behind, and carriage and buggy bowled along slowly over a country road lined on either side with trees and bushes and tidy farms. Under the trees Dick allowed his horse to drop into a walk, and managed to drive with one hand while the other found Dora's waist and held it. "Dick, somebody might see you!" she half whispered. "Well, I can't help it, Dora," he answered, "It's been such a long time since we met." "Yes, it seems like years and years, doesn't it?" "And to think we've got to go through college before--before we can--" "Yes, but Dick, isn't it splendid that we are going to be so close to each other? Why, we'll be able to meet lots of times!" "If the seminary authorities will let you. I understand they are very strict." "Oh, well, we'll meet anyhow, won't we?" "If you say so, dear." "Why, yes, dear--that is--Oh, now see what you've done!--knocked my hat right down on my ear! Now, you mustn't--one is enough! Just suppose another carriage should come up--with somebody in it from the seminary?" "I've got my eye open," answered Dick. "But just one more--and then you can fix your hat. They've got to make some allowance for folks that are engaged," he added softly, as he pressed her cheek close to his own. "Are we engaged, Dick?" she asked as she adjusted her hat. "Aren't we?" he demanded. "Why, of course we are!" "Well, if you say so, but--but--I suppose some folks would think we were rather young." "Well, I'm not so young as I used to be--and I'm growing older every day." "So am I. I am not near as young as I was when we first met--on that little steamboat on Cayuga Lake, when you and Tom and Sam were going to Putnam Hall for the first time." "No, you're not quite so young, Dora, but you are just as pretty. In fact, you're prettier than ever." "Oh, you just say that!" "I mean it, and I'm the happiest fellow in the world this minute," cried Dick, and caught her again in his arms. Once more the hat went over on Dora's ear, but this time she forgot to mention it. Truth to tell, for the time being she was just as happy as he was. But presently her face grew troubled, and he remembered the look she had given him at the depot. "Something is on your mind, Dora," he said. "What is it?" "Dick, do you know that Tad Sobber is alive? That he escaped from that dreadful hurricane in West Indian waters?" "Yes, I know it. But I didn't know it until a few days ago, when Songbird Powell came to Brill He said he had met Sobber in Ithaca," "He came to see mamma." "I was afraid he would. What did he say?" "He came one evening, after supper. It was dark and stormy, and he drove up in a buggy. Mamma and I and the servants were home alone, although Nellie had been over in the afternoon. He rang the bell, and asked for mamma, and the girl ushered him into the parlor. He asked the girl if we had company, and he said if we had he wouldn't bother us." "Guess he was afraid of being arrested." "Perhaps so. He told the girl he was a friend from New York. I went down first, and when I saw him I was almost scared to death. I thought I was looking at a ghost." "Naturally, since you thought he had been drowned. It's too bad he scared you so, Dora." "He said he had come on business, and without waiting began to talk about the treasure we had taken from the isle. He insisted upon it that the treasure belonged to him, since his uncle, Sid Merrick, was dead. When my mother came in he demanded that she give him some money and sign some papers." "What did your mother do?" "She refused, of course. Then he got very wild and talked in a rambling fashion. Oh, Dick, I am half inclined to think he is crazy!" And Dora shuddered. "What did he say after your mother refused to do as he wished?" "He got up and walked around the parlor, waving his hands and crying that we were robbing him, that the treasure was his, and that the Rovers were nothing but thieves. Then mamma ordered him out of the house and sent the girl to get the man who runs the farm for us. But before the man came Sobber went away, driving his horse as fast as he could," "Have you heard from him since?" "Yes. The next day we got an unsigned letter. In it Sobber said that, by hook or by crook, he intended to get possession of the treasure, and for the Rovers to beware," CHAPTER XIII THE ROWING RACE Having told so much, Dora went into all the particulars of Tad Sobber's visit to the Stanhope homestead. She told of how Sobber had argued, and she said he had affirmed that the Rovers had falsified matters so that the Stanhopes and the Lanings might benefit thereby. "What he says is absolutely untrue," said Dick. "Father went over those papers with care, and so did the lawyers, and the treasure belongs to you and the Lanings, and to nobody else." "Don't you think Sid Merrick fooled Sobber?" asked the girl. "Perhaps, but I guess Tad was willing to be fooled. They set their hearts on that money, and now Tad can't give it up. In one way I am sorry for him, and if a small amount of cash would satisfy him and set him on his feet, I'd hand it over. We put Dan Baxter on his feet that way." "Oh, but Baxter isn't Sobber, Dick. Sobber is wild and wicked. I was so afraid he would attack mamma and me I hardly knew what to do. And his eyes rolled so when he talked!" "Did he go to the Lanings?" "No." "Probably he was afraid of your uncle. Mr. Laning won't stand for any nonsense. I suppose your mother is afraid he'll come back?" "Yes; and to protect herself she has hired one of the farm men to sleep in the house. The man was once in the army, and he knows how to use a gun." "Then that will make Sobber keep his distance. He is a coward at heart. I found that out when we went to Putnam Hall together," "But you must beware of him, Dick. He may show himself here next." "It won't do him any good. All I've got here is a little spending money. No, I don't think he'll show himself here. More than likely he'll try to hire some shyster lawyer to fight for the treasure in the courts. But I don't think he'll be able to upset your claim." They had now reached Hope Seminary, and the conversation came to an end. The boys helped the girls to alight, and said good-by. Then they drove back to Ashton, where the buggy was left at the livery stable; and all piled into the carriage for the college. On the way Dick told his brothers about Tad Sobber. "Dora is right. He is a bad egg," said Sam. "I wouldn't trust him under any consideration," "He is too much of a coward to attack anybody openly," was Tom's comment. "But as Dick says, he may hire some shyster lawyer to take the matter into the courts. It would be too bad if the fortune was tied up in endless litigation." "He's got to get money to fight with first," said Dick. "Oh, some lawyers will take a case like that on a venture." "That's true." Several days passed quietly, and the Rover boys applied themselves diligently to their studies, for they wished to make fine records at Brill. "We are here to get a good education," was the way Dick expressed himself, "and we want to make the most of our time." "As if I wasn't boning away to beat the band!" murmured Tom reproachfully. "I'd like to take the full course in about two years," came from Sam. "College studies are mighty hard," broke in Songbird, who was working over his chemistry. "I don't get any chance to write poetry any more." "For which let us all be truly thankful," murmured Sam to Tom. "Ten minutes more," announced Dick, looking at his watch. "Then what do you say to a row on the river?" "Suits me!" cried Tom. "All right, then. Now clear out, and--silence!" A quarter of an hour later the Rover boys and Songbird walked down to the river. There were plenty of boats to be had, and Dick and Tom were soon out. Songbird and Sam received an invitation to go for a ride in a gasolene launch owned by Stanley. "Suits me!" cried the would-be poet. "I can row any time, but I can't always ride in a motor boat." "Same here," said Sam. A number of craft were on the river, including one containing Jerry Koswell and Bart Larkspur. Koswell scowled as he saw Tom and Dick rowing near by. "We'll give 'em a shaking up," he said to his crony, and turned their rowboat so that it bumped fairly and squarely into the craft manned by Tom and Dick. The shock was so great that Dick, who had gotten up to fix his seat, was nearly hurled overboard. "See here, what do you mean by running into us?" demanded the oldest Rover on recovering his balance. "Sorry, but it couldn't be helped," answered Koswell. "Why didn't you get out of the way?" "We didn't have to," retorted Sam, "and if you try that trick again somebody will get his head punched." "Talk is cheap," sneered Larkspur. "Say, I heard you fellows have been boasting of how you can row," went on Koswell after a pause. "We haven't been boasting, but we can row," answered Tom. "Want to race?" "When?" "Now." "I don't know as I care to race with a chap like you, Koswell," answered Dick pointedly. "You're afraid." "No, I am not afraid." "Let us race them," whispered Tom to his brother. "I am not afraid of them." "Oh, neither am I, Tom." "Well race you to Rock Island and back," said Koswell, after consulting Larkspur. "All right," answered Dick. "Want to bet on the result?" questioned Koswell. He was usually willing to bet on anything. "We don't bet," answered Tom. "And we wouldn't with you, if we did," added Dick. "I don't think you are in our class, Koswell, and you never will be. At the same time, since you are so anxious to row against us, we'll race you--and beat you." This answer enraged Jerry Koswell, and he dared the Rovers to wager ten dollars on the race. They would not, but others took up the bet, and then several other wagers were made. Rock Island was a small, stony spot half a mile up the stream, so the race would be about a mile in length. Frank Holden was chosen as referee and umpire, and all of the contestants prepared for the struggle. "Your boat is lighter than that of the Rovers," said Holden to Koswell and Larkspur. "You really ought to give them some lead." "No. This is an even start," growled Koswell. "Very well, but it doesn't seem quite fair." It was soon noised around that the race was to take place, and the river bank speedily became lined with students anxious to see how the contest would terminate. "Now, Tom, take it easy at the start, but finish up strong," cautioned Dick. "I feel like pulling a strong stroke from the first," answered Tom. "Let us do it, and leave them completely in the shade." "No. We must first try to find out what they can do." "Say, you've got to beat 'em," came from Sam, as the launch came close. "If they win you'll never hear the end of it." "They're not going to win," answered Dick, quietly but firmly. "All ready?" asked Frank Holden, as the boats drew up side by side near the boathouse float. "We are!" sang out Tom. "Ready!" answered Jerry Koswell. "Go!" shouted Frank. Four pairs of oars dropped into the water simultaneously, and away shot the two craft side by side. There was no disguising the fact that Koswell and Larkspur were good oarsmen, and what was equally important, they had done much practicing together. On the other hand, while Dick and Tom could row well, they had pulled together but twice since coming to Brill. "You've got your work cut out for you!" shouted Songbird. "But never mind. Go in and win!" For the first quarter of a mile the two row-boats kept close together. Occasionally one would forge ahead a few inches, but the other would speedily overtake it. Then, however, the Rover boys settled down to a strong, steady stroke, and forged a full length ahead. "See! see! The Rovers are winning!" shouted Max in delight. "That's the way to do it!" cried Stanley, "Keep it up! You're doing nobly!" "Show 'em the way home!" added Songbird. "Pull, Jerry! Pull!, Bart!" screamed Dudd Flockley to his cronies. "Don't let them beat you!" Before long the island was reached, and the Rovers rounded it a length and a half ahead. This made Jerry Koswell frantic, and he called on Larkspur to increase the stroke. "All right, I'm with you," was the short answer. The increase in the stroke speedily told, and inch by inch the second boat began to overhaul the first Then Tom made a miss, sending a shower of water into the air. At this the craft containing Koswell and Larkspur shot ahead. "Hurrah! That's the way to do it!" yelled Flockley in delight. "Even money on the green boat!" "Take you," answered Spud Jackson promptly. "How much?" "A fiver." "All right." "Steady, Tom," cautioned Dick. "Now, then Ready?" "Yes." "Then bend to it. One, two, three, four." Again the Rover boys went at the rowing with a will, increasing their stroke until it was six to the minute more than that of Koswell and Larkspur. The latter were frantic, and tried to do likewise, but found it impossible. Inch by inch the Rovers' craft went ahead. Now it was half a length, then a length, then two lengths. "Say, there is rowing for you!" was the comment of a senior. "Just look at them bend to it!" "Yes, and look at the quick recovery," added another fourth-year student. From two lengths the Rovers went three lengths ahead. Then Koswell missed a stroke, and tumbled up against Larkspur. "Hi! What are you doing?" spluttered Larkspur in disgust. "Cou--couldn't hel--help it," panted Jerry, He was all but winded, for the pulling had been too much for him. "The Rovers win! The Rovers win!" was the shout that went up, and in the midst of the hubbub Dick and Tom crossed the line, winning by at least six lengths. Koswell and Larkspur were so disgusted that they did not even finish, but stopped rowing and turned away from the float. "The Rovers win," announced Frank Holden. "A fine race, too," he added. "Let me congratulate you," and he waved his hand pleasantly to Dick and Tom. "I got a pain in my side, and that made me miss the stroke," said Jerry Koswell lamely. "Some day I'll race them again, and win, too." "You should have won this time," growled Dudd Flockley when he was alone with his cronies. "I dropped twenty dollars on that race." "I never thought they could row like that," was Larkspur's comment. "I don't think I want to row against them again." Dick and Tom were warmly congratulated by all their friends. It had been a well-earned victory, and they were correspondingly happy. Koswell was sourer than ever against them, and vowed he would "square up" somehow, and Larkspur agreed to help him. Dudd Flockley was glum, for his spending money for the month was running low, and it was going to be hard to pay the wagers he had lost. CHAPTER XIV WILLIAM PHILANDER TUBES On the following Saturday the Rover boys went down to Ashton in the afternoon. They had arranged for the hire of a large touring car, with a competent chauffeur, and were to take Dora and the Laning girls out for a ride to another town called Toddville. Here they were to have supper at the hotel, returning to Ashton in the evening. Lest it be thought strange that the girls could get permission from the seminary authorities to absent themselves, let me state that matters had been explained by Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning to the principal of Hope, so Dora and her cousins were free to go out with the Rovers whenever they could go out at all. "We'll have the best time ever!" cried Tom enthusiastically. "I hope you ordered a fine supper over the telephone, Dick." "I did," was the reply. "Just the things I know the girls like." "And a bouquet of flowers," added Sam. He knew that Grace loved flowers. "Yes. I didn't forget them, Sam," The boys arrived in Ashton a little ahead of time, and while waiting for the chauffeur of the car to appear they walked down to the depot to see if there would be any new arrivals on the Saturday special. When the train pulled into the depot a tall, well-dressed youth, with an elaborate dress-suit case and a bag of golf sticks, descended from the parlor car and gazed around him wonderingly. "Are you--ah--sure this is--ah--Ashton?" he inquired of the porter. "Yes, sah," was the brisk answer. "Not a--ah--very large place, is it, now?" drawled the passenger. "Look who's here!" burst out Tom as he hurried forward. "Why, it's Tubbs--William Philander Tubbs!" ejaculated Sam. And sure enough, it was Tubbs, the most dudish pupil Putnam Hall had ever known, and one with whom the cadets had had no end of fun. "My dear old Buttertub, how are you?" called out Tom loudly, and caught the new arrival by the shoulder. "How are you, and how is the wife, and the eight children?" "Why--ah--is it really Tom Rover!" gasped Tubbs. He stared at Tom and then at Dick and Sam. "What are you--ah--doing here, may I inquire? But please," he added hurriedly, "don't call me Buttertub, and don't say I have a wife and children, when I haven't." And Tubbs looked around to see if anybody had overheard Tom's remark. "We go to school here," said Dick as he shook hands. "Brill College." "Well, I never!" gasped the tall dude. "Brill, did you say?" "That's it," put in Sam. "I am going there myself." "You!" roared Tom. "Hail Columbia, happy land! That's the best yet, Tubblets. We'll have dead loads of fun. Did you bring your pet poodle and your fancywork, and those beautiful red and yellow socks you used to wear?" "I hope you didn't forget that green and pink necktie you used to have," came from Sam, "and the blue handkerchief with the purple variegated border." "I--ah--I never had those things," stormed Tubbs. "Oh, say, do you really go to Brill?" he questioned, with almost a groan in his voice. "Sure as you're born," answered Dick. "We'll be glad to have you there, William Philander. You'll be a credit to the institution. We have a few fellows who dress well, but you'll top them all. I know it." "Do you--ah--really think I can--ah--I will be as well dressed as the--ah--as anybody?" asked the dude eagerly. He was a fair scholar, but his mind was constantly on the subject of what to wear and how to wear it. "Oh, you'll lead the bunch, and all the girls at Hope will fall dead in love with you," answered Tom. "Hope? What do you mean?" "That's the seminary for girls. Fine lot of girls there, waiting to see you, Philliam Willander." "William Philander, please. So there is a girls' school here, eh? That's--ah--very nice. Yes, I like the girls--I always did. But, Tom, please don't call me--ah--Buttertub. I think it's horrid, don't you know." "All right, Washtub, anything you say stands still," answered Tom cheerfully. "I wouldn't hurt your feelings for a million warts." "There is the carriage for Brill," said Sam, pointing it out. "Are you going with me?" asked the dude. "No. We are not going back until this evening," explained Dick. "We'll see you later." "Only one other student going with you," added Tom mischievously. "He's kind of queer, but I guess he won't hurt you." He had seen an innocent, quiet youth, named Smith, getting into the college turnout. "Queer?" asked Tubbs. "Yes. Gets fits, or something like that. He won't hurt you if you keep your hand to your nose." "My--ah--my hand to my nose?" "Yes," went on Tom innocently. "You see, he has an idea that folks are smelling things. So if you keep your hand to your nose he will know you are not smelling anything, so he'll keep quiet." "I don't--ah--know as I like that," stammered William Philander. "Carriage for the college!" called the driver, approaching, and before he could say anything the Rovers had Tubbs in the turnout. "Mr. Smith, Mr. Tubbs," said Dick, introducing the students. Smith bowed, and so did Tubbs. Then the hand of the dude went up to his nose and stayed there. "Good-by! See you later!" cried Tom. "Be careful," warned Sam, and tapped his nose. "I--I think I'd--ah--rather walk," groaned Tubbs. "It's too far," answered Dick. Then the carriage rolled away. As it passed out of sight they saw William Philander with his hand still tight on his olfactory organ. "Wonder what Smith will think?" remarked Dick after the three brothers had had a good laugh over the sight. "He'll certainly think Tubblets queer," answered Sam. "Tubby will be a barrel of fun," said Tom. "I'm mighty glad he's come. It will aid to brighten up our existence considerably." The Rover boys were soon on their way to where they were to meet the girls, at a point on the road some distance from Hope Seminary. Soon the whole crowd was in the big touring car, and away they skimmed over a road which, if it was not particularly good, was likewise by no means bad. "And where are we going?" asked Dora, for that had been kept a secret. "To a town about twenty miles from here," said Dick. "We are to have supper there, at the hotel." "How nice!" came in a chorus from the girls "I just love automobiling," said Nellie. "I wish I had a car." "I'll get you one," said Tom, and added in a whisper, "Just wait till we are settled down We'll have the finest auto rides that--" "Tom Rover!" cried Nellie, and then blushed and giggled. "Oh, look at the beautiful autumn leaves!" she added, to change the subject. But a second later she gave Tom an arch look that meant a good deal. They seemed to understand each other fully as well as did Dick and Dora. The ride to Toddville was one long to be remembered. They talked and sang, and the boys told of the meeting with Tubbs and the joke played, and this set the girls almost in hysterics, for they were acquainted with the dude, and knew his peculiarities. When they arrived at the hotel the spread was almost ready for them, and by the time they had washed and brushed up all felt rather hungry. There was a fine bouquet on the table, and in addition a tiny one at each plate. "Oh, how nice!" cried Grace. "Let me pin this on you," said Dora to Dick, and fastened the small bouquet in his buttonhole. The other girls performed a like service for Tom and Sam. The meal was served in a private dining-room, so all felt free to act as if they were at home. They talked and cracked jokes to their hearts' content, and the boys told their best stories. They also grew serious at times, talking of home and their folks. "Mamma hasn't heard another word from Tad Sobber," said Dora to Dick. "And I hope he never appears again," answered the oldest Rover. The meal was about half finished when one of the waiters came to Dick and said the chauffeur would like to speak to him. "Very well," answered the oldest Rover, and excusing himself to the others, he went out into the hallway. "I've just got a telephone message from Raytown," said the chauffeur. "My brother has been hurt at a fire there, and they want me. I don't know what to do. I might send for another man to run the car, but you'll have to wait until he comes. Would you be willing to do that?" "I might run the car myself," answered Dick. He could see that the chauffeur was much worried over the news he had received. "Could you do that, sir? If you could it would help me out a whole lot. My brother has a wife and two little children, and she'll be scared to death if Bill is injured." "Then go right along. Only see to it that the car is in good working order," answered Dick. And then he followed the chauffeur to the shed where the automobile was stored, and had the peculiar working of that make of car explained to him. As my old readers know, Dick had driven a car before, and understood very well how to do it. As there was no particular need for hurrying, and as it promised to be a fine moonlight night, the Rover boys and their company did not leave the hotel until nearly eight o'clock. Then Dick lit the lamps of the machine and ran it around to the piazza, and the others bundled in. "Are you sure you can run this car, Dick?" asked Dora a bit timidly. "Oh, yes, Dora. It is of a make that I have run before, only the other was a five-seat instead of a seven. But this one runs the same way." "Dick is a born chauffeur," said Sam. "Wait till you see him let the car out to sixty miles an hour." "Mercy! I don't want to run as fast as that!" cried Grace. "We'd all be killed if anything should happen," added Nellie. "Don't you worry. Dick will crawl along at three miles per," drawled Tom. "The moonlight is too fine to run fast. Besides, Dora is going to sit in front with him." "I'll make the run in about an hour and a half," said Dick, "and that is fast enough. We don't want to get back too early." "Might go around the block," suggested Sam. "Around the block would mean about fifteen miles extra," said Dora, who knew all about country "blocks." "I don't know the roads, so I'll keep to the one we came on," answered Dick. "All ready? Then off we go," he added, and started on low speed, which he soon changed to second and then high. "This is something like!" he cried as he settled back with his hands on the wheel. "Keep your eyes on the road, and not on Dora," cautioned Tom. "Say another word and I'll drag you from Nellie and make you run the car," retorted Dick, and then Tom shut up promptly. Mile after mile was covered, and Dick proved that he could run the big automobile fully as well as the regular driver. The moon was shining brightly, so that it was very pleasant. The party sang songs and enjoyed themselves immensely. They were still two miles from Ashton when they came to a turn in the road. Here there were a number of trees, and it was much darker than it had been. Dick slowed up a trifle and peered ahead. Suddenly the front lamps of the machine shone down on something in the roadway that sent back a strange sparkle of light. Dick bent forward and uttered an exclamation of dismay. He turned off the power and jammed on both brakes. "What's the matter?" cried Sam and Tom in a breath, and the girls gave a scream of fear. Bang! came a report from under the car. One of the tires had burst. CHAPTER XV AN AUTOMOBILING ADVENTURE "What did you run over?" asked Sam. "Look for yourself," returned his big brother. "This is an outrage! I wish I could catch the party responsible for it," he added bitterly. Dick had stopped the touring car in the midst of a quantity of broken glass bottles. The glass covered the road from side to side, and had evidently been put there on purpose. "Say, do you think that chauffeur had anything to do with this?" demanded Tom. "Hardly," answered Dick. "If his story about the fire was not true he'd know he'd be found out." "Maybe it was done by some country fellow who is running an auto repair shop," suggested Sam. "I've heard of such things being done--when business was dull." "Well, we'll have to fix the tire, that is all there is to it," said the oldest Rover. "Might as well get out while we are doing it," he added to the girls. "Lucky you stopped when you did," said Tom as he walked around the machine. "If you hadn't we might have had all four tires busted." "What a contemptible trick to play," said Dora as she alighted, "Can you mend the tire?" asked Nellie as she, too, got out, followed by her sister. "Oh, yes, we can mend it--or rather put on another," said Dick. "But we'll examine all the tires first," he added, taking off a lamp for that purpose. It was found that each tire had some glass in it, and the bits were picked out with care. While this was going on Dick suddenly swung the lamp around so that its rays struck through the trees and bushes lining the roadway. "Look! look!" he cried. "There is somebody watching us!" "The fellow who is guilty," added Sam. "Catch him!" came from Tom, and he made a quick rush forward. "Say, we've got to get out of here," came in a low voice from among the trees. "Run for all you are worth!" "I told you to get back," said another voice "Come on this way." A crashing through the brushwood back of the trees followed. Dick held up the lamp and threw the rays in the direction of the sounds. He and his brothers caught a glimpse of two boys or men hurrying away. "Stop, or I'll shoot!" cried Tom, although he had no weapon at his command. But this cry only made the fleeing ones move the faster. "Sam, you stay with the girls," said Dick quickly. "Tom and I can go after those rascals." "All right, but take care; they may be dangerous," answered the youngest Rover. Tom had picked up a good sized stone. Now he hurled it ahead into the bushes. A cry of alarm followed, but whether he hit anybody or not he could not till. Holding the lamp so that it would light up the scene ahead, Dick and Tom ran through the grove of trees and then into the thicket of brushwood beyond. They could hear two persons working their way along, and knew they must be the fellows they were after. Once they caught sight of the rascals, but the evildoers lost no time in seeking cover by running for another patch of undergrowth. "Say, this is fierce!" cried Tom as he stepped into a hole and tumbled headlong. "Well, it's just as bad for those fellows," answered Dick grimly. "Yes, but I reckon they are not dressed up as we are," Tom had on his tuxedo and a white tie, and Dick was similarly attired. But over the dress suit each wore a linen coat, buttoned close up to the neck. The two youths kept on until, much to their surprise, they came out on a back road that was almost as good as the highway they had left. Here was a rail fence, and as they halted at this Tom pointed down the road a distance. "Somebody on wheels," he cried. "Turn the light on 'em!" Dick did as requested, and to their astonishment they beheld two young fellows on bicycles. They had their heads bent low over the handlebars, and were streaking along at top speed. Soon a bend of the road hid them from view. "Those are the chaps who put that glass in the roadway," said Tom. "I believe you," answered his brother. "They came up here on their wheels and walked through the woods to do it. The question is, who are they?" "They are enemies of ours," was the prompt answer. "Yes; but how did they know we were coming this way, and in the auto?" "They might have overheard us talking to Songbird or Stanley." "Can they be Flockley and Koswell?" "More likely Koswell and Larkspur. Flockley hasn't the backbone to do a thing like this, He's too much of a dude." Dick and Tom took a look around the vicinity. By the light of the lamp they saw where the others had leaped the fence and mounted their bicycles. "They are the guilty ones, I am sure of that," said Dick. "I wish we had seen their faces." The youths went back to the auto and told of their adventure. Sam and the girls listened with interest to what they had to say. "Those boys must be very wicked," said Nellie. "If we had been running fast we might have had a serious accident." "Shall you accuse them of it?" asked Dora. "I don't know. I'll think it over," answered Dick. "The cut-up tire has got to be paid for," said Tom. "Whoever is guilty ought to be made to foot the bill." While Dick and Sam jacked up the axle of the automobile and put on a new tire--inner tube and shoe combined--Sam set to work and cleaned up the roadway, throwing all the glass into the bushes. Then the new tire was pumped up and tested. "Now we are all right again," said Dick. "I am glad we had to mend but one," said Tom. He felt pretty dirty from the job, but he was not going to tell the girls. All entered the touring car again, and Dick turned on the power. He ran slowly at first to test the new tire. "All O.K.," he announced presently, and then they went spinning along as before. But the "edge" had been taken off the ride, and they did not seem as free-hearted and full of fun as they had been before the mishap. It was after ten o'clock when the seminary was reached, and the girls found one of the under teachers waiting for them. "Young ladies, you were told to be in at ten," said the teacher severely. "It is now half after." "We had an accident," answered Dora, and told what it was. "You must not stay away later than the time originally allowed," said the teacher severely. "Remember that after this, please," and then she dismissed the girls. When the boys got to the garage where the automobile belonged they told the man in charge about the chauffeur and of what had happened on the road. The garage manager could hardly believe the story about the broken glass. "You'll have to pay for that tire," he said coldly. "You can't expect to make me stand the loss." "I suppose not," answered Dick "You can have the old tire repaired and send the bill to me. And now I want somebody to take us up to Brill just as quickly as it can be done. It is getting late." "I'll get a man right away," said the manager in a relieved tone, and two minutes later the three Rover boys were being whirled toward the college. "Do you think those fellows are back yet?" questioned Sam as they sped along the road. "That's what I want to find out," returned Dick. "That is, provided they came from here," They left the car at the entrance to the grounds, and the chauffeur at once turned around and started back for Ashton. "We'll take a look around the gymnasium first," said Dick. "That is where they keep the bicycles and such things." They hurried in the direction of the gymnasium, and finding the door unlocked, entered. The building was dark and deserted, for it was now after eleven o'clock. "Hello there!" called a voice from a distance, and a watchman appeared, lantern in hand. "What's wanted?" "We want to look at the bicycles, Pinkey," answered Dick. "The bicycles? Ain't goin' for no ride this time o' night, are you?" asked the watchman. "No. We want to see if any of them have been used." "Think somebody has been usin' your machine on the sly?" To this question the Rovers did not reply, for the reason that they had no bicycles at Brill. The watchman led the way to the bicycle room. Here were about twenty bicycles and half a dozen motor cycles, all belonging to various students. "Ain't half as many as there used to be," remarked Pinkey. "When the craze was on we had about a hundred an' fifty. It's all automobiling now." The boys looked over the various wheels and felt of the working parts and the lamps. Presently Sam found a hot lamp and Dick located another. "Who do these machines belong to?" asked Dick. "There's the list," said the watchman, pointing to a written sheet tacked on the wall "They are No. 15 and No. 9." The boys looked at the sheet, and read the names of Walter D. Flood and Andrew W. Crossley, two juniors, whom they knew by sight only. "They wouldn't play this trick on us," whispered Dick to his brothers. "They must have loaned their bicycles to others." "Right you are," answered Tom. "We'll have to question them." "Do you know where they room?" "No; but we can find out from the register." They entered their dormitory and found out that Flood and Crossley were in the next building, occupying Room 14 together. "That's luck," said Sam "We won't have to wake up anybody else" It was against the rules to be prowling around the dormitories so late at night, so the Rovers had to be cautious in their movements. They mounted the stairs to the second floor and had to hide in a corner while a proctor marched past and out of hearing. Then, aided by the dim light that was burning, they located No. 14 Dick knocked lightly on the door, and receiving no answer, knocked again. Still there was silence. "Must be pretty heavy sleepers," murmured Tom. "Try the doorknob." Dick did so, and found the door locked. Then he knocked again, this time louder than before. "You'll knock a long time to wake them up," said a voice behind them, and turning they saw Frank Holden grinning at them. "Hello," said Dick softly. "Why, what's wrong?" "Nobody in that room, that's all," answered the sophomore. "Don't Flood and Crossley sleep here?" asked Sam. "Yes, when they are at college, but they got permission to go home yesterday, and they went, and they won't be back until Monday." At this Dick whistled softly to himself. "It's all up, so far as finding out who used the wheels is concerned," he said to his brothers. "Whoever took them did so, most likely, without permission." "I guess you are right," returned Tom. "Anything I can do for you?" asked Frank Holden pleasantly. "Nothing, thank you," replied Dick; and then he and his brothers withdrew and made their way to their own rooms as silently as possible. On the way they stopped at the doors of the rooms occupied by Koswell and Larkspur and listened. The students within were snoring. "No use," said Tom softly. "We'll have to catch them some other way--if they are guilty," And his brothers agreed with him. CHAPTER XVI SOMETHING ABOUT A CANE But if Koswell and Larkspur were guilty, they kept very quiet about it, and the Rover boys were unable to prove anything against them. The bill for the cut-up tire came to Dick, and he paid it. The college talk was now largely about football, and one day a notice was posted that all candidates for admission on the big eleven should register at the gymnasium. "I think I'll put my name down," said Tom. "And I'll do the same," returned Dick, "but I doubt if well get much of a show, since they know nothing of our playing qualities here." There were about thirty candidates, including thirteen who had played on the big team before. But two of these candidates were behind in then studies, and had to be dropped, by order of the faculty. "That leaves a full eleven anyway of old players," said Sam. "Not much hope for you," he added to his brothers. "They'll do considerable shifting; every college team does," said Dick; and he was right. After a good deal of scrub work and a general sizing up of the different candidates, four of the old players were dropped, while another went to the substitutes' bench. It was now a question between nine of the new candidates, and after another tryout Dick was put in as a guard, he having shown an exceptional fitness for filling that position. Tom got on the substitutes' bench, which was something, if not much. Then practice began in earnest, for the college was to play a game against Roxley, another college, on a Saturday, ten days later. "I hope you win, Dick," said Sam, "And it's a pity you didn't get on the gridiron, Tom," he continued. "Oh, I'll get on, sooner or later," answered Tom with a grin. "Football is no baby play, and somebody is bound to get hurt." "You're not wishing that, are you?" asked Songbird. "No, indeed! But I know how it goes. Haven't I been hurt myself, more than once?" The football game was to take place at Brill, on the athletic field, and the college students were privileged to invite a certain number of their friends. The Rovers promptly invited Dora, Nellie and Grace, and it was arranged that Sam should see to it that the girls got there. "Sam will have as good a time as anybody," said Tom. "He'll have the three girls all to himself." "Well, you can't have everything in this world," replied the youngest Rover with a grin. "I guess football honors will be enough for you this time." "If we win," put in Dick. "I understand Roxley has a splendid eleven this season. They won out at Stanwell yesterday, 24 to 10." "I hear they are heavier than we are," said Tom. "At least ten pounds to the man. That is going to count for something." At that moment William Philander Tubbs came up. He was attired, as usual, in the height of fashion, and sported a light gold-headed cane. "For gracious sake, look at Tubby!" exclaimed Sam. "Talk about a fashion plate!" "Hello, Billy boy!" called out Tom. "Going to make a social call on your washerwoman?" "No. He's going to town to buy a pint of peanuts," said Sam. "I thought he might be going to a funeral-dressed so soberly," added Dick, and this caused a general laugh, for Tubbs was attired in a light gray suit, patent leathers with spats, and a cream-colored necktie, with gloves to match. "How do you do?" said William Philander politely, as if he had not seen the others in the classrooms an hour before. "Pleasant day." "Looks a bit stormy to me," answered Dick, as he saw several sophomores eyeing Tubbs angrily. It was against the rule of Brill for a freshman to carry a cane. "Stormy, did you say?" repeated the dude in dismay. "Why, I--ah--thought it very fine, don't you know. Perhaps I had better take an--ah--umbrella instead of this cane. "It would be much safer," returned Dick significantly. "But I--ah--don't see any clouds," went on William Philander, gazing up into the sky. "They are coming," cried Tom. "Stand from under!" called out Sam. And then the "clouds" did come, although not the kind the dude anticipated. Six sophomores came up behind Tubbs, and while two caught him by the arms a third wrenched the gold-headed cane from his grasp. "Hi! hi! Stop that, I say!" cried William Philander in alarm. "Let me alone! Give me back my cane!" "You don't get this cane back, freshie," answered one of the second-year students. "You must give it to me! Why, Miss Margaret DeVoe Marlow gave me that cane last summer, when we were at Newport. I want--" "No more cane for you, freshie!" was the cry. And then, to Tubbs' untold horror, one of the sophomores placed the cane across his knee as if to break it in two. "Don't you break that cane! Don't you dare to do it!" cried the dude, and then he commenced to struggle violently, for the cane was very dear to him, being a birthday gift from one of his warmest lady friends. In the scuffle which followed William Philander had his collar and necktie torn from him and his coat was split up the back. "Say, this is going too far!" cried Dick, and then he raised his voice: "Freshmen to the rescue!" "This is none of your affair," growled the sophomore who had led the attack on Tubbs. "Don't break that cane!" cried Tom. "If you do somebody will get a bloody nose!" "We'll do as we please!" cried several second-year students. Then Tom and Sam rushed for the cane and got hold of it. Two sophomores held fast on the other side, and a regular tug-of-war ensued. In the meantime other sophomores were making life miserable for Tubbs. They took his hat and used it for a football, and threw the dude on his back and piled on top of him until he thought his ribs were going to be stove in. "What's the row?" The call came from Stanley, and he and Max appeared, followed by Songbird and several others. "Attack on Tubblets!" called Tom. "To the rescue, everybody! Save the cane!" And then a crowd of at least twelve students surrounded the cane, hauling and twisting it this way and that. It was a determined but good-natured crowd. The sophomores felt they must break the offending stick into bits, while the freshmen considered it the part of honor to save the same bit of wood from destruction. At last Sam saw his chance, and with a quick movement he leaped directly on the shoulders of one of the second-year students. As the fellow went down he caught hold of two of his chums to save himself. This loosened the hold on the cane, and in a twinkling Sam, aided by Stanley, had it in his possession. He leaped down and started on a run for the dormitory. "After him! Get the cane!" "Don't let him get away with it!" "Nail him, somebody!" So the cries rang out. Several sophomores tried to head the youngest Rover off, but he was too quick for them. He dodged to the right and the left, and hurled one boy flat. Then he ran around a corner of a building, mounted the steps to a side door, and disappeared from view. "Hurrah for Sam Rover!" "Say, that was as good as a run on the football field!" "That's the time the sophs got left." "Hi! Where's my cane?" howled William Philander, gazing around in perplexity as soon as the second-year students let go of him. "Sam has it," answered Tom. "And it wasn't broken, either," he added with pride. "But--ah--why did he--ah--run away with it?" queried Tubbs innocently. "To stop the slaughter of the innocents," answered Dick. "He'll give it back to you later. But don't try to carry it again," went on Dick in a low voice. "Just look at me!" moaned William Philander as he gazed at the wreck of his outfit. "Look at this tie--and it cost me a dollar and seventy-five cents!" "Be thankful you weren't killed," answered a sophomore. "Don't you know better than to carry a cane." "I--ah--fancy I'll carry a cane if I wish," answered Tubbs with great dignity. "Not around Brill," answered several. "And--ah--why not?" "Because you're a freshie, that's why. You can wear the colors--because of the necktie rush--but you can't carry a cane." "Oh--ah--so that's it!" cried William Philander, a light breaking in on him. "But why didn't you come up politely and tell me so, instead of rushing at me like a--ah--like mad bulls? It was very rude, don't you know." "Next time we'll send you a scented note by special liveried messenger," said one of the second-year students in disgust. "We'll have it on engraved paper, too," added another. "Thank you. That will be--ah--better," replied William Philander calmly. "But look at my suit," he continued, and gave a groan. "I can't--ah--make any afternoon calls to-day, and I was going to a pink tea--" "Wow! A pink tea, boys!" yelled one of the boys. "Wouldn't that rattle your back teeth?" "Never mind, Tubby. The cook will give you a cup of coffee instead," said Tom. "I should think you'd feel blue instead of pink," added Spud Jackson. "Sew up the coat with a shoestring, and let it go at that," suggested Max. "If you want to paste that collar fast again I've got a bottle of glue," said Songbird. "Now--ah--don't you poke fun at me!" stormed William Philander. "Haven't I suffered enough already?" "Why, we're not poking fun; we're weeping," said Tom, and pretended to wipe his eyes with his handkerchief. "I am so sorry I could eat real doughnuts," said Dick. "Maybe you want to send a substitute to that pink tea," came from Stanley. "You might call on Professor Sharp." "Or Pinkey, the watchman," said Max. "He'll do it for a quarter, maybe." "I--ah--don't want any substitute," growled William Philander. "I--ah--think you are--ah--very rude, all of you. I am going back to my room, that is what I am going to do." At this Tom began to sing softly: "Don't be angry, William, darling! Wipe the raindrops from your eyes. All your sorrows will be passing When you're eating Christmas pies!" "You stop that--you mean thing!" burst out the dude, and then turning, he almost ran for the dormitory, the laughter of the students ringing out loudly after him. CHAPTER XVII A MISUNDERSTANDING "Here's a letter from father--quite an important one, too," said Dick as he joined his brothers in one of the rooms several days later. "What about?" questioned Sam, while Tom looked up from a book with interest. "It's about Tad Sobber and that fortune from Treasure Isle," answered Dick. "What! Has that rascal showed up again?" exclaimed Tom. "He has; and according to what father says, he is going to make all the trouble possible for the Stanhopes and the Lanings," "That's too bad," said Sam. "I'll read the letter," went on Dick, and proceeded to do so. In part the communication ran as follows: "You wrote that you knew about Sobber's call upon Mrs. Stanhope. Well, after the girls left for Hope Seminary, Sobber and a lawyer named Martin Snodd called upon Mr. Laning and then upon me. Sobber was very bitter, and he wanted to know all about what had been done with the treasure. He claims that he and his uncle, who is dead, were robbed of the boxes. Evidently Sobber and the lawyer had talked the matter over carefully, for the latter intimated that Sobber might settle the case if the Stanhopes and the Lanings would give him seventy-five per cent. of the fortune. Mr. Laning did not wish to go to law, and told Sobber he might be willing to settle for a small amount, say two or three thousand dollars. But Sobber wouldn't listen to this, and went off declaring he would have it all. "'Since that time Martin Snodd has been busy, and he has obtained a temporary injunction against the Stanhopes and the Lanings, so that they cannot touch a dollar of the money, which, as you know, is now in several banks. The matter will now have to await the result of the case, which will probably be tried in court some months from now. "'I have learned that Sobber has little or no money, and that Martin Snodd has taken the case on speculation, Sobber to allow him half of whatever he gets out of it. Snodd's reputation is anything but good, so I am afraid he will have a lot of evidence manufactured to order. I have recommended a firm of first-class lawyers to Mrs. Stanhope and the Lanings, and they will, of course, fight the matter to the bitter end." "This is too bad!" cried Sam after Dick had finished. "So the fortune is tied up so they can't spend a cent of what's left?" "They can't touch a cent until the courts decide who the fortune really belongs to," answered Dick, "and if Sobber should win, the Stanhopes and the Lanings will have to pay back that which they have already used." "Oh, how can Sobber win?" cried Tom. "Father said the Stanhope and Laning claims were perfectly legal." "True, Tom; but you can never tell how a case is going to turn out in court. If this Martin Snodd is a shyster he may have all sorts of evidence cooked up against our friends. Sobber would most likely swear to anything, and so would some of the sailors saved from the _Josephine_. And then there are some of Sid Merrick's other relatives, who would try to benefit by the case. They'd probably testify in favor of Sobber, for they wouldn't expect anything from Mrs. Stanhope or the Lanings." "But the records of Mr. Stanhope's business deals ought, to be clear," said Sam. "They are not as clear as one would wish, so father told me," answered Dick. He gave a long sigh. "Too bad! And just when we thought the Stanhopes and the Lanings could sit down and enjoy all that fortune." "I wonder if the girls know of this yet?" mused Tom. "Most likely they have had word from home," answered Dick. "It will make them feel pretty sore," said Sam. "Yes, it would make anybody feel sore," answered the oldest Rover. "We'll have to drive over and see, the first chance we get." When they met the girls the boys learned that they knew all about the affair. All were worried, and showed it. "This will upset mamma very much," said Dora. "I am afraid it will put her in bed." "It's too bad, but it can't be helped," said Dick. "Dick, do you think we ought to buy Sobber off?" "No. He doesn't deserve a cent of that money." "Papa says the case will not come up for a long time, the courts are so crowded with cases," remarked Nellie. "He is about as worried as anybody, for he has already spent several thousand dollars, and if we lose he won't know how to pay it back," "We'll lend him the cash," said Tom promptly, and for this Nellie gave him a grateful look. The boys did their best to cheer up the girls, but their efforts were not entirely successful. All felt that the coming legal contest would be a bitter one, and that Tad Sobber and the shyster lawyer who was aiding him would do all in their power to get possession of the fortune found on Treasure Isle. The girls were coming to the football game with Sam, and all said they trusted Brill would win the contest. "We are all going to carry Brill flags," said Grace, "and I am going to root--isn't that what you call it?--as hard as I can." "Then we'll be sure to win!" cried Dick. Yet the oldest Rover was by no means confident. The Brill eleven had heard that their opponents were in the pink of condition. They had played three games already, and won all of them. Brill had played against the scrub only, which was hardly a test of what it could do. The day for the contest dawned clear and bright, and early in the afternoon the visitors from Roxley, Hope, and other institutions of learning, as well as from Ashton and other towns, commenced to pour in. They came on foot, in carriages and automobiles, and on bicycles, and soon the grandstand and the bleachers were filled to overflowing. Flags and college colors were in evidence everywhere, and so were horns and rattles. While Dick was waiting to catch sight of the carriage containing Sam and the girls from Hope he saw another turnout approaching. In it were Mr. Sanderson and his daughter Minnie. "Why, how do you do, Mr. Rover!" cried the girl pleasantly. "Very well," answered Dick politely, raising his cap. "And how are you?" "Oh, fine! I made papa drive me over to see the game. It's going to be something grand, so I've heard," went on Minnie, and then she added: "Thought you and your brothers were coming to see us?" "We--er--we haven't had much time," stammered Dick. He did not care to add that when he went to see a young lady it was always Dora Stanhope, and that Tom and Sam called only on Nellie and Grace Laning. "I've been expecting you," said the girl with a pretty pout. "Have Dudd Flockley and Jerry Koswell been there since?" "Yes, both of them came once, and Flockley came after that, but I refused to see them. Mr. Flockley wished to bring me to see this game, but I sent word that I was going with papa." "He ought to know enough to stay away by this time," said Dick. He could think of no other remark to make. "Can I get a seat anywhere?" asked Minnie, looking anxiously over in the direction of the grandstand. "I think so. Wait, I'll look." "Hold on," put in Mr. Sanderson. "Just you take Minnie along, Mr. Rover. I'll go and take care of the hoss. I can stand anywhere and look on." Minnie prepared to spring to the ground, and there was nothing to do but for Dick to assist her. He wondered if Sam was coming with Dora and the others, but did not see them. Then he led the way through the crowd to where some seats were reserved. "I think you'll be able to see nicely from here," he said. "Oh, I know I shall." She smiled broadly at him. "You are very kind. I don't know what I should have done if I had been alone--there is such a jam. Oh, I do hope you win!" And Minnie beamed on Dick in a manner that made him blush, for he saw that several were watching them. "I must go now. It is getting late," said Dick after a little more talk. He turned, to see Sam, Dora and the Laning girls only a few seats away. Dora was looking fully at Minnie Sanderson with wide open eyes and a flush mounting to her cheeks. "Oh, so you've arrived!" cried Dick cheerily, but his voice had a catch in it. Somehow he felt guilty, he could not tell why. "Yes, here we are," answered Nellie. "And what a crowd!" added Grace. Dora said not a word. She had stopped looking at Minnie and her eyes were directed to nothing at all on the football field. "Well, Dora, are you going to wish me success?" asked Dick, bound to say something. "Oh, I guess all your lady friends will wish you that," was the answer in a voice that did not seem like Dora's at all. "Why, what's the matter?" he asked in a low voice meant only for her ears. "Nothing." "But there is, Dora." "You had better go down to the field now. I see the other players are getting ready." "But if you are angry at me--" "Oh, I am not angry, so please leave me alone!" And now Dora turned still further away, while something like tears began to spring into her eyes. Dick drew back, for her tone of voice nettled him. He felt he had done nothing wrong. He did not see that look in her eyes, or he would have understood how much she was hurt. He turned, nodded pleasantly to Nellie and Grace, and hurried from the grandstand. "Where have you been?" asked Tom when he appeared in the dressing-room. "Up on the stand, talking to the girls," was Dick's short answer. "Anything wrong? You look out of sorts." "No, nothing is wrong," answered the oldest Rover. But he felt that there was something my much wrong, yet he could not tell Tom. "I didn't do anything out of the way, I'm sure I didn't," Dick murmured to himself as he prepared to go out on the gridiron. "Any gentleman would have found a seat for Miss Sanderson. I suppose Dora saw me talking to her, and now she imagines all sorts of things. It isn't fair. Well, I don't care." And Dick whistled to himself, just to keep up his courage. He did care a great deal. At last he was ready, and he followed Tom out on the field. The Roxley team had just come out, and their friends were giving them a royal welcome. "Roxley! Roxley!" they shouted. "They are the boys to win!" "It's Brill this time!" was the answering rally, and then horns and rattles added to the din, while banners were waved gaily in the bracing autumn air. Dick looked toward the grandstand, trying to single out Dora. Instead, his eyes met those of Minnie Sanderson, and she waved both her banner and her handkerchief. He answered the salute, and then turned to look where Dora and the Lanings were sitting. Nellie and Grace, as well as Sam, cheered him, but Dora took no notice. But she waved her flag at Tom. This last action made Dick's heart sink, figuratively speaking, to his shoes. How could a fellow hope to play and win with his girl cutting him like that? But then of a sudden he shut his teeth hard. "I'll win even if she doesn't care," he told himself. "I'll not do it for her, or myself--I'll do it for the honor of Brill!" CHAPTER XVIII THE GREAT FOOTBALL GAME It is not my intention to give all the particulars of that game of football between Brill and Roxley, for the reason that I have many other things to tell about. Yet I feel that I must tell something of that great second half, which nobody who saw it will ever forget. In the first half Roxley had the kick-off, and they played such a fierce whirlwind game that before the leather had been on the gridiron eight minutes they scored a touchdown. Then they made another touchdown, and just before the whistle blew for the end of the first half one of their players kicked a goal from the field. And Brill scored nothing. More than this, the playing was so rough that two of the Brill eleven and one from Roxley had to retire from the field. Of course the visitors went wild with joy, and shouted themselves hoarse. They waved their colors, swung their rattles, and tooted their horns for fully five minutes, while the silence among the Brill contingent was so thick it could be "cut with a knife," as Sam afterward expressed it. "It's all over," murmured Stanley with a glum look on his face. "Their eleven this year are too heavy for us." "We can't meet them in mass play, that's certain," was Dick's comment. "If we are going to gain anything at all it must be by open work." "Tom Rover can take Felton's place," came the order from the head of the team, and Tom at once threw off the blanket he had been using and got into practice with another new man and some others. Dick felt sore, physically and mentally. He had been roughly used by two of the Roxley players, and had made a fumble at a critical moment. And all during that heartrending first half Dora had not noticed him at all! The coach did some plain talking to the players while in the dressing-room, and told them of where he thought Roxley might be weak--at the left end. "Don't mass unless you absolutely have to," were his words of caution. "They have the weight, but I don't think they have the wind. Keep them on the jump. I think that is your only chance." When the whistle blew for the second half the Brill eleven came out on the gridiron with a "do or die" look on their faces. "Now pile it into 'em!" cried the coach. "Don't give 'em time to think about it!" Whether it was this caution, or the very desperateness of the case, it would be hard to say, but true it is that Brill went at their opponents "hammer and tongs" from the very start. They avoided all wedge work and confined themselves as much as possible to open playing. More than this, they used a little trick Dick had once played when on the eleven at Putnam Hall. The ball was passed from right to left, then to center, and then to left again, and then carried around the end for a gain of twenty-five yards. Then it was picked up again, turned back and to the left once more, and forced around the end for twenty yards more. "That's the way to do it!" yelled several of the Brill supporters. "Over with it, while you've got the chance!" The ball was forced back by sheer weight of Roxley, but only for five yards. Then the Brill quarter-back got it, sent it over to Toms and in a twinkling Tom "nursed" it to where he wanted it and kicked a goal from the field. "Hurrah! hurrah! hurrah!" "That's the way to do it!" "Now, then, for another!" "By the great Julius Caesar!" cried Sam. "Isn't that fine?" "Oh, it was grand!" exclaimed Nellie, and she waved her banner directly at Tom, and he waved his hand in return. Just then Nellie felt as if she could go and hug him. "It certainly was fine," said Grace, "but it's only one goal, and they have such a big score," she pouted. "Never mind. We won't be whitewashed, anyway." "It's a pity they didn't have Tom in the first half," said Dora. Although her heart was strangely sore, she nevertheless felt proud of what Tom had accomplished. Again the two elevens went at it, and now Roxley tried again to force the center by a rush. But to their surprise Brill shifted to the left--that one weak spot--and got the ball on a fumble by the Roxley half-back. There was more quick action by four of the Brill players, and when the scrimmage came to an end the leather was found just three yards from the Roxley goal line. And then came that awful struggle, where muscle met muscle in a strain that was truly terrific. Roxley was heavier, but its wind was going fast. Brill held at first, then went ahead--an inch--a foot--a yard. "Hold 'em! Hold 'em!" was the Roxley cry. But it was not to be. The yard became two, and then the leather went over with a rush. "A touchdown! A touchdown for Brill!" "Now make it a goal!" was the cry, and a goal it became, the Brill quarter-back doing the kicking. From that moment on the battle waged with a fury seldom seen on any gridiron. Brill, from almost certain defeat, commenced to scent a victory, and went into the play regardless of physical consequences. Tom had his thumb wrenched and Dick had his ankle skinned, but neither gave heed to the hurts. Indeed, they never noticed them until the game was at an end. And then came Dick's hour of triumph. How he got the ball from the burly Roxley right guard nobody could exactly tell afterward but get the ball he did, and rounded two rival players before they knew what was up. Then down the field he sped, with his enemies yelling like demons behind him, and his friends on the benches encouraging him to go on. He saw nothing and heard nothing until on the grandstand he perceived a slender girlish form arise, wave a banner, and fairly scream: "Dick! Dick! Run! run! run!" "It's Dora," he thought. "Dora sees me! She wants me to win!" It was the last bit of inspiration he needed, and as a Roxley full-back came thundering up to him he threw the fellow headlong. Then straight as an arrow from a bow he rushed for the goal line, crossed it, and sank limply down in front of the grandstand. "Hurrah for Dick Rover!" "Say, wasn't that a dandy run?" "Those brothers can certainly play!" "It's Brill's game now! Roxley is going to pieces!" Amid a great din the leather was taken down into the field and the goal was kicked. "Want to get out of the game?" Dick was asked as he came down, breathing heavily. "No, not unless I'm put out," was the gritty answer. "You'll not be put out. That was the finest run ever made on this field." What had been said about Roxley going to pieces was, in part, true. Several shifts were made in the players, but this did not aid the eleven. With twelve minutes more to play, Brill kept up its winning streak, and secured another touchdown and goal and then a safety. When the whistle finally blew the ball was well in Roxley's territory. "Brill wins!" "Say, wasn't that a great game? All Roxley the first half and all Brill the second." "Talk about a team pulling itself together! I never saw anything like what Brill did in the second half." "Nor I." "Those two Rover boys are winders." So the talk ran on. Of course, Roxley was keenly disappointed, but it tried not to show it, and sang songs and cheered its opponents. And Brill cheered the enemy, as is the custom. Tom and Dick were surrounded by a host of friends, and had to shake hands over and over again, and had to have their hurts washed and bound up. Both wanted to get to where Sam and the girls had been left, but this was impossible for quite a while, and then, much to their surprise, they found their brother and the others had gone, and Minnie Sanderson had departed also. "Wonder where they went to?" questioned Tom. "I told Sam we'd be along as soon as possible." To this Dick did not answer. He was thinking deeply. Was Dora still angry, in spite of how she had cheered him? "There they are!" cried Tom a few minutes later, as he and Dick walked toward the river. He had seen Nellie and Grace on a bench in the sun, surrounded by a number of other visitors. He hurried up to them, his brother following more slowly. "Where are Dora and Sam?" he questioned, looking around. "Dora asked to go back to the seminary," answered Nellie, and looked sharply at Dick. "To the seminary?" repeated Tom in wonder. "Why, how's that?" "She said she had a--headache." "Is that so? That's too bad! Why didn't she wait for Dick to take her over?" "I--I don't know, Tom." Nellie lowered her voice, so Dick might not hear. "Something is wrong between them. I don't know what it is." "Wrong? Why, how can that be? I didn't hear of anything," Tom now spoke in a whisper. "Well, I am sure something is wrong. They acted queer when Dick came to the grandstand before the game commenced. Dora's heart was not in the game at all. She was ready to go before it was over." "By the way, Tom, who was that other girl?" asked Grace pointedly. "What other girl?" "The girl Dick was talking to here on the grandstand." "Oh, that was the farmer's daughter we helped when we first came to Ashton. Her name is Minnie Sanderson. We told you about her." "She seems to think a good deal of Dick," was Nellie's comment. "Why, you don't mean--" Tom looked around, expecting to see Dick close by. "Hello! Where did he go?" he cried. "Dick is walking back to the college," said Grace. "Hi, Dick!" called out Tom to his brother. "Where are you going?" "Up to my room," answered Dick. "Yes, but see here--" "Can't see now. I'll see you later," answered Dick. He waved his cap and bowed. "Good-by, Nellie! Good-by, Grace!" And then he turned on his heel and continued on his way to the dormitory building. "Well, if this doesn't beat the Chinese!" murmured Tom. "He must be very angry over something," murmured Nellie. "I think he might have come and shook hands when he said good-by," said Grace with a pout. "I think so myself," answered Tom. "Say, do you think it's that girl?" he went on, in his usual blunt fashion. "It must be," answered Nellie, who was equally frank on all occasions. "I don't know what else it could be." "But Dick hasn't done anything. I am sure of it. Why, I don't think he has seen her since we stopped at her home that time." "Well, he seemed very attentive to her here in the stand," said Grace, "and if you'll remember, he didn't meet us when we arrived. I am sure Dora looked for him." Tom gave a long sigh and shrugged his shoulders. "This takes the edge off the victory," he murmured. "I thought the six of us would have a jolly time for the rest of the day." "It certainly is too bad," answered Nellie. "But I don't think Dora is to blame." "Oh, of course a girl will stick up for another girl," retorted Tom, bound to say something in his brother's defense. "Tom Rover!" cried Nellie, and then she showed that she was displeased. It was quite a while before Sam came back from seeing Dora to the seminary. He, too, thought Dora was more to blame than Dick, and this did not altogether please Grace. As a consequence there was a coldness all around, and the rest of the afternoon dragged most woefully. Dick did not return, and at last Sam and Tom saw the Laning girls back to their school. "A pretty mess of fish!" muttered Sam on returning to Brill. "Yes; and where is it going to end?" asked Tom dolefully. It was the first time there had been such cold feelings all around. CHAPTER XIX MORE COMPLICATIONS The football eleven celebrated the victory that evening by bonfires and by something of a feast. Of course Tom and Dick were present, as were also Sam and a host of others, but it must be confessed that the Rovers did not enjoy themselves. "See here, Dick," said Tom after the festivities were over, "what is this trouble between you and Dora?" "Don't ask me, ask her," returned Dick shortly. "She knows more about it than I do." "She won't say a word," came from Sam "She said she didn't feel well, that's all; and I know that wasn't true altogether." "Was it that Minnie Sanderson?" went on Tom. "If it was, it wasn't my fault," answered Dick. "But what did you do?" insisted Tom. He was bound to get at the bottom of the affair. Thereupon Dick was compelled to relate all that had happened, which, in truth, was not much. "And is that all?" asked Sam. "Yes." "I don't see why she should be put out over that," said Tom slowly. "But then girls are queer. The more you know them the less you understand them." "Grace and Nellie take Dora's part," said Sam with a deep sigh. "It has put us all somewhat on the outs." "I am sorry to hear that," answered Dick, and his tone of voice showed that he was sincere. "But I don't know what I can do," he added helplessly. "I don't want to be on the outs with anybody, but if Dora is bound to turn the cold shoulder to me--" He did not finish. Following the game with Roxley, Brill played two other games with a college from Delton and another from Speer. The game with the latter college resulted in a tie, but Delton was beaten by Brill by a score of 16 to 10. Tom and Dick played in both games, and won considerable credit for their work. During these days the boys did not see the girls, nor did they hear from them. Thanksgiving was passed at Brill, only a few of the students going home. Among the number to leave were Dudd Flockley and Jerry Koswell, and they did not return until a week later. The dude and his crony, as well as Larkspur, were still down upon the Rovers, but for the present they kept quiet, the reason being that they were behind in their lessons and had to work hard to make up. But all were watching their chances to do the Rover boys some injury on the quiet. Dick, Tom and Sam got along well in their studies. The only trouble they had in the classroom was with Professor Sharp, who made them "toe the mark" upon every occasion. But they took good care to obey the rules, so the irascible teacher got no chance to lecture or punish them. The boys got a number of letters from home, and these brought news that the law case Tad Sobber had instituted against the Stanhopes and the Lanings was being pushed vigorously. Mr. Rover wrote that he felt certain the shyster lawyer Sobber had on the case was going to present a great mass of "evidence," no doubt manufactured for the occasion. "It's a shame!" cried Tom after hearing this. "Such a lawyer ought to be in prison!" "The thing of it is to prove he is doing something wrong," answered Dick. "It is one thing to know the truth and quite another to prove it in court." "If the case should be lost the Lanings will be poorer than ever," said Sam. "That is true, Sam. I wish we could do something, but I am afraid we can't." Fate seemed bound to make matters worse for the Rover boys. On a clear, cold Saturday afternoon in December the three brothers and Songbird went out to look for nuts in the woods near Ashton. They had heard that the seminary girls occasionally visited the woods for that purpose, and each was secretly hoping to run across Dora and the Lanings. It did not take the boys long to reach the woods, and they soon found a spot where hickory nuts were plentiful. They had brought some bags along, and were soon hard at work gathering the nuts. While thus occupied they heard a number of girls coming along. At first they fancied the newcomers might be from the seminary, but soon saw that they were natives of the place. They were five in number, and among them was Minnie Sanderson. "Why, how do you do?" said Minnie, coming up with a smile on her face. "How strange to meet out here!" And then she shook hands with each of the Rovers, and speedily introduced her friends, and the Rovers introduced Songbird. Minnie was neatly attired in a brown dress, with a brown hat to match, and while she did not look anyway "stunning," she made an attractive appearance. Her friends, too, were pretty, and well dressed, and all were very jolly. "It's a nice bunch, all right," murmured Tom to Sam. "I like their open-hearted way of talking." "So do I," answered the youngest Rover. The girls joined the boys in gathering nuts, and so spent an enjoyable hour roaming through the woods. Often the Rovers and Songbird would knock down the nuts with sticks and stones and leave the girls to gather what they wanted. "We like to have a large quantity of nuts on hand for the winter," said Minnie to Dick. "Then, when there is a deep snow on the ground we can sit before the blazing fire and crack nuts and eat them. You must come over some time this winter and help," she added. "Perhaps I will," murmured Dick. He had to admit to himself that Minnie was very cordial and that she was by no means bad looking. He did not wonder why Flockley and Koswell were so anxious to call upon her. Roaming through the woods caused Songbird to become poetic, and while they rested in the sunshine, and picked some of the nuts that Tom and Sam had cracked, he recited some verses composed on the spur of the moment: "Hark to the silence all around! The well-trained ear doth hear no sound. The birds are silent in their nest, All tired Nature is at rest. The brook in silence finds its way From shadows deep to perfect day. The wind is dead, there is no breeze--" "To make a fellow cough and sneeze!" murmured Tom, and gave a loud ker-chew! that set all the girls to laughing. "That isn't right!" declared Songbird half angrily. "There is no sneeze in this poem," "Oh, excuse me. I only thought I'd help you out," answered Tom soberly. And then the would-be poet continued: "The wind is dead, there is no breeze To stir the bushes or the trees. Full well I know, as here I stand, That Solitude commands the land!" "Good! Fine! Immense! Great!" cried Sam enthusiastically. "Hurrah for Solitude!" "Why, Mr. Powell, you are a real poet," said one of the girls gravely. And this pleased Songbird greatly. "You'll have to write in my autograph album," said another, and the would-be poet readily consented. Later he inscribed a poem in the book three pages long. At last it came time to leave the woods, and the boys walked with the girls toward the road. As they did this they heard the sound of wheels. "Must be a carriage coming," said Dick, and stepped into the roadway to see, followed by the others in the party. A few seconds later a turnout rumbled into sight. It was the Hope Seminary carryall, and it contained half a dozen girls, including Dora, Nellie and Grace. "Hello! Look there!" cried Tom, and raised his cap, and the other boys did the same. Dora and her cousins looked at the crowd, and their faces flushed. They bowed rather stiffly, and then the carryall bowled on its way. "Why, those are your friends!" cried Minnie, turning to the Rovers. "Don't you want to speak to them?" "It's too late now," answered Dick. He had a curious sinking sensation in his heart that he could not explain. He looked at his brothers, and saw that they, too, were out of sorts. The passing of the carryall put a damper on matters, and the girls felt it. They talked with the Rovers and Songbird a few minutes longer and then turned in one direction while the Brill students turned in another. "Fine lot of girls," was Songbird's comment. "Very nice, indeed. And they know how to appreciate poetry, too," he added with satisfaction. "Oh, yes, they are all right," answered Dick carelessly. Somehow, he was now sorry he had gone to the woods after nuts. "I am going to call on all of them some time," went on Songbird. "That Minnie Sanderson told me she plays the piano, and sings. I am going to get her to sing a new song I am writing. It goes like this--" "Excuse me, Songbird; not now," said Dick. "I want to do an extra lesson." And he hurried off, while Sam and Tom did the same. Two hours later Dick ran into William Philander Tubbs, who had been down to town in company with Stanley. "Had a lovely time, don't you know," drawled William Philander. "While Stanley posted some letters and addressed some picture postals I did up the shops. And what do you think? I found a beautiful new maroon necktie, and it was only a dollar--same kind they would charge one seventy-five for in the big cities. And I saw a new style of collar, and some patent-leather pumps that have bows with loose ends, and--" "Some other time, Billy," interrupted Dick. "I'm in a hurry now." "Oh, I'm sorry. But, Dick, one other thing. I met Miss Stanhope and her cousins." "You did?" And now Dick was willing to listen. "Where?" "At one of the stores. They were doing some buying, in company with those chaps you don't like." "The chaps I don't like! You don't mean--" Dick paused in wonder. "I mean that Flockley chap and his chums, Koswell and Larkspur." "Were Miss Stanhope and the Misses Laning with those fellows?" demanded the elder Rover. "They seemed to be. They were buying fruit and candy, and I think Flockley treated to hot chocolate. The girls seemed glad enough to see me, but I--ah--didn't want to--ah--break in, you know, so I came away." "Where did they go after having the chocolate and candy?" "I don't know. I didn't see them after that." And there the talk came to an end, for several other students appeared. Dick walked off in a thoughtful mood. "Deeper and deeper!" he told himself, with something like a groan. Then he hunted up Sam and Tom. "Going with Flockley and that crowd!" cried Tom. "Not much! I won't have it!" And he commenced to pace the floor. "What are you going to do about it?" asked Sam. "Call on the girls and talk it over--and you and Dick are going with me." "I'll not go," declared Dick. "Neither will I," added Sam. "Yes, you shall--and to-night," said Tom firmly. CHAPTER XX DAYS OF WAITING Eight o'clock that evening saw the three Rovers on their way to Hope Seminary. Tom was the leader, and it had taken a good half hour's arguing on his part to get Dick and Sam to accompany him. "You'll make a fool of yourself, and make fools of us, too," was the way Sam expressed himself. "Most likely they won't want to see us," was Dick's opinion. "If they don't want to see us, really and truly, I want to know it," answered Tom bluntly. "I don't believe in this dodging around the bush. There is no sense in it." It had angered him to think Nellie had been seen in the company of Flockley and his cronies, and he was for "having it out" without delay. "Well, you'll have to lead the way," said Dick. "I'm not going to make a call and have Dora send down word that she can't see me." "She won't do that," said Tom. "I know her too well." "Well, you call on Nellie first." "I'm not afraid," retorted Tom. He was so "worked up" he was willing to do almost anything. The nearer the three students got to the seminary the slower they walked. Even Tom began to realize that he had undertaken what might prove a very delicate mission. "I think it would have been better to have sent a letter," suggested Sam. "Let's go back and write it before we go to bed." "And put down something in black and white that you'd be sorry for afterward," grumbled Dick. At the entrance to the seminary grounds they halted again, but then Tom caught each brother by the arm and marched them up to the front door and rang the bell. A maid answered their summons and led them to a reception-room. A minute later one of the teachers appeared. "Why, I thought you young gentlemen knew the young ladies had gone away," said the teacher after they had mentioned the object of their visit. "They said they were going to send you a note." "Gone away!" echoed Dick. "Yes. The three left for home on the late afternoon train. Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning said it was a matter of business. Then you didn't get their note?" "We did not," answered Tom. "That is too bad. I am sure they spoke of sending it. Wait, I will ask Parks, our messenger, about it." The teacher left the room, and the Rover boys looked speculatively at each other. "They must have been getting ready to leave when Tubbs saw them," said Dick. "And we never knew they were going," added Sam bitterly. "The matter of business must refer to that Sobber case," said Tom. "I don't know what else could take them home." "Maybe they have lost the case and must give the treasure up," said Sam. "In that case, Mr. Laning would have to take the girls away from such an expensive place as this." In a few minutes the lady teacher came back. "Parks says he took three notes, addressed to Richard, Thomas and Samuel Rover. He says he went over to Brill this morning with them and gave them to a man named Filbury." "Filbury, eh?" said Dick, naming an old man who worked around the dormitories. "Well, we didn't get them, and I am very sorry." "So am I, Mr. Rover," said the teacher. "Do you know how long the young ladies will be gone?" "They could not tell. They said they would send letters after they arrived home." This was all the seminary teacher could tell, and a minute later the Rovers said good night and left. All hurried from the grounds in deep thought. "We must find Filbury and see what he did with those letters," said Tom, and his brothers agreed with him. When they reached Brill they located the man they were after fixing a light in one of the halls. "Where are those letters you got for us this morning, Filbury?" asked Dick sternly. "Letters?" asked the old man, who was rather absent minded. "I don't remember no letters, Mr. Rover." "I mean the three letters which Parks of Hope Seminary gave you for me and my brothers." "Oh, them. I remember now. Let me see. Yes, I got them, and one for Mr. Flockley, too. I gave him all the letters. He said he'd hand 'em to you." And apparently satisfied, Filbury resumed his work on the light. "When was this?" demanded Sam. "About eleven o'clock. I hope it's all right. I would have delivered the letters myself, only I had a lot of work to do." "It is not all right, and we are going to look into the matter at once," said Dick; and hurried off with Tom and Sam at his heels. They went straight to the room occupied by Flockley and Koswell, and knocked on the door. There was a stir within, a few whispered words, and then the door was opened. "What do you want?" asked Jerry Koswell. Flockley was sitting by the table, reading. "Flockley, what did you do with those letters you got from Filbury for us?" demanded Dick, striding into the room. "Letters?" asked the dude carelessly. "Oh, I put them on the table in Tom and Sam's room." "When?" "This morning." "They weren't there after dinner," said Sam. "Nor after supper, either," added Tom. "Look here, do you accuse me of stealing your letters?" demanded Flockley, rising as if in anger. "No; but we want to know where they are," answered Tom. "I told you what I did with them. I wouldn't have touched the letters, only Filbury asked me to do the favor. If they are not on the table maybe the wind swept them to the floor. Did you look?" "No." "Then you had better." "You might have spoken about them, Flockley," said Dick coldly. "Any other student would have done so." "Or you could have handed us the letters at lunch," added Sam. "I am not your hired man!" cried Dudd Flockley. "Next time I'll not touch the letters at all!" And then he dropped back into his chair and pretended to read again. "If we don't find the letters you'll hear from us again," said Dick. And then he and his brothers retired. They entered the room occupied by Sam and Tom and lit up. The notes were not on the table. "Here they are!" cried Sam, and picked them up from the floor, under the edge of Tom's bed. They looked rather mussed up, and all of the Rovers wondered if Flockley had opened and read them. "I don't think he'd be any too good to do it," muttered Tom as he opened the note addressed to himself. It was from Nellie, and rather cool in tone. It said all were called home on account of the case at court, but did not give any particulars. At the bottom was mentioned the time of departure from Hope and also from Ashton. The notes from Dora and Grace contained about the same information, and Grace added that she wanted Sam to write to her. "If we had had these letters this afternoon we might have gone to Hope instead of nutting," said Tom bitterly. "They must have expected to see us, either there or at the depot," said Sam. "Otherwise they wouldn't have been so particular about mentioning the time of departure from both places." "Yes, I guess they expected to see us, or hear from us," said Dick, and breathed a deep sigh. "Well, they did see us--when we were with Miss Sanderson and her friends." "What must they have thought--if they imagined we had received the letters?" groaned Tom. "They thought we cut 'em dead," replied Sam. "Isn't this the worst ever? And all on Flockley's account! I'd like to punch his nose!" "I'd like to be sure of one thing," said Dick, a hard tone stealing into his voice. "Did Flockley just happen to be in Ashton when the girls got there, or did he open and read these letters and then go on purpose, with Koswell and Larkspur?" "Say, that's something to think about!" cried Tom. "If he opened the letters I'd like to make him confess." "Well, one thing is certain," said Dick after the matter had been talked over for a while, "we missed a splendid chance to talk matters over with the girls. It is too bad!" And his face showed his concern. "And you didn't even want to go to Hope with me," commented Tom, with a humor he could not repress. "Wish we had gone yesterday," answered Sam bluntly. He could read "between the lines" of the note he had received, and knew that Grace wanted to see him just as much as he wanted to see her. Sam said he was going to write a letter that night, and finally Tom and Dick agreed to do the same. "But I shan't write much," said Dick. "I am not going to put my foot in it." Nevertheless he wrote a letter of four pages, and then added a postscript of two pages more. And the communications Sam and Tom penned were equally long. "We'll not trust 'em to the college mail," said Tom. "We can take 'em to the post-office when we go to church to-morrow," And this was done. After the letters were posted the brothers waited anxiously for replies, and in the meantime buckled down once more to their studies. It was now well along in December, and one morning they awoke to find the ground covered with snow. "Snowballing to-day!" said Tom with a touch of cheerfulness, and he was right. That day, after class hours, the students snowballed each other with a will. The freshmen and the sophomores had a regular pitched battle, which lasted the best part of an hour. All of the Rovers took part in the contest, and it served to make them more cheerful than they had been for some time. "What's the good of moping?" said Tom. "We are bound to hear from the girls sooner or later." Yet, as day after day went by, and no letters came, he felt as downcast as did his brothers. The boys were to go home for the Christmas holidays, and under ordinary circumstances they would have felt gay over the prospect. But now it was different. "Going to send Dora a Christmas present?" asked Tom of Dick, a few days before the close of the term. "I don't know. Are you going to send anything to Nellie?" "Yes, if you send something to Dora." "Sam says he is going to send Grace a writing outfit and a book of postage stamps," went on Dick. "That's what they all need," growled Tom. "It's a shame! They might at least have acknowledged our letters." The boys did not know what to do. Supposing they sent presents to the girls, and got them back? They held a meeting in Dick's room and asked Songbird's advice. "Send them the nicest things you can buy," said the would-be poet. "I am going to send a young lady a gift--a beautiful autograph album, with a new poem of mine, sixteen verses in length. It's on 'The Clasp of a Friendly Hand.' I got the inspiration once when I--er--But never mind that. It's a dandy poem." "Who is the album to go to?" asked Tom indifferently. "Why--er--Minnie Sanderson," answered Songbird innocently. "You see, we have gotten to be very good friends lately." CHAPTER XXI HOME FOR THE HOLIDAYS The next day the Rover boys went down to Ashton to see what they could find in the stores. Dick said he wanted to get something nice for his Aunt Martha, Tom wanted something for his father, and Sam said he thought Uncle Randolph was deserving of a gift that was worth while. Yet when they got into the largest store of which the town boasted all seemed to gravitate naturally to where the pretty things for the ladies were displayed. "There's a dandy fan," murmured Tom. "Nellie likes fans very much." "So does Grace," returned Sam. "Say, what are you going to do?" "What are you going to do, Sam?" "I'm going to get one of those fans and send it, along with a box of bonbons and chocolates," answered the youngest Rover boldly. "And I'm going to send Mrs. Laning a pair of kid gloves," he added. "Then I'll send a fan, too," answered Tom, "and I'll send Mrs. Laning a workbox. I know she'd like one." In the meantime Dick was looking at some fancy belt buckles and hatpins. He knew Dora liked such things. "I'll just take Songbird's advice and get the best I can and send them," he told himself. And he picked out the best buckle he could find, and likewise a handsome hatpin, and had them put into a fancy box, along with a fancy Christmas card, on which he wrote his name. Then he purchased a five-pound box of candy at the confectioner's shop, and Tom and Sam did the same. This was the start, and now that the ice was broken, and the first plunge taken, the boys walked around from one store to another, picking up various articles, not alone for the folks at home, but also for their various friends. And they added a number of other things for the girls, too. "It's no worse to send four things than two," was the way Tom expressed himself. "Right you are," answered Dick. Now that they had decided to send the things they all felt better for it. On the day school closed there was another fall of snow, and the boys were afraid they would be snowbound. But the train came in, although rather late, and all piled on board. At Oak Run, their railroad station, they found Jack Ness, the Rover's hired man, awaiting them with the big sleigh. Into this they tumbled, stowing their dress-suit cases in the rear, and then, with a crack of the whip, they were off over Swift River, and through Dexter's Corners, on their way to Valley Brook farm. "And how are the folks, Jack?" asked Sam as they drove along, the sleighbells jingling merrily in the frosty air. "Fine, Master Sam, fine," was the hired man's answer. "And how have you been?" "Me? Oh, I've been takin' it easy--since Master Tom quit plaguing me." "Why, I never plague anybody," murmured Tom, with a look of injured innocence on his round face. He reached out and caught some snow from a nearby bush. "Say, Jack, what is that on the horse's hind foot?" he went on. "Where? I don't see nuthin'," answered the hired man, and leaned over the dashboard of the turnout to get a better view. As his head went forward Tom quickly let the snow in his hand fall down the man's neck, inside his collar. "Hi! hi! Wow!" spluttered Jack Ness, straightening up and twisting his shoulders. "Say, what did you put that snow down my back for?" "Just to keep you from sweating too much, Jack," answered Tom with a grin. "At your old tricks again," groaned the hired man. "Now, I reckon the house will be turned upside down till you go back to college." When the boys got in sight of the big farm house they set up a ringing shout that quickly brought their father and their uncle and aunt to the door. And behind these appeared the ebony face of Aleck Pop, the colored man who was now a fixture of the Rover household. "Hello, everybody!" cried Tom, making a flying leap from the sleigh the instant it drew up to the piazza. "Isn't this jolly, though?" And he rushed to his Aunt Martha and gave her a hug and kiss, and then shook hands with his father and his Uncle Randolph Dick and Sam were close behind him, and went through a similar performance. "My! my! Don't squeeze the breath out of me!" cried Mrs. Rover, as she beamed with delight "You boys are regular bears!" "Glad you got through," said their father. "It looks like a heavy storm." "It does my heart good to see you again," said Uncle Randolph. "I trust you have profited by your stay at Brill." He was well educated himself, and thought knowledge the greatest thing in the world. "Oh, we did profit, Uncle Randolph," answered Tom with mischief chewing in his eyes. "Dick and I helped to win the greatest football game you ever heard about." "Tom Rover!" remonstrated his aunt, while Aleck Pop doubled up with mirth and disappeared behind a convenient door. "We brought home good reports," said Sam. "Dick stands second in the class and Tom stands fifth. That's not so bad in a class of twenty-two." "And Sam stands third," put in Tom. "That is splendid!" said Anderson Rover. "I am proud of you!" "And so am I proud," added Randolph Rover. "You'll all be great men some time," said their Aunt Martha. "But come into the sitting-room and take off your things. Supper will be ready in a little while. But if you want a doughnut beforehand--" "Hurrah for Aunt Martha's doughnuts!" cried Sam. "I was thinking of them while riding in the train." "Well, you shall have all you wish during the holidays," answered his aunt fondly. They were soon settled down and relating the particulars of some of the things that had happened at Brill. None of the boys cared to tell of the coldness that had sprung up between themselves and the girls. They simply said they knew the girls had gone home. "That was an outrage," said Mr. Rover with considerable warmth. "An outrage?" repeated Dick doubtfully. "What do you mean?" "Perhaps you didn't hear the report that was circulated at Hope Seminary concerning them." "We heard no report, excepting that they had been called home." "Somebody circulated a story that they were going to school on money that did not belong to them--that their folks had confiscated a fortune belonging to others. Grace wrote to her mother that the story was being whispered about everywhere, and it was making them all miserable; and that's the main reason for their going home." "What a contemptible thing to do!" cried Tom. "Who do you suppose is guilty--Tad Sobber?" "I can think of nobody else. He is so angry he would do anything to injure them and us." "And what of the case?" asked Sam. "Will it come up in court soon?" "Some time next Spring." "And what do the lawyers think of our side winning?" questioned Dick eagerly. "They say it depends largely upon the evidence the other side submits. It is possible that the case may drag on for years." "What a shame!" murmured Dick. It continued to snow all that night and the next day, and Christmas found the family all but snowbound at Valley Brook. "Merry Christmas!" was the cry, early in the morning, and the boys tumbled out of bed and dressed in a hurry. Then they went below, to find a stack of presents awaiting them. They quickly distributed the gifts they had brought and then looked at their own. They had almost everything their hearts could desire. Yet each youth felt a pang of disappointment, for among all the gifts there were none for them from the Stanhopes or the Lanings. "We are out of it," said Dick laconically to his brothers. "So it appears," answered Tom soberly. For once, all the fun was knocked out of him. "Well, I am glad I didn't forget them, anyway," said Sam bravely. But he wondered how it was Grace could treat him so shabbily. The boys passed the day as best they could in reading and playing games, and in snowballing each other and Jack Ness and Aleck Pop. "My! my! But dis am lik old times at Putnam Hall!" said the colored man, grinning from ear to ear when Tom hit him on the head with a snowball. "Hab yo' fun while yo' am young, Massa Tom." "That's my motto, Aleck," answered Tom. "Have another." And he landed a snowball on the colored man's shoulder. "I move we go down to the post-office for mail," said Dick toward evening. "We don't know what we may be missing." "Second the motion!" cried Tom. "The post-office it is, if we can get through." "Can't no hoss git through these drifts," came from Jack Ness. "We'll hitch up our biggest team and take our time," said Dick. "We have got to get down to the post-office somehow." He was hoping desperately that he would find a letter from Dora there. When the old folks heard of it they shook their heads doubtfully. But the boys pleaded so strongly that at last they were allowed to go. They got out a strong cutter and the best pair of horses on the farm, and bundled up well. "If you can't make it, drive in at one of the neighbors," said Mr. Rover on parting. "We will," answered Dick. CHAPTER XXII WORD AT LAST It was a long, hard drive to Dexter's Corners, and by the time the boys arrived there they were chilled through and through and the team was pretty well winded. They went directly to the postmaster's house, for the office was in a room of the building. "I'll see if there are any letters," said the postmaster, and went off. He returned with a picture postal for Mrs. Randolph Rover and two advertising circulars for her husband. There were also a newspaper and a magazine for the boys' father. "And is that all?" asked Dick, his heart sinking. "That's all." "Not worth coming for," muttered Tom as they turned away. "The mail didn't come in this morning," shouted the postmaster after them. "You'll have to wait for more stuff until the train arrives at Oak Run." "Let us go over to the Run and see if we can learn anything about the trains," said Sam, a spark of hope springing up in his breast. They drove over the river, and as they did so they heard the whistle of a locomotive. "Something is coming," cried Dick. "Perhaps it's only the night freight," returned Tom. When they reached the depot the train was standing there. It was the morning accommodation, nine hours late. They saw some mail bags thrown off and also several express boxes and packages. Curiosity prompted Dick to inspect the express goods. He uttered a cry of joy. "A box for us!" he exclaimed. "And from Cedarville!" "Where?" cried Tom and Sam, and ran forward to look the box over. It was two feet long and a foot high, and equally deep, and was addressed to R., T. and S. Rover. "From the girls, I'll bet a snowball!" cried Tom joyfully. "Hurry up and sign for it and we'll see what it contains." The agent was at hand, for he was the ticket agent and station master as well, and they soon signed for the box. Then they took it to a secluded corner of the station, and with a borrowed hammer and chisel pried off the cover. The sight "that met their gaze filled them with pleasure. There were several packages for each of the boys, from the girls and from Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning. There were some beautiful neckties, some books, and some diaries for the new year, and a box of fudge made by the girls. Dora had written on the flyleaf of one of the books, wishing Dick a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year, and similar sentiments from Nellie and Grace appeared in the books for Tom and Sam. "Say, I reckon this was worth coming for," remarked Sam. "Rather," answered Dick. "Wouldn't have missed it for a million dollars," added Tom. "Maybe the mail bag has some letters for us," went on Sam. He was disappointed that no note had accompanied the gifts. "We'll take the bags to the office and see," said Dick, and this was done a little later, after the box had been closed and put in the cutter and carefully covered with a robe. In the bags were found letters from their old friends, Hans Mueller and Fred Garrison, and a postal from Dave Kearney, but that was all. "Well, we mustn't expect too much," said Dick. "Remember, we didn't send any letters." "But we will now, thanking them for all these nice things," said Sam quickly. It was nearly midnight before the boys got home again, and their folks were much alarmed about them. They were almost exhausted, but very happy, and they showed their new presents with great pride. "They are dear girls!" said Mrs. Rover. "It was splendid of them to remember you this way, and splendid of Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning, too." The next morning was spent in writing letters. It was rather hard at first to say just what they wanted to, but after they had started the letters grew and grew, until each was ten pages or more. They told about meeting Minnie Sanderson and the other girls by accident, and about not getting the notes until that night, and Dick added the following to his letter to Dora: "And now let me tell you something in secret. Songbird Powell has developed a very, very strong liking for Miss Sanderson, the girl Tom and Sam and I aided when first we came to Brill. He talks about her a good deal, and took her to a concert at Ashton one evening. He said he was going to give her an autograph album for Christmas and write in it an original poem sixteen verses long, on 'The Clasp of a Friendly Hand,' That is pushing matters some, isn't it? We all wish him luck." "There, that ought to make her understand how I feel about Miss Sanderson," said Dick to himself. And then he ended the letter by stating he hoped they would meet again soon so that they could have a good long talk. On the day after the letters were mailed the storm cleared away and the sun came out brightly. The boys went for a long sleigh ride, and visited some friends living in that vicinity. Then they helped to clear off a pond, and on New Year's day went skating. "And now back to the grind," said Tom with a little sigh. "Never mind. Remember summer will soon be here," answered Sam. "And then we can go on a dandy trip somewhere." The next day found them back at Brill. This was Saturday, and the school sessions were resumed on Monday. They went at their studies with a will, resolved to get marks that would be "worth while" at the June examinations. They were asked to join the college basketball team, but declined, and took regular gymnasium exercise instead. Much to their surprise, Dudd Flockley was put on the team. "I don't think that dude will make good," said Tom, and he was right. Flockley made some bad errors during the first game played, and was lectured so severely that he left the team in disgust, and Songbird Powell was put in his place. Then the team won three games straight, which pleased all the students of Brill greatly. Minnie Sanderson was at two of the games, and she applauded Songbird heartily. The two were certainly warm friends. Dick spoke to Minnie, but did not keep himself long in her company. At last, after waiting much longer than they had expected, the boys received letters from Dora and the Lanings. The girls had been on a visit to some relatives in Philadelphia, and had just received the letters mailed from Oak Run. The three Rovers read those letters with deep interest. They told about what the girls had been doing, and related the particulars of the trouble at Hope Seminary. It was all Tad Sobber's work, they said, and added that Sobber had written that he would not only get the treasure, but also disgrace them all he possibly could. "The rascal!", muttered Dick when he read this. "He ought to be put in prison!" Dora's letter to Dick was an especially tender epistle, and he read it several times in secret. He was glad that the misunderstanding between them was being cleared away. He wished she might be near, so that he could go and see her. "I'd take a run to Cedarville if it wasn't so far," he told his brothers. "I'd go along," answered Tom, and Sam said the same. "Perhaps we can run up there during the spring vacation," went on Dick. There was little more snow that winter, but the weather remained bitterly cold until well into February. The boys had considerable fun snowballing, and skating on the river. Racing on skates was a favorite amusement, and Sam and Tom won in a number of contests. One day Tom was skating by himself. He was doing some fancy figures, and he did not notice the approach of Jerry Koswell, who was skating with a young lady from Ashton. Tom came around in a circle, and Jerry, who was looking at the young lady instead of where he was going, bumped into Tom. Both of the students went down, Tom on top. "Hi! What do you mean by this?" burst out Koswell in a rage. "What do you mean?" retorted Tom, getting up. "You knocked me down on purpose!" howled Jerry. "It was as much your fault as mine." "It wasn't my fault at all. I've a good mind to punch your face!" And having gotten to his feet, Koswell doubled up his fists threateningly. At this the young lady let out a scream. "Oh, please don't fight!" she cried. And then she skated to a distance and disappeared in a crowd. "You keep your distance, Koswell," said Tom coldly. "If you don't--" He got no further, for just then Koswell let out with his right fist. The blow landed on Tom's shoulder and sent him spinning away a distance of several feet. CHAPTER XXIII THE SPRINGTIME OF LIFE "A fight! a fight!" came from the crowd, and soon Tom and Koswell were surrounded by a number of students and some outsiders. The blow from the bully angered Tom greatly, and skating forward he made a pass at Koswell. But the latter ducked, and then came back at Tom with a blow that sent the fun-loving Rover into several students standing by. "Say, Rover, look out, or Jerry Koswell will eat you up!" said one of the seniors. "Koswell is a good scrapper," came from another. "I gave him one lesson and I can give him another," answered Tom. "There, take that!" He turned swiftly and rushed at Koswell. One blow after another was delivered with telling accuracy, and Koswell went flat on his back on the ice. When he got up his nose was bleeding. "I'll fix you!" he roared. "Come on to shore and take off your skates!" "I'm willing," answered Tom recklessly. He knew fighting was against the rules of the college, but he was not going to cry quits. The pair moved toward the shore, the crowd still surrounding them. They soon had their skates off. "Now, Jerry, do him up brown!" came from Larkspur, who was present. "Give him the thrashing of his life!" added Flockley, who had come up. "He has got to spell able first, and he doesn't know the alphabet well enough to do it!" answered Tom. "What's up?" cried a voice from the rear of the crowd, and Dick appeared, followed by Sam. "Koswell attacked me, and wants to fight, and I am going to accommodate him," said Tom. "Don't you butt in!" growled Koswell. "I won't," answered Dick. "But I want to see fair play." He knew it would be useless to attempt to get Tom to give up the fight. Without preliminaries the two faced each other, and Koswell made a savage rush at Tom, aiming a blow for his face. Tom ducked, and landed on his opponent's chest. Then Koswell hit Tom on the arm and Tom came back at him with one on the chin. Then they clinched, went down, and rolled over and over. "Stop, you rascal!" cried Tom suddenly. "Can't you fight fair?" "What's up?" asked Dick, leaping forward. "He bit me in the wrist!" "I--I didn't do anything of the kind!" howled Jerry Koswell. "Break away, both of you!" ordered Dick. "We'll see into this." Tom let go, but Koswell continued to hold fast. Seeing this, Dick forced the two apart and both scrambled up. "See here, this isn't your fight!" said Larkspur to Dick. "It will be yours if you don't shut up!" answered Dick, so sharply that Larkspur shrunk back in alarm. "I didn't bite him!" grumbled Koswell. "He did--right here!" answered Tom positively. "Look!" He pulled up his sleeve and showed his wrist. There in the flesh were the indentations of a set of teeth. "You coward!" said Sam. "You ought to be drummed out of Brill!" "That's worse than using a sandbag," added Dick. "I--I didn't do it," muttered Koswell. He looked around as if he wanted to slink out of sight. "You did!" cried Tom. "And take that for it!" And before the brute of a youth could ward off the blow he received Tom's fist in his right eye. Then he got one in the other eye and another in the nose that made the blood spurt freely. He tried to defend himself, but Tom was "fighting mad," and his blows came so rapidly that Koswell was knocked around like a tenpin and sent bumping, first into Flockley, then into Larkspur, and then into some bushes, where he lay, panting for breath. "Now have you had enough?" demanded Tom, while the crowd marveled at his quickness and staying powers. "I--I--" stammered Koswell. "If you've had enough, say so," went on Tim. "If not, I'll give you some more." "I--I'm sick," murmured Koswell. "I was sick this morning when I got up. I'll--I'll finish this with you some other day." "All right, Koswell," answered Tom coolly. "But when you go at it again, do it fairly, or you'll get the worst of it. Remember that!" "Hurrah for Tom Rover!" was the cry from Stanley, and the cheer was taken up on all sides. Jerry Koswell sneaked away as soon as he could, and Flockley and Larkspur followed him. "He'll have it in for you, Tom," said Sam as he and his brothers got away from the crowd. "Most likely he is mad enough to do anything." "Oh, he was mad before," declared Tom. "I am not afraid of him." Everybody thought there might be another fight in the near future, but day after day went by and Koswell made no move, nor did he even notice Tom. He kept with Flockley and Larkspur, and the three were often noticed consulting together. At last winter was over, and the warm breath of Spring filled the air. Much to the pleasure of the boys, they got news that Dora, Nellie and Grace were going to return to Hope, regardless of the reports that had been circulated about them. "Good! That's what I call pluck!" cried Dick. They learned when the girls would arrive at Ashton, and got permission to go to town to meet them. It must be confessed that all of them were a trifle nervous, in spite of the warm letters that had been sent. When the train came in they rushed for the parlor car, and then what a handshaking and greeting followed all around! Everybody was talking at once, and after the first minute or two there was nothing but smiles and laughter. "I am so sorry that--you know," whispered Dick to Dora. "So am I," she answered, "What geese we are, aren't we?" "Well, we won't have any more misunderstandings, will we?" he went on, squeezing her hand. "Never!" she declared, and gave him an arch look. "And you say Songbird is--is--" "Going with Miss Sanderson? Yes; and they are as thick as two peas. But, Dora, I never was--er--very friendly with her. I--I--" "But you--you talked to her at that football game, Dick. And you didn't meet me when Sam--" "I know. But I had to find her a seat, after she about asked me to. I wanted to be with you, I did really, dear." "Who said you could call me dear?" And now her eyes were as bright as stars. "I said so, and I'm going to--when we are alone. The future Mrs. Dick Rover deserves it," he went on boldly, but in a very low voice. "Oh, Dick, you're awful!" cried Dora, and blushed. But somehow she appeared mightily pleased. The boys drove the girls to the seminary, and by the time the boarding-school was reached all were on the best of terms once more. "Mamma wanted us to come back," explained Dora. "She says, even if we do lose that fortune she wants me to have a better education, and she will pay the bill for Nellie and Grace, too." "It will make the Lanings quite poor, I am afraid, if the fortune is lost," replied Dick gravely. "I know it, Dick, but we'll have to take what comes." "Have you heard from Sobber or his lawyer lately?" "Nothing since he threatened to disgrace us." "You must watch out for him. If he attempts to bother you while you are here let us know at once." "We will." "I hope the case in court is decided soon, and in your favor." "Say, stop!" cried Tom, as they were turning into the gate at the seminary. "What's up?" asked Sam, while Dick halted the team he was driving. "Here comes a buggy along the side road. Just look who is in it!" All turned to look in the direction of the turnout which was approaching. As it came closer the Rover boys recognized it as one belonging to Mr. Sanderson. On the front seat sat Songbird, driving, with Minnie Sanderson beside him. On the rear seat was William Philander Tubbs, in company with one of Minnie's friends--a girl the Rovers had met while nutting. "There's a happy crowd!" cried Tom after they had passed and bowed and smiled. "No happier than we are," said Dick as he looked meaningly at Dora. "You are right, Dick," she answered very earnestly. CHAPTER XXIV AT THE HAUNTED HOUSE "Boys, I've got a proposition to make," said Dick, one Friday afternoon, as he and his brothers, with Songbird and Stanley, were strolling along the river bank. "All right. We'll accept it for twenty-five cents on the dollar," returned Tom gaily. "What is it, Dick?" asked Songbird. "Do you remember the haunted house at Rushville, the place Mr. Sanderson called the Jamison home?" asked Dick of his brothers. "Sure!" returned Sam and Tom promptly. "Well, I propose we visit that house to-morrow and investigate the ghosts--if there are any." "Just the thing!" cried Sam. "I've heard of that place," said Stanley. "I am willing to go if the rest are." "If I go as far as Rushville I might as well go on to the Sanderson home," said Songbird, who could not get Minnie out of his mind. "Well, we'll leave you off--after we have interviewed the ghosts," answered Dick with a laugh. "Do you believe in ghosts?" asked Stanley with a faint smile. "No. Do you?" "Hardly, although I have heard some queer stories. My aunt used to think she had seen ghosts." "She was mistaken," said Tom. "There are no real ghosts." "Say, Tom, how could a ghost be real and still be a ghost?" asked Songbird and this question brought forth a general laugh. The boys sat down on a bench in the warm sunshine to discuss the proposed visit to the deserted Jamison place, and it was arranged that they should drive to the spot in a two-seated carriage. Then, while the Rovers and Stanley investigated to their hearts' content, Songbird was to drive on to the Sanderson home for a brief visit. "But, mind, you are not to stay too long," said Dick. "An hour is the limit." "I'll make it an hour by the watch," answered the would-be poet. "Say, I just thought of something," he went on, and murmured softly: "To-morrow, ere the hour is late, We shall go forth to investigate. The Jamison ghost Shall be our host; We trust we'll meet a kindly fate!" "That's as cheerful as a funeral dirge!" cried Tom. "We don't want to meet any kind of a fate," added Sam. "We want to have some fun." While the boys were discussing the proposed trip to Rushville they did not notice that Larkspur was close at hand, taking in much that was said. Presently Larkspur sauntered off and hunted up Jerry Koswell. "The Rovers are going off to-morrow," he said. "Where do you suppose they are going?" "I am not good at guessing riddles," answered Koswell rather sourly. He hated to hear the Rover name mentioned, since it made him think of his defeat at Tom's hands. "They are going to the old Jamison place at Rushville." "Well, what of it?" "I was thinking," answered Larkspur meaningly. "You said you would like to square up with the Rovers, and with Tom especially." "So I would. Show me how it can be done and I'll go at it in jig time." And now Koswell was all attention. "I happen to know that Tom Rover and Professor Sharp are on the outs again," said Larkspur. "The professor wouldn't like anything better than to catch him doing something against the rules." "Well, what do you propose, anyway?" demanded Jerry Koswell. "Come up to the room and I'll tell you," answered Larkspur, and then the two hurried off and, joined by Dudd Flockley, hatched out a scheme to get the Rovers into dire trouble with the college authorities. They had a number of preparations to make, and paid a hurried visit to Ashton and several other places, Flockley hiring a runabout for that purpose. Saturday proved clear and warm, and the Rovers and their friends started directly after lunch for Rushville in a two-seated carriage, hired from a liveryman of Ashton. As they did not wish to excite any curiosity, they told Tubbs and Max that they were going out merely for a long ride. "Going to call on Miss Stanhope and the Misses Laning, I suppose," said William Philander. "No. They have some lessons to make up to-day," answered Dick, and this was true; otherwise the Rovers might not have been so willing to spend their time at the haunted house. No sooner had the Rovers and their two friends driven away from Brill than an automobile dashed up on the side road, and Flockley, Koswell and Larkspur climbed in. The automobile kept to the side road until the Rovers turnout was passed, then took to the main highway, passing the upper end of Ashton. "Here is where you can leave us," said Koswell to the chauffeur. "I'll see to it that the machine comes back safely." "You are sure about being able to run it?" asked the man. "Of course. I ran a big six-cylinder at home." "Very well, then. This is a fine car, and there would be trouble with the boss if anything happened to it." "Nothing is going to happen, so don't worry," answered Koswell coolly. Then the chauffeur left, and the automobile dashed on its way in the direction of Rushville. As the Rovers and their chums were out purely for pleasure, they took their time in driving to Rushville, going there by way of Hope Seminary. They thought they might catch sight of Dora and the Lanings, but were disappointed. "Too bad that they have got to grind away on such a fine day as this," said Dick. "Well, such is life," returned Sam. "One good thing, schooldays won't last forever." "Just wait till the summer vacation comes!" cried Tom. "I'm going to have the best time anybody ever heard about." "What doing?" questioned Stanley. "Oh, I don't know yet." They took their time climbing the long hill leading to the haunted house, and it was just three o'clock when they came in sight of the dilapidated structure, almost hidden in the tangle of trees and underbrush. "Now, Songbird, you've got to be back here by four, or half after, at the latest," said Dick as he and his brothers and Stanley got out. "No spooning with Minnie till six." "Huh! I don't spoon," grumbled the would-be poet. "I am--er--only going to show her some new verses I wrote. They are entitled--" "Keep them for Minnie!" cried Sam. "And remember what Dick said. We are not going to hang around here after dark." "Scared already?" asked Songbird. "No, but enough of this place is enough, that's all." "I'll be back, don't worry," said Songbird, and away he drove at a swift gait, leaving the Rovers and Stanley in the roadway in front of the house said to be haunted. It was certainly a lonely spot, no other house being in sight, for Rushville lay under the brow of a hill. The boys stood still and listened. Not a sound broke the stillness that surrounded the deserted house. "It sure is a ghostlike place," remarked Stanley. "I shouldn't care to come here at midnight." "Oh, that wouldn't make any difference, if you had a light," answered Dick. The thought of a ghost had never bothered him very much. Boldly the four boys entered what had once been a fine garden. The pathway was now overrun with weeds and bushes, and they had to pick their way with care. Then they ascended the piazza, the flooring of which was much decayed. "Look out that you don't fall through somewhere, and break a leg," cautioned Tom. "This is worse than it looks from the outside." "Wait till we get inside," said Sam. "Glad we brought a lantern." For a light had been taken along at the last minute. They pushed open the front door and entered the broad hall. As they did so they heard a noise at the rear of the place. "What was that?" asked Stanley nervously. "Sounded like a door closing," answered Dick. "Hello!" called out Tom. "Is any one here?" To this call there was no answer. Nor was the noise they had heard repeated. "Come on," said Dick bravely. "I am going to walk right through the house, room by room, from top to bottom." "And we'll all go along," said Tom and Sam. "Well, I am with you," came from Stanley. But he plainly showed that he did not relish what was before him. CHAPTER XXV IN THE HANDS OF THE ENEMY The first room the boys entered was the parlor. It was totally dark, the blinds of the windows being tightly closed. It was full of cobwebs, which brushed their cheeks as they passed along. "Certainly this was a fine mansion in its day," said Dick, as he threw the rays of the lantern around. "But it is utterly worthless now," he added as he gazed at the fallen ceilings and rotted woodwork. "I fancy the ghosts are nothing but rats and bats," said Tom. "Come on," he continued. "It's damp enough to give one the rheumatism." From the parlor they passed to a sitting-room. Here there was a huge open fireplace, filled with ashes and cobwebs. As they entered the room they heard a rushing noise in the chimney. "What's that?" cried Stanley anxiously. "Birds," answered Dick. "I suppose they have made their home in the chimney, since it is not used for fires." In a corner of the sitting-room was an old table, and on it several musty books. The boys looked the books over, but found little to interest them. As relics the volumes were of no value. "Come on to the dining-room," said Tom. "Maybe we'll find something good to eat." "Ugh! I don't want anything here," answered Stanley with a shudder. "Wouldn't you like a piece of ghost pie, or some specter doughnuts?" went on Tom, who was bound to have his fun. "Nothing, thank you, Tom." The dining-room of the house was in a wing, and to get to it they had to pass through a pair of folding doors which were all but closed. As they did so all heard a peculiar rustling sound, but from whence it came they could not tell. "What was that?" asked Sam. "I don't know," answered his oldest brother. "Say, this room looks as if it had been used lately," cried Tom, as the rays of the lantern illuminated the apartment. "Why, it's quite homelike!" "Maybe some tramps have had their headquarters here," said Dick. "It would be just like them to single out a spot like this." "Yes, provided they weren't afraid of ghosts," came from Stanley. "Tramps aren't usually afraid of anything but work," answered Tom dryly. "But this is queer, isn't it?" he added, as he picked up an empty cigar box. "Somebody must smoke good cigars--these were imported." "Here is an empty liquor flask," said Stanley. "And here are some empty wine bottles," added Sam. "And here are some decks of playing-cards," put in Dick. "Yes, some persons have certainly used this as a hangout." "What is this in the fireplace?" asked Tom as he pointed to something smoking there. "It certainly has a vile smell!" exclaimed Stanley, making a wry face. "That shows somebody has been here recently," was Dick's comment. "We had better be on guard if they are tramps." "I can't stand that smell," said Tom. "I am going to get out." The stuff in the fireplace, whatever it was, now burned up more brightly. It gave off a peculiar vapor that made the boys dizzy. Tom turned to a door that led to the kitchen of the house. The door was shut, and he tried in vain to open it. The others were behind him and they, too, tried to open the barrier. "Must be locked from the other side," said Tom. "Come on out the way we came in. Gracious! Isn't that awful stuff that is burning?" he added, for the vapor now filled the room completely. In sudden alarm the four boys turned back toward the folding doors through which they had entered the dining-room. To their consternation, the doors were tightly shut. "Who shut these?" asked Dick as he tried to open one of the doors. "I didn't," said Sam. "Neither did I," added Tom. "Nobody touched the doors!" ejaculated Stanley. "It must be some of the ghost's work." "Nonsense!" answered Dick sharply. "Somebody shut the doors--and locked 'em," he added after trying both. "Hi, you!" he called. "Open these doors, and be quick about it!" "Thou fool, to come here!" exclaimed a hollow voice from the other side of the doors. "It's the ghost! I said it was!" said Stanley, "It's somebody fooling us," answered Tom. "Open the door, or we'll smash it down!" he added in a loud voice. Instead of a reply there came a weird groan and then the rattle of some heavy chains. Stanley turned pale and began to tremble, but the Rovers were not much impressed. "We don't believe in ghosts, so you might as well let us out!" cried Dick. "That stuff you set on fire is smothering us!" At this there was a murmur from the next room, but what was said the prisoners did not know. "Come on, let us get out of a window!" cried Tom. His head was commencing to swim, and he could hardly see. "Tha--that's it," murmured Sam. "Say, I'm--I'm--going--" He did not finish, but sank to the floor in a heap. "Sam has been overcome!" cried Dick in horror. "Oh, if only we hadn't come here!" groaned Stanley. "I--the window--I--am--smothering!" He took another step forward and then fell. Dick tried to pick him up, but went down also, with his brain in a whirl and strange lights flashing before his closed eyes. Tom was the last to be overcome. He reached a window, only to find it tightly locked. He smashed the glass, but could not open the blinds. Then he went down; but before he closed his eyes he saw the door to the kitchen open and several masked faces appeared. He tried to say something, but the words would not come, and then all became a terrible dark blank around him. For about half a minute after Tom went down nothing was done. Then the door to the kitchen was thrown wide open and four figures appeared. All wore sheets and masks. "You are sure it won't kill any of them, Parwick?" asked a voice that sounded like Jerry Koswell's, and which was far from steady. "Yes, I'm sure," answered the voice of a stranger. "But we don't want to leave them in this room too long. Take 'em below." "If we get found out--" said another, and one could readily recognize Flockley's voice. "We won't get found out," put in a fourth person. It was Larkspur. "Come ahead, and don't waste time here." With great haste the masked ones picked up the three Rovers and Stanley and dragged them into the kitchen of the old house. Then one after another the unconscious ones were taken down into a dark and musty cellar and placed on some straw. "Now to fix up the evidence!" cried Koswell. "We must be quick, or it may be too late!" For all of a quarter of an hour the three Rover boys and Stanley Browne lay where they had been placed on the moldy straw. They breathed with difficulty, for the strange vapor still exercised its influence on their lungs. At last Sam stirred and opened his eyes. "Wha--what's the matter with me?" he murmured, and then sat up. He could see next to nothing, for the cellar was dark. His head ached keenly, and he could not collect his senses. He also felt somewhat sick at the stomach. "Dick! Tom!" he called. "Where are you?" There was no reply, but presently he heard somebody stir. "Don't--don't kill me!" murmured Stanley. "Take the ghosts away!" "Stanley!" called Sam. "Whe--where are we?" "Who--who is tha--that?" stammered Stanley, sitting up. "It is I--Sam!" "Whe--where are we, Sam?" "I--I don't know." "My head is go--going around like--like a top." "So is mine. Tom! Dick!" "Is that you, Sam?" came faintly from the elder Rover as he opened his eyes. "Yes. Where is Tom?" "Here, I guess, beside me." Dick shook his brother. "Tom! Tom! Wake up!" he cried. But Tom continued to lay quiet with his eyes tightly closed. Sam was feeling in his pocket for a matchbox, and presently he brought the article forth and made a light. He was still so dizzy he could scarcely see about him. Stanley had fallen back again, gasping for breath. By the dim light afforded by the match the two brothers looked at Tom. He was gasping in a strange, unnatural fashion. "I believe he is choking to death!" said Dick hoarsely. "Air! He must have air!" He arose unsteadily to his feet. "Bring him here!" And he made for a closed cellar window with all the strength he could command. CHAPTER XXVI THE EVIDENCE AGAINST THEM Fortunately a loose brick lay handy and with this Dick smashed out the panes of glass in the cellar window. Another window was opposite, and this he likewise demolished. At once a current of pure air swept through the place. "Hold him up to the window," said Dick as he staggered around. And he and Sam raised Tom up as best they could. "If we could only get outside," mumbled Sam. His head was aching worse than ever. "I'll see what I can do," answered his oldest brother, and stumbled up the narrow stairs. To his joy, the door above leading to the kitchen of the house was unfastened. Not without great labor did the two brothers carry Tom to the floor above. Then they went after Stanley, who was conscious, but too weak to walk. As they stumbled around they sent several empty liquor bottles spinning across the floor, and one was smashed into pieces. "I wish I knew how to revive him," said Dick as he and Sam placed Tom near the open doorway. "Wonder if there is any water handy?" "Oh, my poor head!" came from Stanley. "I feel as if I had been drinking for a month!" "Wonder what it was?" murmured Sam. "I--I can't make it out at all." "Nor I," added Dick. "But come, we must do what we can for Tom." And he commenced to loosen his unconscious brother's tie and collar. Suddenly a form darkened the outer doorway of the kitchen, and to the surprise of the boys Professor Abner Sharp showed himself. He was accompanied by Professor Blackie. "Ha! So we have caught you, have we?" cried Professor Sharp, in tones of evident satisfaction. "Nice doings, these, for students of Brill. Aren't you ashamed of yourselves?" And he glared maliciously at the Rovers and Stanley Browne. "Oh, Professor, can you--er--help us?" murmured Stanley. "We--er--are in a lot of trouble." "So I see," answered Abner Sharp chillily. "Nice doings, I declare! Don't you think so?" he added to the other professor. "It is too bad," murmured Professor Blackie. "I thought them all rather nice lads." Dick's head was still dizzy, so he could not catch the import of the professor's words. He continued to work over Tom, who just then opened his eyes. "Gi--give me a--a drink!" murmured poor Tom. His throat seemed to be on fire. "Not another drop!" shouted Professor Sharp. "Not one! This is disgraceful! Look at what they have been drinking already!" And he pointed to the bottles scattered around. "Say! What's the matter with you?" asked Sam, sleepily and angrily. He was doing his best to pull his wits together, and thus overcome the effects of the strange vapor. "There is nothing the matter with me!" roared Professor Sharp "The matter is with you, Rover. You have been drinking too much." "Me? Drinking?" stammered Sam, "No, sir!" "Rover, you may as well admit it," came from Professor Blackie. "It is a sad state of affairs." "But I haven't been drinking." "We know better. Look at the evidence!" roared Abner Sharp, pointing to the bottles. "Why, your very clothing smells of rum!" he added, smelling of Dick's shoulder. "Sam has told you the truth. We haven't been drinking," said Dick. "Rover, it would be better if you did not add falsehoods to your other shortcomings," said Professor Blackie. He was usually a very mild man, and had little to say outside of the classroom. "You are mistaken," murmured Dick. It was all he could say, for he was still too bewildered to make a clear note of what was going on. "This one seems to be the worst of all," said Abner Sharp, turning to Tom. "He must have drunk more than the others." "He will have to sleep it off," answered Professor Blackie. "Too bad! Too bad! Why will young men do such things?" And he shook his head sorrowfully. "I believe what the note said. This has been a regular hangout for the Rovers and their chums," said Professor Sharp severely. "It is high time it was broken up." "Yes yes," answered the other instructor How shall we--er--get them back to Brill?" "I'll see about that. They must have some sort of a carriage here, or maybe somebody was going to call for them." "Shall I take a look around?" "If you will." Professor Blackie looked around the house and grounds and then went through the tangle of a garden to the roadway. He espied Songbird coming along, driving the team rapidly and singing to himself. Songbird had passed an all-too-short hour with Minnie Sanderson. "Stop, Powell!" cried the professor. "I was going to, sir," answered the would-be poet cheerily. "How is this, Professor Blackie? Did you come to hunt for the ghost, too?" "Ghost? I came for no ghosts--since there are no ghosts," was the quiet answer. "Were you to stop here?" "Yes, sir, to pick up the three Rovers and Stanley Browne. They must be somewhere about. They came to explore the old house and to settle this ghost story." "I think they came more for spirits than for ghosts," answered Professor Blackie dryly, "Then you know all about it, eh?" "Why, yes." "Then you knew they came here to drink and to carouse generally," went on the instructor, and his voice grew stern. "Drink? Carouse? What are you talking about?" gasped Songbird. "The Rovers don't drink at all, and Stanley Browne drinks very little." "Of course you wish to shield them, but it will do little good, Powell. Professor Sharp received word of what was going on, and he asked me to accompany him here. We have seen a sad sight. What Doctor Wallington will say when he hears of it, I cannot tell. I am afraid, however, that he will deal severely with the offenders." "Professor Blackie, what you say is a riddle to me," answered Songbird. "I don't understand you at all." "Then come with me, and perhaps you will understand," was the instructor's reply, and he led the way to the rear of the deserted house. All of the students and Professor Sharp were now outside, on or near the back porch. Tom had recovered his senses, and Sam had obtained for him a drink of water from an old well. Much to the astonishment of the students, the professor had caught sight of a liquor flask in Tom's pocket, and had snatched it away. "Here is evidence you cannot deny!" cried Abner Sharp in triumph. "All but empty, too!" he added, after shaking the flask and smelling of it. "How did that--that get in m--my pocket?" mumbled poor Tom. He was still hazy in his mind. "You probably know better than anybody else," retorted Professor Sharp. "And you can tell, too, where the liquor went to," he continued with a sneer. "You're a--a--contemptible old sneak!" cried Tom wrathfully, "and if I didn't feel so--so dizzy I'd knock you down!" "Tom!" cried Dick warningly. He was growing a little clearer in his mind, and could see that a terrible mistake had been made. "You'll not knock anybody down, you young villain!" roared Abner Sharp in a rage. "I'll teach you to come here and drink and carouse, and bring disgrace upon the fair name of Brill College! I'll have you dismissed and sent home in disgrace!" "You're making a mistake--" began Dick. "No, there is no mistake. Of course you wish to hide the truth, and smooth matters over, but it won't go with me, nor with Professor Blackie, either," stormed Professor Sharp. "We know what we see and what we smell. You young fellows are a disgrace to Brill, and the sooner everybody knows it, the better. Now, then, march to the roadway, every one of you, and no more back talk!" "But, sir--" began Stanley in dismay. "Not another word!" cried Abner Sharp. "If you have anything more to tell, you may tell it to Doctor Wallington." CHAPTER XXVII IN DISGRACE Still dizzy from the effects of the strange vapor, the students were driven rapidly over the country roads in the direction of Brill College. The fresh air served to make them feel a little better, but all were far from clear headed when ushered into the presence of Doctor Wallington. "We have brought them back with us, sir," said Professor Sharp stiffly. The president of the college gazed keenly at the Rovers and Stanley. They looked at him in return, but blinked and swayed as they did so. "I will listen to the story," said Doctor Wallington, turning to the two instructors, and his voice had a hard tone to it that did not augur well for the students. Thereupon Professor Sharp told how he had received an anonymous note stating that the Rovers and some others were going off to the old Jamison house to drink and gamble, and that it was thought they were going to take some innocent outsider with them, to fleece him of his money. On receiving the note Abner Sharp had called Professor Blackie into consultation with him, and had gone off, after leaving word for the doctor about what they proposed to do. "We found them--the three Rovers and Stanley Browne--in a beastly state," continued Professor Sharp. "Truly beastly state--with empty liquor bottles and flasks strewn around, and Thomas Rover had a flask in his pocket, which I took from him." The instructor placed the flask on the president's desk. "There were also cigar butts scattered around, and some packs of playing-cards." "Where was Powell?" "He had dropped the others off at the old house and gone on to visit some folks named Sanderson. He came back later." "Had he been drinking, too?" "I do not think so," answered Professor Blackie. During this talk Dick and his brothers and Stanley stared somewhat vacantly at the president and the professors. The students wanted to speak several times, but Doctor Wallington waved them to be silent. "I will hear what you have to say after Professor Sharp and Professor Blackie have finished," said the head of the college. He asked the instructors a great number of questions, and then turned to Dick, as the oldest of the boys. "Now, then, what have you to say about your disgraceful conduct?" he demanded severely. "Or perhaps it would be as well to postpone further conversation until you are in a fit condition to tell a straight story." The doctor was sarcastic as well as severe. "I--I am not well, sir," said Dick in a low voice. "None of us are. But it was not liquor that did it. It was the vapor." "Vapor?" queried Doctor Wallington in perplexity. "Yes, sir." "What do you suppose he means?" and now the master of the college turned to Abner Sharp. "When we found them in such a sad state they tried to excuse themselves by stating that a strange vapor had made them sick," was the instructor's reply. "But we could not trace any such vapor. I feel sure it is merely an excuse." "You ought to have your head punched!" growled Tom. He was still sick, and the sickness made him reckless. "Rover! How dare you?" exclaimed Doctor Wallington severely. "I don't care! He is down on us, me especially, and he wants to put us in disgrace. He's a miserable sneak, that's what he is!" "You are evidently in no condition to tell your story, and your companions are little better off," went on the head of the college. He turned to the two professors. "You may take them up to rooms 77 and 78, Mr. Blackie. I will confer with you further, Mr. Sharp." There was no help for it, and with their heads still in a whirl, the Rovers and Stanley were taken to two rooms not used by any of the other students. The rooms were in an angle of the building, away from all others. They had a small hallway of their own, with a door shutting it off from the main hall. Professor Blackie marched the boys into the rooms, and saw to it that they had a pitcher of fresh drinking water. "You will have to remain here until Doctor Wallington sends for you," said the instructor, and walked out of the room. The boys heard him pass through the little hall and close and lock the door to the main hall. "Prisoners! What do you think of that?" cried Sam. "It is carrying matters with a high hand," answered Dick. He placed a hand on his forehead. "How my head aches!" "Same here," answered Stanley. "I am going to rest," he added, and threw himself on one of the beds. The others were glad to rest, also, and soon all were occupying the beds the connecting rooms contained. They left the windows wide open, so that they might get all the fresh air possible. Strange to say, each was soon in a profound slumber. While they were sleeping they did not know that Professor Sharp came in to see if they wanted any supper. Seeing them sleeping so soundly, he notified Doctor Wallington. "Do not disturb them," said the president of Brill. "Sleep will do them more good than anything. I doubt if they care to eat." And he heaved a sigh as he thought of the problem before him. He liked the Rovers and Stanley Browne, but according to what he had seen and been told, some of the strictest rules of Brill had been violated, and it would be impossible for him to pass the affair by or mete out ordinary punishment. "I am afraid I shall have to dismiss them," he told himself. "Too bad!" In some manner the story leaked out, and by Sunday noon all the students at Brill knew that the Rovers and Stanley were in disgrace, and in danger of dismissal. A few sided with the boys, but the majority shook their heads. "They had no business to go off on such a lark," said one of the seniors. "It's a disgrace to the whole college. If they are sent home it will serve them right." Koswell and Larkspur were in high glee over the success of their plot, and when alone winked at each other and poked each other in the ribs. "They'll get what's coming to 'em this trip," said Bart Larkspur with a chuckle. "They'll be lucky if they are not sent home." "And we'll rub it in, too," added Koswell. "You know how those Rovers are dead stuck on those girls at Hope." "Sure." "Well, I'll fix it so those girls hear all about this affair." "Good!" cried Larkspur. "That will be the bitterest dose of all." "Say," put in Dudd Flockley nervously, "you don't suppose there is any danger of our being found out?" "Not the slightest," answered Koswell. "I saw to it that all our tracks were covered." "But that fellow Parwick? Are you certain he can be trusted?" "Yes. But we have got to pay him for his trouble. I promised him twenty dollars. I'll give him half and you can give him the other half," answered Koswell. He knew Larkspur had no spending money. "Oh, I'm willing to pay him his price," said the dudish student. "But I want to be dead certain that he will keep his mouth shut." "I'll make him do that," returned Jerry Koswell. CHAPTER XXVIII DARK DAYS The Rovers and Stanley Browne were kept in the rooms until Monday morning. During that time their meals were sent to them, and Professor Sharp came to see them twice. "Doctor Wallington will dispose of your case on Monday," said the instructor. "I think we should have had a doctor," said Dick. "All of us were sick, and needed medical attention." "Nonsense!" cried Abner Sharp. "You have sobered up, and that was all that was needed." This assertion led to a war of words, and Tom came close to whacking the unreasonable teacher over the head with the water pitcher. As a consequence, Abner Sharp ran out of the room in fear and reported to the head of the institution that he had been assaulted. On Monday morning the four boys were told to go down and report at the president's office Previous to this they had held a "council of war," as Sam expressed it, and made Dick their spokesman. "Now, then, as you appear to be sober, I will listen to your story," said Doctor Wallington. He was the only other person present, "And remember," he added sharply, "I want nothing but the truth. You cannot hope for any leniency on my part unless you tell me everything." "That is what we propose to do, sir," answered Dick, looking the doctor full in the eyes. "My brothers and Stanley have asked me to do the talking for all of us. Shall I tell my story now?" "Yes." Thereupon Dick told his tale from beginning to end, very much as I have set it down here. He, of course, could tell nothing of the actions of Koswell and his crowd, for he had been unconscious most of the time. "Certainly a remarkable story," mused Doctor Wallington, when the oldest Rover had finished, "And you mean to say you did not drink any of the liquor?" "Not a drop, sir; and neither did the others," "And this vapor? What was it, and how do you account for it?" The doctor's tones were very sceptical. "I can't account for it, excepting by thinking it was part of a plot against us." "Hum!" The doctor turned to Stanley. "Have you anything to add to Rover's story?" "Nothing, sir, excepting that it is absolutely true, Doctor Wellington." After this the boys were questioned for the best part of an hour, but without shaking their testimony in the least. Then Songbird was called in, and he told what he knew. "If your story is true, it is a most extraordinary occurrence," said the head of Brill at last. "But I must confess that I can scarcely credit such a tale. However, I will, for the time being, give you the benefit of the doubt, and in the meantime make some investigations on my own account. If I find you have not told the truth I shall dismiss you from the college. Do you understand that?" To this the students bowed. "One thing more. All of you may return to your classes but Thomas Rover. He has an extra charge against him, that of assaulting Professor Sharp. Thomas Rover, you will remain here. The rest of you can go." With strange feelings in their hearts Dick, Sam and Stanley, accompanied by Songbird, left the office. They had been heard, but had not been believed. "We may be dismissed from here, after all," said Sam bitterly. "What a shame!" cried Songbird. "Oh, if you could only find out who did it, and expose them!" The boys went back to their classes with heavy hearts. They saw a number of the other students looking at them questioningly. Jerry Koswell saw them return, and was much astonished. Had his plot to put them in disgrace miscarried, after all? Larkspur, too, was perplexed. Flockley was a bit relieved, and half hoped the whole matter would blow over and nothing more be heard of it. The day went by, and the other lads did not see Tom. But they saw him in the evening, just before supper. "Well, how did you make out?" asked Dick eagerly. "Got a vacation," was Tom's laconic answer. "Dismissed?" asked the others in concert. "No, suspended until Doctor Wallington can investigate the whole matter more thoroughly. He wanted me to apologize to Sharp, and I said flatly that I wouldn't do it, because I hadn't anything to apologize for. He got mad at first, and threatened me with instant dismissal. Then I warmed up, and said I was innocent of all wrongdoing, and perhaps I'd be able to prove it some day, and if so, and I was dismissed, I'd sue the college for loss of reputation. That brought matters to a head, and I guess the doctor saw I was in deadly earnest. He told me I could consider myself suspended for two weeks, or until he could get to the bottom of the affair. So I've got a holiday." "I'm glad you didn't apologize to Sharp," said Sam. "What are you going to do with yourself--go home?" asked Dick. "No. I am going to move to Ashton, and then try to get to the bottom of this matter." "The doctor will send a letter home." "So will I, and you must do the same. I think father will believe us." Tom left that night, and established himself at the leading hotel in Ashton. News travels swiftly, and Koswell and his cohorts took care that the girls at Hope should hear the story about the Rovers and Stanley and their supposed disgraceful doings. Dora, Nellie and Grace could scarcely believe their ears when they heard it. "This is awful!" murmured Dora, and the tears came to her eyes. "I don't believe one word of it!" cried Nellie with spirit. "But Tom has been suspended," said Grace. "And think of poor Sam and Dick!" And her heart sank like lead within her bosom. "I am going to send Dick a note right away," said Dora. "I cannot bear this suspense." "But you don't think Dick is guilty, do you?" asked Nellie. "No. But--but the disgrace! It is terrible!" And now Dora burst out crying in earnest. The note from Dora reached Dick the following day, in the afternoon mail. It was short, but to the point, reading as follows: "DEAR DICK: We have just heard something awful about you and Tom and Sam. Tell us what it means. Of course we don't believe you have done anything wrong. "Yours, "DORA." This note disturbed Dick and Sam greatly, for they could understand how the evil report concerning them had been circulated at Hope Seminary, and how the girls had suffered in consequence. "I am glad they think we are innocent," said Sam. "They couldn't do anything else, knowing us as they do," returned his brother. And then he sent a note back stating that the reports were all falsehoods, and asking them to meet Tom and themselves on the following Saturday at Ashton. "Perhaps Tom will have something to report by that time," said Dick. The time to Saturday dragged miserably. The boys could not set their minds on their lessons, and as a consequence got some poor marks. For this Professor Blackie gave them a lecture. "You ought to show your appreciation of what Doctor Wellington has done in your case," said the instructor. "We can't settle down to lessons with this cloud hanging over us," answered Dick frankly. "It has got to be cleared away, or--" he did not finish. "Or what, Rover?" "Or I'm afraid we'll have to leave, even if we are not dismissed," was the slow answer, and Dick breathed a deep sigh. CHAPTER XXIX WHAT THE GIRLS DISCOVERED The Rover boys sent letters to their father, and on Saturday morning came replies from Mr. Rover. He said he was both surprised and shocked at what had occurred, and added that if they needed his aid he would come on at once. He showed that he believed them innocent, for which they were thankful. "Here is more news," said Dick. "The case of Tad Sobber against the Stanhopes and the Lanings comes up in court next Tuesday; that is, they are going to argue the question of the injunction on that day." "That will make Mrs. Stanhope and Mrs. Laning very anxious." "Yes, and the girls, too, Sam." "Well, we are anxious, too. Oh, I do hope our side wins!" cried Sam wistfully. "It would set me wild to see Tad Sobber get all that money!" Dick and Sam were to meet Tom in Ashton at three o'clock, and all hoped that the girls would come later. Stanley could not go, for he had a Latin composition to write. When the Rovers reached the hotel in Ashton they found Tom impatiently awaiting them By the look on his face they knew he had something to tell. "Come up to my room," he said, and led the way to the apartment, located on the second floor, front. "You can sit by the window, Dick, and keep a lookout for the girls," said Sam. "Yes, they'll be here in about an hour," said Tom. "They telephoned this morning." "Well, what have you discovered--anything?" demanded Dick impatiently. "I think I am on the right track," answered Tom. "Let me tell you what I've done. In the first place, I visited the haunted house yesterday morning, and went through it from cellar to garret." "Alone?" queried Sam. "Yes, alone. But I carried a pistol, and I had it ready for use, too." "I don't blame you," murmured Dick. "And I guess you looked to see if the doors were open, too." "I did, and smashed out several windows in the bargain. The first place I investigated was that fireplace, and in it I found this." And Tom held up a bit of white paper. On it was printed: m B. Schlemp uggist. ain St. "That is from a druggist," said Dick. "Exactly. I figure out the name is William B. Schlemp, that he is a druggist, and that he is doing business at some number on Main Street," came from Tom. "But I figure out more than that." "What?" "The paper was crumpled up, and had in it a few grains of a gray powder. I set the powder on fire and got that strange vapor that almost strangled us." "You did!" cried Sam. "Then that stuff came from that druggist beyond a doubt." "So I figure it. But there is no druggist named Schlemp here," went on Tom, "and the druggist here doesn't know of such a fellow." "I know what we can do," cried Dick. "Don't you remember, Dan Baxter said he had worked for a wholesale drug house? We can telegraph and ask him if he knows of this Schlemp." "Then let us do it at once," said Tom. "I have his route--the one he said he was to follow." A few minutes later the following message was being flashed over the wires to Dan Baxter, then supposed to be located at Detroit: "Send full name and address of Blank B. Schlemp, druggist, at once. Highly important. "Thomas Rover, "Ashton Hotel," "That was about all I found at the haunted house that was important," said Tom after the message had gone. "But I've found out something here that may lead to something else of value." "What is that?" questioned Sam. "There is a fellow hanging around here named Henry Parwick. He is rather dissipated, and does not seem to work for a living. One night this Parwick had been drinking pretty freely, and he got into a quarrel with one of his companions. They taunted each other about money, and Parwick said he had some good friends up to Brill who would give him all the cash he wanted. The other fellow wanted to know that was, and Parwick winked one eye and answered, 'Oh, there's a reason, Buddy, a good reason. They wouldn't dare to refuse me.' Since that time I have seen Parwick talking to Jerry Koswell and Bart Larkspur." "Do you think this Parwick helped Koswell and the others in a plot against us?" asked Dick. "It may be so. Anyway, I think Parwick has some kind of a hold on Koswell, for I saw Jerry give him some money." "This is certainly interesting," mused Dick. "Do you suppose we could corner this Parwick and get him to talk?" "We might, but I have another plan." "What is that?" "To watch Parwick, and follow him when I think he is going to meet Koswell and the others. I may be able to overhear their talk." "Good!" After that Dick and Sam told Tom of what had occurred at the college since their brother had left. Sam was just relating the particulars of a stormy interview with Professor Sharp when Dick uttered a cry. "Look! Here comes Dora, and she is running!" One after another the brothers ran down to the ground floor of the hotel and hurried outside. "Oh, I am so glad I found you all together!" cried Dora, panting for breath. "Come quick!" "Where to?" queried Dick. "Down the road about half a mile. We just saw that Jerry Koswell and Bart Larkspur, and they are having a quarrel with a man who acts as if he was half intoxicated." "It must be Henry Parwick!" ejaculated Tom. "Yes, his name is Parwick," said Dora. "We heard Koswell mention it." "Where are they?" asked Sam as the whole party hurried down the main street and out of Ashton, Dora leading the way. "They are at a cottage where an old woman named Brice lives. We were going to stop for a drink of water when we heard voices, and saw the young men. Then Nellie and Grace heard them mention you, and they asked me to come here and get you just as quickly as possible. They said they would remain, and, if possible, hear what it was all about." "I think we are on the right track!" cried Dick joyfully. "Maybe matters will come to a head quicker than we imagined." "Dick, you stay with Dora!" cried Tom. "Come on, Sam!" And off the two brothers sped at top speed, leaving Dick and Dora to follow as rapidly as the strength of the girl would permit. Curiosity lent strength to the legs of the two Rovers, and they covered the distance to the Brice cottage in an incredibly short space of time. As they came into view they beheld Grace watching for them. She held up her hand for caution. She was standing in among some bushes by the roadside. "Be careful, or those wicked boys will see you!" she cried in a low voice. "They are back of the cottage, near the barn." "Where is Nellie?" asked Tom. "She is watching them." "Have you learned anything?" asked Sam. "Yes, indeed. We have learned that Koswell, Larkspur and Flockley were guilty of this plot against you, and that a man named Parwick aided them by getting a strange powder for them, the powder that made you dizzy and sick," were Grace's words, and they filled the Rovers with much satisfaction. CHAPTER XXX A BEGINNING AND AN ENDING "It was Allan Charter's coming that clinched matters," said Tom. "Doctor Wallington might not have believed us, but he had to believe Charter." "He had to believe the girls, too," added Dick. "He knew they would not tell him such falsehoods. But I am glad Charter came along. He hated to get mixed up in it, I know, but he acted the man about it, didn't he?" "Wonder what the doctor will do with Koswell & Company?" questioned Sam. "Fire 'em, most likely, and they deserve to be fired," growled Stanley. "Oh, when I think of the trick that was played I feel like wiping up the floor with every one of those scoundrels!" "It was certainly a bit of dirty work," was Dick's comment. The boys were seated in Sam and Tom's room, talking it over. It was Sunday afternoon, and outside the sun shone brightly and a light breeze stirred the trees. It had proved a strenuous Saturday afternoon and evening. Dick and Dora had come up, meeting Allan Charter, the leading senior of Brill, on the way. They had persuaded Charter to accompany them to the Brice cottage, and there all had witnessed a bitter quarrel between Henry Parwick and Koswell, Larkspur and Flockley. Parwick was semi-intoxicated, and in a maudlin way had exposed all that had been done at the haunted house. He had spoken about getting the powder for them, and mentioned how Koswell had fixed a fuse and lit it, and he told of getting the liquor bottles and flasks and other things. He had warmed up during his recital, and had demanded fifty dollars on the spot. When refused he had threatened to go to the Brill authorities and "blow everything." Then Koswell had threatened, if this was done, that he would have Parwick arrested for robbing his former employer, William Schlemp. Then had come blows, and in the midst of this Charter had stepped forward and confronted the evildoers. "We have seen and heard all," he had said sternly. "I am a witness, and so are these young ladies. You, Koswell, Flockley and Larkspur, ought to be ashamed of yourselves. I never dreamed any students of Brill could be so bad. I shall report to Doctor Wallington without delay." Charter had been as good as his word, and had been closeted with the head of the college for an hour. The girls went back with Tom, Dick and Sam, and also had an interview with the president. Then Doctor Wallington sent for Flockley, Koswell and Larkspur. Only Flockley answered the summons, and it was learned that Koswell and Larkspur were afraid to come back, fearing arrest. Parwick had also disappeared. Then had come a telegram from Dan Baxter giving the address of the druggist, Schlemp. Word was sent to this man, and later he wrote that Parwick had once worked for him, but had been discharged for drunkenness and because he was not honest. The interview between Doctor Wallington and Flockley was a most affecting one. The dudish student broke down utterly, and confessed all. He said Koswell had hatched out the plot, aided by Larkspur, and that he himself had been a more or less unwilling participant. He told much about Parwick, and how that dissolute fellow had spoken of having the strange powder, which was a Japanese concoction, and which, if used often, would render a person insane. He begged the good doctor to forgive him, and said he would be willing to do anything in order to remain at Brill. "My father will never forgive me if I am dismissed," he said in a broken voice. "But supposing I had dismissed the Rovers and Stanley Browne?" asked the doctor severely. "Yes, yes, I know, sir!" wailed Flockley. "But, oh, sir, don't send me away! I'll do anything if you'll let me stay!" "I will think it over," answered the head of Brill shortly. And thus Flockley was dismissed from the office. "It was certainly a wicked piece of work," said Songbird to the others in the room. "I really think somebody ought to be arrested." Tom was about to speak when a footstep sounded in the hall, and a knock on the door followed. Sam opened the portal, to behold Flockley standing there, hat in hand. The dudish student was as white as the wall, his clothing looked dishevelled, and his shoes were un-blacked, a great contrast to the Flockley of old. "What do you want?" asked Sam abruptly. "I want--I want--" commenced Flockley brokenly. Then he stepped into the room and confronted Dick. "Oh, Rover!" he cried, "won't you--won't you please, please get Doctor Wallington to let me stay at Brill? Please don't let him send me home! I'll do anything--apologize, get down on my knees, if you like--but please help me to stay here!" Flockley caught Dick by the arm and continued to plead, and then he entreated Sam, Tom, and Stanley, also. It was a truly affecting scene. They all commenced to speak. He had been so mean, wicked, so unlike a decent college fellow, how could they forgive him? And then came a pause, and during that pause a distant church bell sounded out, full and clear, across the hills surrounding Brill. Dick listened, and so did his brothers and Stanley, and the anger in their faces died down. "Well, I'm willing you should stay," said Dick, "and I'll speak to the doctor about it, if you wish." "And so will I," added Sam and Tom, and Stanley nodded. "But you ought to cut such fellows as Koswell and Larkspur," said Tom. "I will! I will!" said Flockley earnestly. The Rovers and Stanley Browne were as good as their word. On the following day they had another interview with the head of the college and spoke of Flockley. "Well, if you desire it, he can remain," said Doctor Wallington. "As for Koswell and Larkspur, I doubt if they wish to return, since they have not yet shown themselves. You can prosecute them if you wish." "No, we don't want to do that," said Dick. "We have talked it over, and we think, for the honor of Brill, the least said the better." "That conclusion does you much credit, and I feel greatly relieved," said the head of the college. He turned to Tom. "You are, of course, reinstated, Thomas, and I shall see to it that the marks placed against your name are wiped out. I sincerely trust that you and Professor Sharp will allow bygones to be bygones, and will make a new beginning." "I'm willing," answered Tom. And a little later he entered one of the classrooms and he and Professor Sharp shook hands. After school Professor Blackie came up and shook hands all around. "I am glad to know you are exonerated," said that professor. "This has taught me a lesson, to take nothing for granted," he added. When the truth became known many of the students flocked around the Rovers and Stanley and Songbird, and congratulated them on the outcome of the affair. Flockley did not show himself for a long time, excepting at meals and during class hours. "He feels his position keenly," said Dick. "Well, I hope he turns over a new leaf." "A telegram for Richard Rover," said one of the teachers to the boys a few days later. "Wonder what's up now?" mused Dick as he tore open the yellow envelope. He read the slip inside. "Hurrah! This is the best news yet!" he cried. "What is it?" asked Tom and Sam. "The injunction against the Stanhopes and the Lanings is dissolved by the court. They can keep the fortune. Tad Sobber has had his case thrown out of court!" "Say, that's great!" ejaculated Tom, and in the fullness of his spirits he turned a handspring. "I reckon that's the end of Mr. Tad Sobber," said Sam. But the youngest Rover was mistaken. Though beaten in court, Sobber did not give up all idea of gaining possession of the fortune, and what he did next will be related in another volume, to be called "The Rover Boys Down East; Or, The Struggle for the Stanhope Fortune." In that book we shall also meet Jerry Koswell and Bart Larkspur once more, and learn how they tried again to injure our friends. But for the time being all went well, and the Rover boys were exceedingly happy. As soon as possible they met the girls and all spent a happy half day in taking another ride in an automobile. From Flockley they gradually learned how Koswell and Larkspur had done many mean things, including putting the glass in the roadway, and using the pencil box out of Tom's dress-suit case. "Vacation will soon be at hand," cried Sam one day, "and then--" "Well have the best time ever known," finished Tom. "Ah, vacation time," put in Songbird. "I have composed some verses about that season. They run like this--" "Not to-day, Songbird," interrupted Dick. "I've got to bone away at my geometry." "Then hurry up, Dick," said Sam. "I want you to come and play ball." "Ball it is--in half an hour," answered Dick. "And then," he added softly to himself, "then I guess I'll write a good long letter to Dora." THE END 
19246	----	The Young Pitcher By Zane Grey 1911 CONTENTS I. The Varsity Captain II. A Great Arm III. Prisoner of the Sophs IV. The Call for Candidates V. The Cage VI. Out on the Field VII. Annihilation VIII. Examinations IX. President Halstead on College Spirit X. New Players XI. State University Game XII. Ken Clashes with Graves XIII. Friendship XIV. The Herne Game XV. A Matter of Principle XVI. The First Place Game XVII. Ken's Day XVIII. Breaking Training I THE VARSITY CAPTAIN Ken Ward had not been at the big university many days before he realized the miserable lot of a freshman. At first he was sorely puzzled. College was so different from what he had expected. At the high school of his home town, which, being the capital of the State, was no village, he had been somebody. Then his summer in Arizona, with its wild adventures, had given him a self-appreciation which made his present situation humiliating. There were more than four thousand students at the university. Ken felt himself the youngest, the smallest, the one of least consequence. He was lost in a shuffle of superior youths. In the forestry department he was a mere boy; and he soon realized that a freshman there was the same as anywhere. The fact that he weighed nearly one hundred and sixty pounds, and was no stripling, despite his youth, made not one whit of difference. Unfortunately, his first overture of what he considered good-fellowship had been made to an upper-classman, and had been a grievous mistake. Ken had not yet recovered from its reception. He grew careful after that, then shy, and finally began to struggle against disappointment and loneliness. Outside of his department, on the campus and everywhere he ventured, he found things still worse. There was something wrong with him, with his fresh complexion, with his hair, with the way he wore his tie, with the cut of his clothes. In fact, there was nothing right about him. He had been so beset that he could not think of anything but himself. One day, while sauntering along a campus path, with his hands in his pockets, he met two students coming toward him. They went to right and left, and, jerking his hands from his pockets, roared in each ear, "How dare you walk with your hands in your pockets!" Another day, on the library step, he encountered a handsome bareheaded youth with a fine, clean-cut face and keen eyes, who showed the true stamp of the great university. "Here," he said, sharply, "aren't you a freshman?" "Why--yes," confessed Ken. "I see you have your trousers turned up at the bottom." "Yes--so I have." For the life of him Ken could not understand why that simple fact seemed a crime, but so it was. "Turn them down!" ordered the student. Ken looked into the stern face and flashing eyes of his tormentor, and then meekly did as he had been commanded. "Boy, I've saved your life. We murder freshmen here for that," said the student, and then passed on up the steps. In the beginning it was such incidents as these that had bewildered Ken. He passed from surprise to anger, and vowed he would have something to say to these upper-classmen. But when the opportunity came Ken always felt so little and mean that he could not retaliate. This made him furious. He had not been in college two weeks before he could distinguish the sophomores from the seniors by the look on their faces. He hated the sneering "Sophs," and felt rising in him the desire to fight. But he both feared and admired seniors. They seemed so aloof, so far above him. He was in awe of them, and had a hopeless longing to be like them. And as for the freshmen, it took no second glance for Ken to pick them out. They were of two kinds--those who banded together in crowds and went about yelling, and running away from the Sophs, and those who sneaked about alone with timid step and furtive glance. Ken was one of these lonesome freshmen. He was pining for companionship, but he was afraid to open his lips. Once he had dared to go into Carlton Hall, the magnificent club-house which had been given to the university by a famous graduate. The club was for all students--Ken had read that on the card sent to him, and also in the papers. But manifestly the upper-classmen had a different point of view. Ken had gotten a glimpse into the immense reading-room with its open fireplace and huge chairs, its air of quiet study and repose; he had peeped into the brilliant billiard-hall and the gymnasium; and he had been so impressed and delighted with the marble swimming-tank that he had forgotten himself and walked too near the pool. Several students accidentally bumped him into it. It appeared the students were so eager to help him out that they crowded him in again. When Ken finally got out he learned the remarkable fact that he was the sixteenth freshman who had been accidentally pushed into the tank that day. So Ken Ward was in a state of revolt. He was homesick; he was lonely for a friend; he was constantly on the lookout for some trick; his confidence in himself had fled; his opinion of himself had suffered a damaging change; he hardly dared call his soul his own. But that part of his time spent in study or attending lectures more than made up for the other. Ken loved his subject and was eager to learn. He had a free hour in the afternoon, and often he passed this in the library, sometimes in the different exhibition halls. He wanted to go into Carlton Club again, but his experience there made him refrain. One afternoon at this hour Ken happened to glance into a lecture-room. It was a large amphitheatre full of noisy students. The benches were arranged in a circle running up from a small pit. Seeing safety in the number of students who were passing in, Ken went along. He thought he might hear an interesting lecture. It did not occur to him that he did not belong there. The university had many departments and he felt that any lecture-room was open to him. Still, caution had become a habit with him, and he stepped down the steep aisle looking for an empty bench. How steep the aisle was! The benches appeared to be on the side of a hill. Ken slipped into an empty one. There was something warm and pleasant in the close contact of so many students, in the ripple of laughter and the murmur of voices. Ken looked about him with a feeling that he was glad to be there. It struck him, suddenly, that the room had grown strangely silent. Even the shuffling steps of the incoming students had ceased. Ken gazed upward with a queer sense of foreboding. Perhaps he only imagined that all the students above were looking down at him. Hurriedly he glanced below. A sea of faces, in circular rows, was turned his way. There was no mistake about it. He was the attraction. At the same instant when he prayed to sink through the bench out of sight a burning anger filled his breast. What on earth had he done now? He knew it was something; he felt it. That quiet moment seemed an age. Then the waiting silence burst. "_Fresh on fifth!_" yelled a student in one of the lower benches. "FRESH ON FIFTH!" bawled another at the top of his lungs. Ken's muddled brain could make little of the matter. He saw he was in the fifth row of benches, and that all the way around on either side of him the row was empty. The four lower rows were packed, and above him students were scattered all over. He had the fifth row of benches to himself. "Fresh on fifth!" Again the call rang up from below. It was repeated, now from the left of the pit and then from the right. A student yelled it from the first row and another from the fourth. It banged back and forth. Not a word came from the upper part of the room. Ken sat up straight with a very red face. It was his intention to leave the bench, but embarrassment that was developing into resentment held him fast. What a senseless lot these students were! Why could they not leave him in peace? How foolish of him to go wandering about in strange lecture-rooms! A hand pressed Ken's shoulder. He looked back to see a student bending down toward him. "_Hang, Freshie!_" this fellow whispered. "What's it all about?" asked Ken. "What have I done, anyway? I never was in here before." "All Sophs down there. They don't allow freshmen to go below the sixth row. There've been several rushes this term. And the big one's coming. Hang, Freshie! We're all with you." "Fresh on fifth!" The tenor of the cry had subtly changed. Good-humored warning had changed to challenge. It pealed up from many lusty throats, and became general all along the four packed rows. "_Hang, Freshie!_" bellowed a freshman from the topmost row. It was acceptance of the challenge, the battle-cry flung down to the Sophs. A roar arose from the pit. The freshmen, outnumbering the sophomores, drowned the roar in a hoarser one. Then both sides settled back in ominous waiting. Ken thrilled in all his being. The freshmen were with him! That roar told him of united strength. All in a moment he had found comrades, and he clenched his fingers into the bench, vowing he would hang there until hauled away. "Fresh on fifth!" shouted a Soph in ringing voice. He stood up in the pit and stepped to the back of the second bench. "Fresh on fifth! Watch me throw him out!" He was a sturdily built young fellow and balanced himself gracefully on the backs of the benches, stepping up from one to the other. There was a bold gleam in his eyes and a smile on his face. He showed good-natured contempt for a freshman and an assurance that was close to authority. Ken sat glued to his seat in mingled fear and wrath. Was he to be the butt of those overbearing sophomores? He thought he could do nothing but hang on with all his might. The ascending student jumped upon the fourth bench and, reaching up, laid hold of Ken with no gentle hands. His grip was so hard that Ken had difficulty in stifling a cry of pain. This, however, served to dispel his panic and make him angry clear through. The sophomore pulled and tugged with all his strength, yet he could not dislodge Ken. The freshmen howled gleefully for him to "Hang! hang!" Then two more sophomores leaped up to help the leader. A blank silence followed this move, and all the freshmen leaned forward breathlessly. There was a sharp ripping of cloth. Half of Ken's coat appeared in the hands of one of his assailants. Suddenly Ken let go his hold, pushed one fellow violently, then swung his fists. It might have been unfair, for the sophomores were beneath him and balancing themselves on the steep benches, but Ken was too angry to think of that. The fellow he pushed fell into the arms of the students below, the second slid out of sight, and the third, who had started the fray, plunged with a crash into the pit. The freshmen greeted this with a wild yell; the sophomores answered likewise. Like climbing, tumbling apes the two classes spilled themselves up and down the benches, and those nearest Ken laid hold of him, pulling him in opposite directions. Then began a fierce fight for possession of luckless Ken. Both sides were linked together by gripping hands. Ken was absolutely powerless. His clothes were torn to tatters in a twinkling; they were soon torn completely off, leaving only his shoes and socks. Not only was he in danger of being seriously injured, but students of both sides were handled as fiercely. A heavy trampling roar shook the amphitheatre. As they surged up and down the steep room benches were split. In the beginning the sophomores had the advantage and the tug-of-war raged near the pit and all about it. But the superior numbers of the freshmen began to tell. The web of close-locked bodies slowly mounted up the room, smashing the benches, swaying downward now and then, yet irresistibly gaining ground. The yells of the freshmen increased with the assurance of victory. There was one more prolonged, straining struggle, then Ken was pulled away from the sophomores. The wide, swinging doors of the room were knocked flat to let out the stream of wild freshmen. They howled like fiends; it was first blood for the freshman class; the first tug won that year. Ken Ward came to his senses out in the corridor surrounded by an excited, beaming, and disreputable crowd of freshmen. Badly as he was hurt, he had to laugh. Some of them looked happy in nothing but torn underclothes. Others resembled a lot of ragamuffins. Coats were minus sleeves, vests were split, shirts were collarless. Blood and bruises were much in evidence. Some one helped Ken into a long ulster. "Say, it was great," said this worthy. "Do you know who that fellow was--the first one who tried to throw you out of number five?" "I haven't any idea," replied Ken. In fact, he felt that his ideas were as scarce just then as his clothes. "That was the president of the Sophs. He's the varsity baseball captain, too. You slugged him!... Great!" Ken's spirit, low as it was, sank still lower. What miserable luck he had! His one great ambition, next to getting his diploma, had been to make the varsity baseball team. II A GREAT ARM The shock of that battle, more than the bruising he had received, confined Ken to his room for a week. When he emerged it was to find he was a marked man; marked by the freshmen with a great and friendly distinction; by the sophomores for revenge. If it had not been for the loss of his baseball hopes, he would have welcomed the chance to become popular with his classmates. But for him it was not pleasant to be reminded that he had "slugged" the Sophs' most honored member. It took only two or three meetings with the revengeful sophomores to teach Ken that discretion was the better part of valor. He learned that the sophomores of all departments were looking for him with deadly intent. So far luck had enabled him to escape all but a wordy bullying. Ken became an expert at dodging. He gave the corridors and campus a wide berth. He relinquished his desire to live in one of the dormitories, and rented a room out in the city. He timed his arrival at the university and his departure. His movements were governed entirely by painfully acquired knowledge of the whereabouts of his enemies. So for weeks Ken Ward lived like a recluse. He was not one with his college mates. He felt that he was not the only freshman who had gotten a bad start in college. Sometimes when he sat near a sad-faced classmate, he knew instinctively that here was a fellow equally in need of friendship. Still these freshmen were as backward as he was, and nothing ever came of such feelings. The days flew by and the weeks made months, and all Ken did was attend lectures and study. He read everything he could find in the library that had any bearing on forestry. He mastered his text-books before the Christmas holidays. About the vacation he had long been undecided; at length he made up his mind not to go home. It was a hard decision to reach. But his college life so far had been a disappointment; he was bitter about it, and he did not want his father to know. Judge Ward was a graduate of the university. Often and long he had talked to Ken about university life, the lasting benefit of associations and friendships. He would probably think that his son had barred himself out by some reckless or foolish act. Ken was not sure what was to blame; he knew he had fallen in his own estimation, and that the less he thought of himself the more he hated the Sophs. On Christmas day he went to Carlton Hall. It was a chance he did not want to miss, for very few students would be there. As it turned out he spent some pleasant hours. But before he left the club his steps led him into the athletic trophy room, and there he was plunged into grief. The place was all ablaze with flags and pennants, silver cups and gold medals, pictures of teams and individuals. There were mounted sculls and oars, footballs and baseballs. The long and proud record of the university was there to be read. All her famous athletes were pictured there, and every one who had fought for his college. Ken realized that here for the first time he was in the atmosphere of college spirit for which the university was famed. What would he not have given for a permanent place in that gallery! But it was too late. He had humiliated the captain of the baseball team. Ken sought out the picture of the last season's varsity. What a stocky lot of young chaps, all consciously proud of the big letter on their shirts! Dale, the captain and pitcher, was in the centre of the group. Ken knew his record, and it was a splendid one. Ken took another look at Dale, another at the famous trainer, Murray, and the professional coach, Arthurs--men under whom it had been his dream to play--and then he left the room, broken-hearted. When the Christmas recess was over he went back to his lectures resigned to the thought that the athletic side of college life was not for him. He studied harder than ever, and even planned to take a course of lectures in another department. Also his adeptness in dodging was called upon more and more. The Sophs were bound to get him sooner or later. But he did not grow resigned to that; every dodge and flight increased his resentment. Presently he knew he would stop and take what they had to give, and retaliate as best he could. Only, what would they do to him when they did catch him? He remembered his watch, his money, and clothes, never recovered after that memorable tug-of-war. He minded the loss of his watch most; that gift could never be replaced. It seemed to him that he had been the greater sufferer. One Saturday in January Ken hurried from his class-room. He was always in a hurry and particularly on Saturdays, for that being a short day for most of the departments, there were usually many students passing to and fro. A runaway team clattering down the avenue distracted him from his usual caution, and he cut across the campus. Some one stopped the horses, and a crowd collected. When Ken got there many students were turning away. Ken came face to face with a tall, bronze-haired, freckle-faced sophomore, whom he had dodged more than once. There was now no use to dodge; he had to run or stand his ground. "Boys, here's that slugging Freshie!" yelled the Soph. "We've got him now." He might have been an Indian chief so wild was the whoop that answered him. "Lead us to him!" "Oh, what we won't do to that Freshie!" "Come on, boys!" Ken heard these yells, saw a number of boys dash at him, then he broke and ran as if for his life. The Sophs, a dozen strong, yelling loudly, strung out after him. Ken headed across the campus. He was fleet of foot, and gained on his pursuers. But the yells brought more Sophs on the scene, and they turned Ken to the right. He spurted for Carlton Hall, and almost ran into the arms of still more sophomores. Turning tail, he fled toward the library. When he looked back it was to see the bronze-haired leader within a hundred yards, and back of him a long line of shouting students. If there was a place to hide round that library Ken could not find it. In this circuit he lost ground. Moreover, he discovered he had not used good judgment in choosing that direction. All along the campus was a high iron fence. Ken thought desperately hard for an instant, then with renewed speed he bounded straight for College Hall. This was the stronghold of the sophomores. As Ken sped up the gravel walk his pursuers split their throats. "Run, you Freshie!" yelled one. "The more you run--" yelled another. "The more we'll skin you!" finished a third. Ken ran into the passageway leading through College Hall. It was full of Sophs hurrying toward the door to see where the yells came from. When Ken plunged into their midst some one recognized him and burst out with the intelligence. At the same moment Ken's pursuers banged through the swinging doors. A yell arose then in the constricted passageway that seemed to Ken to raise College Hall from its foundation. It terrified him. Like an eel he slipped through reaching arms and darted forward. Ken was heavy and fast on his feet, and with fear lending him wings he made a run through College Hall that would have been a delight to the football coach. For Ken was not dodging any sophomores now. He had played his humiliating part of dodger long enough. He knocked them right and left, and many a surprised Soph he tumbled over. Reaching the farther door, he went through out into the open. The path before him was clear now, and he made straight for the avenue. It was several hundred yards distant, and he got a good start toward it before the Sophs rolled like a roaring stream from the passage. Ken saw other students running, and also men and boys out on the avenue; but as they could not head him off he kept to his course. On that side of the campus a high, narrow stairway, lined by railings, led up to the sidewalk. When Ken reached it he found the steps covered with ice. He slipped and fell three times in the ascent, while his frantic pursuers gained rapidly. Ken mounted to the sidewalk, gave vent to a gasp of relief, and, wheeling sharply, he stumbled over two boys carrying a bushel basket of potatoes. When he saw the large, round potatoes a daring inspiration flashed into his mind. Taking the basket from the boys he turned to the head of the stairway. The bronze-haired Soph was half-way up the steps. His followers, twelve or more, were climbing after him. Then a line of others stretched all the way to College Hall. With a grim certainty of his mastery of the situation Ken threw a huge potato at his leading pursuer. Fair and square on the bronze head it struck with a sharp crack. Like a tenpin the Soph went down. He plumped into the next two fellows, knocking them off their slippery footing. The three fell helplessly and piled up their comrades in a dense wedge half-way down the steps. If the Sophs had been yelling before, it was strange to note how they were yelling now. Deliberately Ken fired the heavy missiles. They struck with sodden thuds against the bodies of the struggling sophomores. A poor thrower could not very well have missed that mark, and Ken Ward was remarkably accurate. He had a powerful overhand swing, and the potatoes flew like bullets. One wild-eyed Soph slipped out of the tangle to leap up the steps. Ken, throwing rather low, hit him on the shin. He buckled and dropped down with a blood-curdling yell. Another shook himself loose and faced upward. A better-aimed shot took him in the shoulder. He gave an exhibition of a high and lofty somersault. Then two more started up abreast. The first Ken hit over the eye with a very small potato, which popped like an explosive bullet and flew into bits. As far as effect was concerned a Martini could not have caused a more beautiful fall. Ken landed on the second fellow in the pit of the stomach with a very large potato. There was a sound as of a suddenly struck bass-drum. The Soph crumpled up over the railing, slid down, and fell among his comrades, effectually blocking the stairway. For the moment Ken had stopped the advance. The sophomores had been checked by one wild freshman. There was scarcely any doubt about Ken's wildness. He had lost his hat; his dishevelled hair stood up like a mane; every time he hurled a potato he yelled. But there was nothing wild about his aim. All at once he turned his battery on the students gathering below the crush, trying to find a way through the kicking, slipping mass on the narrow stairs. He scattered them as if they had been quail. Some ran out of range. Others dove for cover and tried to dodge. This dodging brought gleeful howls from Ken. "Dodge, you Indian!" yelled Ken, as he threw. And seldom it was that dodging was of any use. Then, coming to the end of his ammunition, he surveyed the battle-field beneath him and, turning, ran across the avenue and down a street. At the corner of the block he looked back. There was one man coming, but he did not look like a student. So Ken slackened his pace and bent his steps toward his boarding-house. "By George! I stole those potatoes!" he exclaimed, presently. "I wonder how I can make that good." Several times as he turned to look over his shoulder he saw the man he had noticed at first. But that did not trouble him, for he was sure no one else was following him. Ken reached his room exhausted by exertion and excitement. He flung himself upon his bed to rest and calm his mind so that he could think. If he had been in a bad light before, what was his position now? Beyond all reasoning with, however, was the spirit that gloried in his last stand. "By George!" he kept saying. "I wouldn't have missed that--not for anything. They made my life a nightmare. I'll have to leave college--go somewhere else--but I don't care." Later, after dinner as he sat reading, he heard a door-bell ring, a man's voice, then footsteps in the hall. Some one tapped on his door. Ken felt a strange, cold sensation, which soon passed, and he spoke: "Come in." The door opened to admit a short man with little, bright eyes sharp as knives. "Hello, Kid," he said. Then he leisurely removed his hat and overcoat and laid them on the bed. Ken's fear of he knew not what changed to amazement. At least his visitor did not belong to the faculty. There was something familiar about the man, yet Ken could not place him. "Well up in your studies?" he asked, cordially. Then he seated himself, put a hand on each knee, and deliberately and curiously studied Ken. "Why, yes, pretty well up," replied Ken. He did not know how to take the man. There was a kindliness about him which relieved Ken, yet there was also a hard scrutiny that was embarrassing. "All by your lonely here," he said. "It is lonely," replied Ken, "but--but I don't get on very well with the students." "Small wonder. Most of 'em are crazy." He was unmistakably friendly. Ken kept wondering where he had seen him. Presently the man arose, and, with a wide smile on his face, reached over and grasped Ken's right arm. "How's the whip?" "What?" asked Ken. "The wing--your arm, Kid, your arm." "Oh--Why, it's all right." "It's not sore--not after peggin' a bushel of potatoes on a cold day?" Ken laughed and raised his arm up and down. "It's weak to-night, but not sore." "These boys with their India-rubber arms! It's youth, Kid, it's youth. Say, how old are you?" "Sixteen." "What! No more than that?" "No." "How much do you weigh?" "About one hundred and fifty-six." "I thought you had some beef back of that stunt of yours to-day. Say, Kid, it was the funniest and the best thing I've seen at the university in ten years--and I've seen some fresh boys do some stunts, I have. Well... Kid, you've a grand whip--a great arm--and we're goin' to do some stunts with it." Ken felt something keen and significant in the very air. "A great arm! For what?... who are you?" "Say, I thought every boy in college knew me. I'm Arthurs." "The baseball coach! Are you the baseball coach?" exclaimed Ken, jumping up with his heart in his throat. "That's me, my boy; and I'm lookin' you up." Ken suddenly choked with thronging emotions and sat down as limp as a rag. "Yes, Kid, I'm after you strong. The way you pegged 'em to-day got me. You've a great arm!" III PRISONER OF THE SOPHS "But if--it's really true--that I've a great arm," faltered Ken, "it won't ever do me any good. I could never get on the varsity." "Why not?" demanded the coach. "I'll make a star of a youngster like you, if you'll take coachin'. Why not?" "Oh, you don't know," returned Ken, with a long face. "Say, you haven't struck me as a kid with no nerve. What's wrong with you?" "It was I who slugged Captain Dale and caused that big rush between the freshmen and sophomores. I've lived like a hermit ever since." "So it was you who hit Dale. Well--that's bad," replied Arthurs. He got up with sober face and began to walk the floor. "I remember the eye he had. It was a sight.... But Dale's a good fellow. He'll--" "I'd do anything on earth to make up for that," burst out Ken. "Good! I'll tell you what we'll do," said Arthurs, his face brightening. "We'll go right down to Dale's room now. I'll fix it up with him somehow. The sooner the better. I'm goin' to call the baseball candidates to the cage soon." They put on coats and hats and went out. Evidently the coach was thinking hard, for he had nothing to say, but he kept a reassuring hand on Ken's arm. They crossed the campus along the very path where Ken had fled from the sophomores. The great circle of dormitories loomed up beyond with lights shining in many windows. Arthurs led Ken through a court-yard and into a wide, bright hallway. Their steps sounded with hollow click upon the tiled floor. They climbed three flights of stairs, and then Arthurs knocked at a door. Ken's heart palpitated. It was all so sudden; he did not know what he was going to say or do. He did not care what happened to him if Arthurs could only, somehow, put him right with the captain. A merry voice bade them enter. The coach opened the door and led Ken across the threshold. Ken felt the glow of a warm, bright room, colorful with pennants and posters, and cozy in its disorder. Then he saw Dale and, behind him, several other students. There was a moment's silence in which Ken heard his heart beat. Dale rose slowly from his seat, the look on his frank face changing from welcome to intense amazement and then wild elation. "Whoop!" he shouted. "Lock the door! Worry Arthurs, this's your best bet ever!" Dale dashed at the coach, hugged him frantically, then put his head out of the door to bawl: "Sophs! Sophs! Sophs! Hurry call! Number nine!... Oh, my!" Then he faced about, holding the door partially open. He positively beamed upon the coach. "Say, Cap, what's eatin' you?" asked Arthurs. He looked dumfounded. Ken hung to him desperately; he thought he knew what was coming. There were hurried footsteps in the corridor and excited voices. "Worry, it's bully of you to bring this freshman here," declared the captain. "Well, what of it?" demanded the coach. "I looked him up to-night. He's got a great arm, and will be good material for the team. He told me about the little scrap you had in the lecture-room. He lost his temper, and no wonder. Anyway, he's sorry, Cap, and I fetched him around to see if you couldn't make it up. How about it, Kid?" "I'm sorry--awfully sorry, Captain Dale," blurted out Ken. "I was mad and scared, too--then you fellows hurt me. So I hit right out.... But I'll take my medicine." "So--oh!" ejaculated Dale. "Well, this beats the deuce! _That's_ why you're here?" The door opened wide to admit half a dozen eager-faced youths. "Fellows, here's a surprise," said Dale. "Young Ward, the freshman! the elusive slugging freshman, fast on his feet, and, as Worry here says, a lad with a great arm!" "WARD!" roared the Sophs in unison. "Hold on, fellows--wait--no rough-house yet--wait," ordered Dale. "Ward's here of his own free will!" Silence ensued after the captain spoke. While he turned to lock the door the Sophs stared open-mouthed at Ken. Arthurs had a worried look, and he kept his hand on Ken. Dale went to a table and began filling his pipe. Then he fixed sharp, thoughtful eyes upon his visitors. "Worry, you say you brought this freshman here to talk baseball?" he asked. "Sure I did," blustered Arthurs. It was plain now where he got the name that Dale called him. "What's in the wind, anyhow?" Dale then gravely spoke to Ken. "So you came here to see me? Sorry you slugged me once? Want to make up for it somehow, because you think you've a chance for the team, and don't want me to be sore on you? That it?" "Not exactly," replied Ken. "I'd want to let you get square with me even if you weren't the varsity captain." "Well, you've more than squared yourself with me--by coming here. You'll realize that presently. But don't you know what's happened, what the freshmen have done?" "No; I don't." "You haven't been near the university since this afternoon when you pulled off the potato stunt?" "I should say I haven't." This brought a laugh from the Sophs. "You were pretty wise," went on Dale. "The Sophs didn't love you then. But they're going to--understand?" Ken shook his head, too bewildered and mystified to reply. "Well, now, here's Giraffe Boswick. Look what you did to him!" Ken's glance followed the wave of Dale's hand and took in the tall, bronze-haired sophomore who had led the chase that afternoon. Boswick wore a huge discolored bruise over his left eye. It was hideous. Ken was further sickened to recollect that Boswick was one of the varsity pitchers. But the fellow was smiling amiably at Ken, as amiably as one eye would permit. The plot thickened about Ken. He felt his legs trembling under him. "Boswick, you forgive Ward, don't you--now?" continued Dale, with a smile. "With all my heart!" exclaimed the pitcher. "To see him here would make me forgive anything." Coach Arthurs was ill at ease. He evidently knew students, and he did not relish the mystery, the hidden meaning. "Say, you wise guys make me sick," he called out, gruffly. "Here's a kid that comes right among you. He's on the level, and more'n that, he's game! Now, Cap, I fetched him here, and I won't stand for a whole lot. Get up on your toes! Get it over!" "Sit down Worry, here's a cigar--light up," said Dale, soothingly. "It's all coming right, lovely, I say. Ward was game to hunt me up, a thousand times gamer than he knows.... See here, Ward, where are you from?" "I live a good long day's travel from the university," answered Ken, evasively. "I thought so. Did you ever hear of the bowl-fight, the great event of the year here at Wayne University?" "Yes, I've heard--read a little about it. But I don't know what it is." "I'll tell you," went on Dale. "There are a number of yearly rushes and scrapes between the freshmen and sophomores, but the bowl-fight is the one big meeting, the time-honored event. It has been celebrated here for many years. It takes place on a fixed date. Briefly, here's what comes off: The freshmen have the bowl in their keeping this year because they won it in the last fight. They are to select one of their number, always a scrappy fellow, and one honored by the class, and they call him the bowl-man. A week before the fight, on a certain date, the freshmen hide this bowl-man or protect him from the sophomores until the day of the fight, when they all march to Grant field in fighting-togs. Should the sophomores chance to find him and hold him prisoner until after the date of the bowl-fight they win the bowl. The same applies also in case the bowl is in possession of the sophomores. But for ten years neither class has captured the other's bowl-man. So they have fought it out on the field until the bowl was won." "Well, what has all that got to do with me?" asked Ken. He felt curiously light-headed. "It has a _little_ to do with you--hasn't it, fellows?" said Dale, in slow, tantalizing voice. Worry Arthurs lost his worried look and began to smile and rub his hands. "Ward, look here," added Dale, now speaking sharply. "You've been picked for the bowl-man!" "Me--me?" stammered Ken. "No other. The freshmen were late in choosing a man this year. To-day, after your stunt--holding up that bunch of sophomores--they had a meeting in Carlton Club and picked you. Most of them didn't even know your name. I'll bet the whole freshman class is hunting for you right now." "What for?" queried Ken, weakly. "Why, I told you. The bowl-fight is only a week off--and here you are. _And here you'll stay until that date's past!_" Ken drew a quick breath. He began to comprehend. The sudden huzzahs of Dale's companions gave him further enlightenment. "But, Captain Dale," he said, breathlessly, "if it's so--if my class has picked me--I can't throw them down. I don't know a soul in my class. I haven't a friend. But I won't throw them down--not to be forever free of dodging Sophs--not even to square myself with you." "Ward, you're all right!" shouted Dale, his eyes shining. In the quiet moment that followed, with all the sophomores watching him intently, Ken Ward instinctively felt that his measure had been taken. "I won't stay here," said Ken, and for the first time his voice rang. "Oh yes, you will," replied Dale, laughing. Quick as a cat Ken leaped for the door and got it unlocked and half open before some one clutched him. Then Dale was on him close and hard. Ken began to struggle. He was all muscle, and twice he broke from them. "His legs! Grab his legs! He's a young bull!" "We'll trim you now, Freshie!" "You potato-masher!" "Go for his wind!" Fighting and wrestling with all his might Ken went down under a half dozen sophomores. Then Dale was astride his chest, and others were sitting on his hands and feet. "Boys, don't hurt that arm!" yelled Worry Arthurs. "Ward, will you be good now and stop scrapping or shall we tie you?" asked Dale. "You can't get away. The thing to do is to give your word not to try. We want to make this easy for you. Your word of honor, now?" "Never!" cried Ken. "I knew you wouldn't," said Dale. "We'll have to keep you under guard." They let him get up. He was panting, and his nose was bleeding, and one of his knuckles was skinned. That short struggle had been no joke. The Sophs certainly meant to keep him prisoner. Still, he was made to feel at ease. They could not do enough for him. "It's tough luck, Ward, that you should have fallen into our hands this way," said Dale. "But you couldn't help it. You will be kept in my rooms until after the fifteenth. Meals will be brought you, and your books; everything will be done for your comfort. Your whereabouts, of course, will be a secret, and you will be closely watched. Worry, remember you are bound to silence. And Ward, perhaps it wasn't an ill wind that blew you here. You've had your last scrap with a Soph, that's sure. As for what brought you here--it's more than square; and I'll say this: if you can play ball as well as you can scrap, old Wayne has got a star." IV THE CALL FOR CANDIDATES There were five rooms in Dale's suite in the dormitory, and three other sophomores shared them with him. They confined Ken in the end room, where he was safely locked and guarded from any possible chance to escape. For the first day or two it was irksome for Ken; but as he and his captors grew better acquainted the strain eased up, and Ken began to enjoy himself as he had not since coming to the university. He could not have been better provided for. His books were at hand, and even notes of the lectures he was missing were brought to him. The college papers and magazines interested him, and finally he was much amused by an account of his mysterious disappearance. All in a day he found himself famous. Then Dale and his room-mates were so friendly and jolly that if his captivity had not meant the disgrace of the freshman class, Ken would have rejoiced in it. He began to thaw out, though he did not lose his backwardness. The life of the great university began to be real to him. Almost the whole sophomore class, in squads of twos and threes and sixes, visited Dale's rooms during that week. No Soph wanted to miss a sight of a captive bowl-man. Ken felt so callow and fresh in their presence that he scarcely responded to their jokes. Worry Arthur's nickname of "Kid" vied with another the coach conferred on Ken, and that was "Peg." It was significant slang expressing the little baseball man's baseball notion of Ken's throwing power. The evening was the most interesting time for Ken. There was always something lively going on. He wondered when the boys studied. When some of the outside students dropped in there were banjo and guitar playing, college songs, and college gossip. "Come on, Peg, be a good fellow," they said, and laughed at his refusal to smoke or drink beer. "Molly!" mocked one. "Willy-boy!" added another. Ken was callow, young, and backward; but he had a temper, and this kind of banter roused it easily. The red flamed into his cheeks. "I promised my mother I wouldn't smoke or drink or gamble while I was in college," he retorted, struggling with shame and anger. "And I--I won't." Dale stopped the good-natured chaff. "Fellows, stop guying Ward; cut it out, I tell you. He's only a kid freshman, but he's liable to hand you a punch, and if he does you'll remember it. Besides, he's right.... Look here, Ward, you stick to that promise. It's a good promise to stick to, and if you're going in for athletics it's the best ever." Worry Arthurs happened to be present on this evening, and he seconded Dale in more forceful speech. "There's too much boozin' and smokin' of them coffin nails goin' on in this college. It's none of my affair except with the boys I'm coachin', and if I ketch any one breakin' my rules after we go to the trainin'-table he'll sit on the bench. There's Murray; why, he says there are fellows in college who could break records if they'd train. Half of sprintin' or baseball or football is condition." "Oh, Worry, you and Mac always make a long face over things. Wayne has won a few championships, hasn't she?" "The varsity ball team will be a frost this year, that's sure," replied Arthurs, gloomily. "How do you make that out?" demanded Dale, plainly nettled. "You've hinted it before to me. Why won't we be stronger than last season? Didn't we have a crackerjack team, the fastest that ever represented old Wayne? Didn't we smother the small college teams and beat Place twice, shut out Herne the first game, and play for a tie the second?" "You'll see, all right, all right," replied Arthurs, gloomier than ever; and he took his hat and went out. Dale slammed his cards down on the table. "Fellows, is it any wonder we call him Worry? Already he's begun to fuss over the team. Ever since he's been here he has driven the baseball captains and managers crazy. It's only his way, but it's so irritating. He's a magnificent coach, and Wayne owes her great baseball teams to him. But he's hard on captains. I see my troubles. The idea of this year's team being a frost--with all the old stars back in college--with only two positions to fill! And there are half a dozen cracks in college to fight for these two positions--fellows I played against on the summer nines last year. Worry's idea is ridiculous." This bit of baseball talk showed Ken the obstacles in the way of a freshman making the varsity team. What a small chance there would be for him! Still he got a good deal of comfort out of Arthurs' interest in him, and felt that he would be happy to play substitute this season, and make the varsity in his sophomore year. The day of the bowl-fight passed, and Ken's captivity became history. The biggest honor of the sophomore year went to Dale and his room-mates. Ken returned to his department, where he was made much of, as he had brought fame to a new and small branch of the great university. It was a pleasure to walk the campus without fear of being pounced upon. Ken's dodging and loneliness--perhaps necessary and curbing nightmares in the life of a freshman--were things of the past. He made acquaintances, slowly lost his backwardness, and presently found college life opening to him bright and beautiful. Ken felt strongly about things. And as his self-enforced exile had been lonely and bitter, so now his feeling that he was really a part of the great university seemed almost too good to be true. He began to get a glimmering of the meaning of his father's love for the old college. Students and professors underwent some vague change in his mind. He could not tell what, he did not think much about it, but there was a warmer touch, a sense of something nearer to him. Then suddenly a blow fell upon the whole undergraduate body. It was a thunderbolt. It affected every student, but Ken imagined it concerned his own college fortunes more intimately. The athletic faculty barred every member of the varsity baseball team! The year before the faculty had advised and requested the players not to become members of the summer baseball nines. Their wishes had not been heeded. Captain Dale and his fast players had been much in demand by the famous summer nines. Some of them went to the Orange Athletic Club, others to Richfield Springs, others to Cape May, and Dale himself had captained the Atlantic City team. The action of the faculty was commended by the college magazine. Even the students, though chafing under it, could not but acknowledge its justice. The other universities had adopted such a rule, and Wayne must fall in line. The objections to summer ball-playing were not few, and the particular one was that it affected the amateur standing of the college player. He became open to charges of professionalism. At least, all his expenses were paid, and it was charged that usually he was paid for his services. Ken's first feeling when he learned this news was one of blank dismay. The great varsity team wiped off the slate! How Place and Herne would humble old Wayne this year! Then the long, hard schedule, embracing thirty games, at least one with every good team in the East--how would an untried green team fare against that formidable array? Then Ken suddenly felt ashamed of a selfish glee, for he was now sure of a place on the varsity. For several days nothing else was talked about by the students. Whenever Dale or his players appeared at Carlton Hall they were at once surrounded by a sympathetic crowd. If it was a bitter blow to the undergraduates, what was it to the members of the varsity? Their feeling showed in pale, stern faces. It was reported about the campus that Murray and Arthurs and Dale, with the whole team, went to the directors of the athletic faculty and besought them to change or modify the decision. Both the trainer and the coach, who had brought such glory to the university, threatened to resign their places. The disgrace of a pitiably weak team of freshmen being annihilated by minor colleges was eloquently put before the directors. But the decision was final. One evening early in February Worry Arthurs called upon Ken. His face was long, and his mustache drooped. "Kid, what do you think of 'em fat-heads on the faculty queerin' my team?" he asked. "Best team I ever developed. Say, but the way they could work the hit-and-run game! Any man on the team could hit to right field when there was a runner goin' down from first." "Maybe things will turn out all right," suggested Ken, hopefully. Worry regarded his youthful sympathizer with scorn. "It takes two years to teach most college kids the rudiments of baseball. Look at this year's schedule." Worry produced a card and waved it at Ken. "The hardest schedule Wayne ever had! And I've got to play a kid team." Ken was afraid to utter any more of his hopes, and indeed he felt them to be visionary. "The call for candidates goes out to-morrow," went on the coach. "I'll bet there'll be a mob at the cage. Every fool kid in the university will think he's sure of a place. Now, Ward, what have you played?" "Everywhere; but infield mostly." "Every kid has played the whole game. What position have you played most?" "Third base." "Good! You've the arm for that. Well, I'm anxious to see you work, but don't exert yourself in the cage. This is a tip. See! I'll be busy weedin' out the bunch, and won't have time until we get out on the field. You can run around the track every day, get your wind and your legs right, hold in on your arm. The cage is cold. I've seen many a good wing go to the bad there. But your chance looks good. College baseball is different from any other kind. You might say it's played with the heart. I've seen youngsters go in through grit and spirit, love of playin' for their college, and beat out fellows who were their superiors physically. Well, good-night.... Say, there's one more thing. I forgot it. Are you up in your subjects?" "I surely am," replied Ken. "I've had four months of nothing but study." "The reason I ask is this: That faculty has made another rule, the one-year residence rule, they call it. You have to pass your exams, get your first year over, before you can represent any athletic club. So, in case I can use you on the team, you would have to go up for your exams two months or more ahead of time. That scare you?" "Not a bit. I could pass mine right now," answered Ken, confidently. "Kid, you and me are goin' to get along.... Well, good-night, and don't forget what I said." Ken was too full for utterance; he could scarcely mumble good-night to the coach. He ran up-stairs three steps to the jump, and when he reached his room he did a war dance and ended by standing on his head. When he had gotten rid of his exuberance he sat down at once to write to his brother Hal about it, and also his forest-ranger friend, Dick Leslie, with whom he had spent an adventurous time the last summer. At Carlton Hall, next day, Ken saw a crowd of students before the bulletin-board and, edging in, he read the following notice: BASEBALL! CALL FOR CANDIDATES FOR THE VARSITY BASEBALL TEAM The Athletic Directors of the University earnestly request every student who can play ball, or who thinks he can, to present himself to Coach Arthurs at the Cage on Feb. 3rd. There will be no freshman team this year, and a new team entirely will be chosen for the varsity. Every student will have a chance. Applicants are requested to familiarize themselves with the new eligibility rules. V THE CAGE Ken Ward dug down into his trunk for his old baseball suit and donned it with strange elation. It was dirty and torn, and the shoes that went with it were worn out, but Ken was thinking of what hard ball-playing they represented. He put his overcoat on over his sweater, took up his glove and sallied forth. A thin coating of ice and snow covered the streets. Winter still whistled in the air. To Ken in his eagerness spring seemed a long way off. On his way across the campus he saw strings of uniformed boys making for Grant Field, and many wearing sweaters over their every-day clothes. The cage was situated at one end of the field apart from the other training-quarters. When Ken got there he found a mob of players crowding to enter the door of the big barn-like structure. Others were hurrying away. Near the door a man was taking up tickets like a doorkeeper of a circus, and he kept shouting: "Get your certificates from the doctor. Every player must pass a physical examination. Get your certificates." Ken turned somewhat in disgust at so much red tape and he jostled into a little fellow, almost knocking him over. "Wull! Why don't you fall all over me?" growled this amiable individual. "For two cents I'd hand you one." The apology on Ken's lips seemed to halt of its own accord. "Sorry I haven't any change in these clothes," returned Ken. He saw a wiry chap, older than he was, but much smaller, and of most aggressive front. He had round staring eyes, a protruding jaw, and his mouth turned down at the corners. He wore a disreputable uniform and a small green cap over one ear. "Aw! don't get funny!" he replied. Ken moved away muttering to himself: "That fellow's a grouch." Much to his amazement, when he got to the training-house, Ken found that he could not get inside because so many players were there ahead of him. After waiting an hour or more he decided he could not have his physical examination at that time, and he went back to the cage. The wide door was still blocked with players, but at the other end of the building Ken found an entrance. He squeezed into a crowd of students and worked forward until stopped by a railing. Ken was all eyes and breathless with interest. The cage was a huge, open, airy room, lighted by many windows, and, with the exception of the platform where he stood, it was entirely enclosed by heavy netting. The floor was of bare ground well raked and loosened to make it soft. This immense hall was full of a motley crowd of aspiring ball-players. Worry Arthurs, with his head sunk in the collar of his overcoat, and his shoulders hunched up as if he was about to spring upon something, paced up and down the rear end of the cage. Behind him a hundred or more players in line slowly marched toward the slab of rubber which marked the batting position. Ken remembered that the celebrated coach always tried out new players at the bat first. It was his belief that batting won games. "Bunt one and hit one!" he yelled to the batters. From the pitcher's box a lanky individual was trying to locate the plate. Ken did not need a second glance to see that this fellow was no pitcher. "Stop posin', and pitch!" yelled Arthurs. One by one the batters faced the plate, swung valiantly or wildly at balls and essayed bunts. Few hit the ball out and none made a creditable bunt. After their turn at bat they were ordered to the other end of the cage, where they fell over one another trying to stop the balls that were hit. Every few moments the coach would yell for one of them, any one, to take a turn at pitching. Ken noticed that Arthurs gave a sharp glance at each new batter, and one appeared to be sufficient. More and more ambitious players crowded into the cage, until there were so many that batted balls rarely missed hitting some one. Presently Ken Ward awoke from his thrilling absorption in the scene to note another side of it. The students around him were making game of the players. "What a bunch!" "Look at that fuzzy gosling with the yellow pants!" "Keep your shanks out of the way, Freshie!" "Couldn't hit a balloon!" Whenever a batter hit a ball into the crowd of dodging players down the cage these students howled with glee. Ken discovered that he was standing near Captain Dale and other members of the barred varsity. "Say, Dale, how do the candidates shape up?" asked a student. "This is a disgrace to Wayne," declared Dale, bitterly. "I never saw such a mob of spindle-legged kids in my life. Look at them! Scared to death! That fellow never swung at a ball before--that one never heard of a bunt--they throw like girls--Oh! this is sickening, fellows. I see where Worry goes to his grave this year and old Wayne gets humbled by one-horse colleges." Ken took one surprised glance at the captain he had admired so much and then he slipped farther over in the crowd. Perhaps Dale had spoken truth, yet somehow it jarred upon Ken's sensitive nature. The thing that affected Ken most was the earnestness of the uniformed boys trying their best to do well before the great coach. Some were timid, uncertain; others were rash and over-zealous. Many a ball cracked off a player's knee or wrist, and more than once Ken saw a bloody finger. It was cold in the cage. Even an ordinarily hit ball must have stung the hands, and the way a hard grounder cracked was enough to excite sympathy among those scornful spectators, if nothing more. But they yelled in delight at every fumble, at everything that happened. Ken kept whispering to himself: "I can't see the fun in it. I can't!" Arthurs dispensed with the bunting and ordered one hit each for the batters. "Step up and hit!" he ordered, hoarsely. "Don't be afraid--never mind that crowd--step into the ball and swing natural.... Next! Hurry, boys!" Suddenly a deep-chested student yelled out with a voice that drowned every other sound. "Hard luck, Worry! No use! You'll never find a hitter among those misfits!" The coach actually leaped up in his anger and his face went from crimson to white. Ken thought it was likely that he recognized the voice. "You knocker! You knocker!" he cried. "That's a fine college spirit, ain't it? You're a fine lot of students, I don't think. Now shut up, every one of you, or I'll fire you out of the cage.... And right here at the start you knockers take this from me--I'll find more than one hitter among those kids!" A little silence fell while the coach faced that antagonistic crowd of spectators. Ken was amazed the second time, and now because of the intensity of feeling that seemed to hang in the air. Ken felt a warm rush go over him, and that moment added greatly to his already strong liking for Worry Arthurs. Then the coach turned to his work, the batting began again, and the crack of the ball, the rush of feet, the sharp cries of the players mingled once more with the laughter and caustic wit of the unsympathetic audience. Ken Ward went back to his room without having removed his overcoat. He was thoughtful that night and rebellious against the attitude of the student body. A morning paper announced the fact that over three hundred candidates had presented themselves to Coach Arthurs. It went on to say that the baseball material represented was not worth considering and that old Wayne's varsity team must be ranked with those of the fifth-rate colleges. This, following Ken's experience at the cage on the first day, made him angry and then depressed. The glamour of the thing seemed to fade away. Ken lost the glow, the exhilaration of his first feelings. Everybody took a hopeless view of Wayne's baseball prospects. Ken Ward, however, was not one to stay discouraged long, and when he came out of his gloom it was with his fighting spirit roused. Once and for all he made up his mind to work heart and soul for his college, to be loyal to Arthurs, to hope and believe in the future of the new varsity, whether or not he was lucky enough to win a place upon it. Next day, going early to the training-quarters, he took his place in a squad waiting for the physical examination. It was a wearisome experience. At length Ken's turn came with two other players, one of whom he recognized as the sour-complexioned fellow of the day before. "Wull, you're pretty fresh," he said to Ken as they went in. He had a most exasperating manner. "Say, I don't like you a whole lot," retorted Ken. Then a colored attendant ushered them into a large room in which were several men. The boys were stripped to the waist. "Come here, Murray," said the doctor. "There's some use in looking these boys over, particularly this husky youngster." A tall man in a white sweater towered over Ken. It was the famous trainer. He ran his hands over Ken's smooth skin and felt of the muscles. "Can you run?" he asked. "Yes," replied Ken. "Are you fast?" "Yes." Further inquiries brought from Ken his name, age, weight, that he had never been ill, had never used tobacco or intoxicating drinks. "Ward, eh? 'Peg' Ward," said Murray, smiling. "Worry Arthurs has the call on you--else, my boy, I'd whisper football in your ear. Mebbe I will, anyhow, if you keep up in your studies. That'll do for you." Ken's companions also won praise from the trainer. They gave their names as Raymond and Weir. The former weighed only one hundred and twenty-two, but he was a knot of muscles. The other stood only five feet, but he was very broad and heavy, his remarkably compact build giving an impression of great strength. Both replied in the negative to the inquiries as to use of tobacco or spirits. "Boys, that's what we like to hear," said the doctor. "You three ought to pull together." Ken wondered what the doctor would have said if he had seen the way these three boys glared at each other in the dressing-room. And he wondered, too, what was the reason for such open hostility. The answer came to him in the thought that perhaps they were both trying for the position he wanted on the varsity. Most likely they had the same idea about him. That was the secret of little Raymond's pugnacious front and Weir's pompous air; and Ken realized that the same reason accounted for his own attitude toward them. He wanted very much to tell Raymond that he was a little grouch and Weir that he looked like a puffed-up toad. All the same Ken was not blind to Weir's handsome appearance. The sturdy youngster had an immense head, a great shock of bright brown hair, flashing gray eyes, and a clear bronze skin. "They'll both make the team, I'll bet," thought Ken. "They look it. I hope I don't have to buck against them." Then as they walked toward the cage Ken forced himself to ask genially: "Raymond, what're you trying for? And you, Weir?" "Wull, if it's any of your fresh business, I'm not _trying_ for any place. I'm going to play infield. You can carry my bat," replied Raymond, sarcastically. "Much obliged," retorted Ken, "I'm not going to substitute. I've a corner on that varsity infield myself." Weir glanced at them with undisguised disdain. "You can save yourselves useless work by not trying for my position. I intend to play infield." "Wull, puff-up, now, puff-up!" growled Raymond. Thus the three self-appointed stars of the varsity bandied words among themselves as they crossed the field. At the cage door they became separated to mingle with the pushing crowd of excited boys in uniforms. By dint of much squeezing and shoulder-work Ken got inside the cage. He joined the squad in the upper end and got in line for the batting. Worry Arthurs paced wildly to and fro yelling for the boys to hit. A dense crowd of students thronged the platform and laughed, jeered, and stormed at the players. The cage was in such an uproar that Arthurs could scarcely be heard. Watching from the line Ken saw Weir come to bat and stand aggressively and hit the ball hard. It scattered the flock of fielders. Then Raymond came along, and, batting left-handed, did likewise. Arthurs stepped forward and said something to both. After Ken's turn at bat the coach said to him: "Get out of here. Go run round the track. Do it every day. Don't come back until Monday." As Ken hurried out he saw and felt the distinction with which he was regarded by the many players whom he crowded among in passing. When he reached the track he saw Weir, Raymond, and half a dozen other fellows going round at a jog-trot. Weir was in the lead, setting the pace. Ken fell in behind. The track was the famous quarter-mile track upon which Murray trained his sprinters. When Ken felt the spring of the cinder-path in his feet, the sensation of buoyancy, the eager wildfire pride that flamed over him, he wanted to break into headlong flight. The first turn around the track was delight; the second pleasure in his easy stride; the third brought a realization of distance. When Ken had trotted a mile he was not tired, he still ran easily, but he began to appreciate that his legs were not wings. The end of the second mile found him sweating freely and panting. Two miles were enough for the first day. Ken knew it and he began to wonder why the others, especially Weir, did not know it. But Weir jogged on, his head up, his hair flying, as if he had not yet completed his first quarter. The other players stretched out behind him. Ken saw Raymond's funny little green cap bobbing up and down, and it made him angry. Why could not the grouch get a decent cap, anyway? At the end of the third mile Ken began to labor. His feet began to feel weighted, his legs to ache, his side to hurt. He was wringing wet; his skin burned; his breath whistled. But he kept doggedly on. It had become a contest now. Ken felt instinctively that every runner would not admit he had less staying power than the others. Ken declared to himself that he could be as bull-headed as any of them. Still to see Weir jogging on steady and strong put a kind of despair on Ken. For every lap of the fourth mile a runner dropped out, and at the half of the fifth only Weir, Raymond, and Ken kept to the track. Ken hung on gasping at every stride. He was afraid his heart would burst. The pain in his side was as keen as a knife thrust. His feet were lead. Every rod he felt must be his last, yet spurred on desperately, and he managed to keep at the heels of the others. It might kill him, but he would not stop until he dropped. Raymond was wagging along ready to fall any moment, and Weir was trotting slowly with head down. On the last lap of the fifth mile they all stopped as by one accord. Raymond fell on the grass; Ken staggered to a bench, and Weir leaned hard against the fence. They were all blowing like porpoises and regarded each other as mortal enemies. Weir gazed grandly at the other two; Raymond glowered savagely at him and then at Ken; and Ken in turn gave them withering glances. Without a word the three contestants for a place on the varsity then went their several ways. VI OUT ON THE FIELD When Ken presented himself at the cage on the following Monday it was to find that Arthurs had weeded out all but fifty of the candidates. Every afternoon for a week the coach put these players through batting and sliding practice, then ordered them out to run around the track. On the next Monday only twenty-five players were left, and as the number narrowed down the work grew more strenuous, the rivalry keener, and the tempers of the boys more irascible. Ken discovered it was work and not by any means pleasant work. He fortified himself by the thought that the pleasure and glory, the real play, was all to come as a reward. Worry Arthurs drove them relentlessly. Nothing suited him; not a player knew how to hold a bat, to stand at the plate, to slide right, or to block a ground ball. "Don't hit with your left hand on top--unless you're left-handed. Don't grip the end of the bat. There! Hold steady now, step out and into the ball, and swing clean and level. If you're afraid of bein' hit by the ball, get out of here!" It was plain to Ken that not the least of Arthurs' troubles was the incessant gibing of the students on the platform. There was always a crowd watching the practice, noisy, scornful, abusive. They would never recover from the shock of having that seasoned champion varsity barred out of athletics. Every once in a while one of them would yell out: "Wait, Worry! oh! Worry, wait till the old varsity plays your yanigans!" And every time the coach's face would burn. But he had ceased to talk back to the students. Besides, the athletic directors were always present. They mingled with the candidates and talked baseball to them and talked to Arthurs. Some of them might have played ball once, but they did not talk like it. Their advice and interference served only to make the coach's task harder. Another Monday found only twenty players in the squad. That day Arthurs tried out catchers, pitchers, and infielders. He had them all throwing, running, fielding, working like Trojans. They would jump at his yell, dive after the ball, fall over it, throw it anywhere but in the right direction, run wild, and fight among themselves. The ever-flowing ridicule from the audience was anything but a stimulus. So much of it coming from the varsity and their adherents kept continually in the minds of the candidates their lack of skill, their unworthiness to represent the great university in such a popular sport as baseball. So that even if there were latent ability in any of the candidates no one but the coach could see it. And often he could not conceal his disgust and hopelessness. "Battin' practice!" he ordered, sharply. "Two hits and a bunt to-day. Get a start on the bunt and dig for first. Hustle now!" He placed one player to pitch to the hitters, another to catch, and as soon as the hitters had their turn they took to fielding. Two turns for each at bat left the coach more than dissatisfied. "You're all afraid of the ball," he yelled. "This ain't no dodgin' game. Duck your nut if the ball's goin' to hit you, but stop lookin' for it. Forget it. Another turn now. I'm goin' to umpire. Let's see if you know the difference between a ball and a strike." He changed the catcher and, ordering Ken to the pitcher's box, he stepped over behind him. "Peg," he said, speaking low, "you're not tryin' for pitcher, I know, but you've got speed and control and I want you to peg 'em a few. Mind now, easy with your arm. By that I mean hold in, don't whip it. And you peg 'em as near where I say as you can; see?" As the players, one after another, faced the box, the coach kept saying to Ken: "Drive that fellow away from the plate... give this one a low ball... now straight over the pan. Say, Peg, you've got a nice ball there... put a fast one under this fellow's chin." "Another turn, now, boys!" he yelled. "I tell you--_stand up to the plate!_" Then he whispered to Ken. "Hit every one of 'em! Peg 'em now, any place." "Hit them?" asked Ken, amazed. "That's what I said." "But--Mr. Arthurs--" "See here, Peg. Don't talk back to me. Do as I say. We'll peg a little nerve into this bunch. Now I'll go back of the plate and make a bluff." Arthurs went near to the catcher's position. Then he said: "Now, fellows, Ward's pretty wild and I've told him to speed up a few. Stand right up and step into 'em." The first batter was Weir. Ken swung easily and let drive. Straight as a string the ball sped for the batter. Like a flash he dropped flat in the dust and the ball just grazed him. It was a narrow escape. Weir jumped up, his face flaring, his hair on end, and he gazed hard at Ken before picking up the bat. "Batter up!" ordered the coach. "Do you think this's a tea-party?" Weir managed by quick contortions to get through his time at bat without being hit. Three players following him were not so lucky. "Didn't I say he was wild?" yelled the coach. "Batter up, now!" The next was little Raymond. He came forward cautiously, eying Ken with disapproval. Ken could not resist putting on a little more steam, and the wind of the first ball whipped off Raymond's green cap. Raymond looked scared and edged away from the plate, and as the second ball came up he stepped wide with his left foot. "Step into the ball," said the coach. "Don't pull away. Step in or you'll never hit." The third ball cracked low down on Raymond's leg. "Oh!--Oh!--Oh!" he howled, beginning to hop and hobble about the cage. "Next batter!" called out Arthurs. And so it went on until the most promising player in the cage came to bat. This was Graves, a light-haired fellow, tall, built like a wedge. He had more confidence than any player in the squad and showed up well in all departments of the game. Moreover, he was talky, aggressive, and more inclined to be heard and felt. He stepped up and swung his bat at Ken. "You wild freshman! If you hit me!" he cried. Ken Ward had not fallen in love with any of his rivals for places on the team, but he especially did not like Graves. He did not stop to consider the reason of it at the moment, still he remembered several tricks Graves had played, and he was not altogether sorry for the coach's order. Swinging a little harder, Ken threw straight at Graves. "_Wham!_" The ball struck him fair on the hip. Limping away from the plate he shook his fist at Ken. "Batter up!" yelled Arthurs. "A little more speed now, Peg. You see it ain't nothin' to get hit. Why, that's in the game. It don't hurt much. I never cared when I used to get hit. Batter up!" Ken sent up a very fast ball, on the outside of the plate. The batter swung wide, and the ball, tipping the bat, glanced to one side and struck Arthurs in the stomach with a deep sound. Arthurs' round face went red; he gurgled and gasped for breath; he was sinking to his knees when the yelling and crowing of the students on the platform straightened him up. He walked about a few minutes, then ordered sliding practice. The sliding-board was brought out. It was almost four feet wide and twenty long and covered with carpet. "Run hard, boys, and don't let up just before you slide. Keep your speed and dive. Now at it!" A line of players formed down the cage. The first one dashed forward and plunged at the board, hitting it with a bang. The carpet was slippery and he slid off and rolled in the dust. The second player leaped forward and, sliding too soon, barely reached the board. One by one the others followed. "Run fast now!" yelled the coach. "Don't flinch.... Go down hard and slide... light on your hands... keep your heads up... slide!" This feature of cage-work caused merriment among the onlookers. That sliding-board was a wonderful and treacherous thing. Most players slid off it as swift as a rocket. Arthurs kept them running so fast and so close together that at times one would shoot off the board just as the next would strike it. They sprawled on the ground, rolled over, and rooted in the dust. One skinned his nose on the carpet; another slid the length of the board on his ear. All the time they kept running and sliding, the coach shouted to them, and the audience roared with laughter. But it was no fun for the sliders. Raymond made a beautiful slide, and Graves was good, but all the others were ludicrous. It was a happy day for Ken, and for all the candidates, when the coach ordered them out on the field. This was early in March. The sun was bright, the frost all out of the ground, and a breath of spring was in the air. How different it was from the cold, gloomy cage! Then the mocking students, although more in evidence than before, were confined to the stands and bleachers, and could not so easily be heard. But the presence of the regular varsity team, practising at the far end of Grant Field, had its effect on the untried players. The coach divided his players into two nines and had them practise batting first, then fielding, and finally started them in a game, with each candidate playing the position he hoped to make on the varsity. It was a weird game. The majority of the twenty candidates displayed little knowledge of baseball. School-boys on the commons could have beaten them. They were hooted and hissed by the students, and before half the innings were played the bleachers and stands were empty. That was what old Wayne's students thought of Arthurs' candidates. In sharp contrast to most of them, Weir, Raymond, and Graves showed they had played the game somewhere. Weir at short-stop covered ground well, but he could not locate first base. Raymond darted here and there quick as a flash, and pounced upon the ball like a huge frog. Nothing got past him, but he juggled the ball. Graves was a finished and beautiful fielder; he was easy, sure, yet fast, and his throw from third to first went true as a line. Graves's fine work accounted for Ken Ward's poor showing. Both were trying for third base, and when Ken once saw his rival play out on the field he not only lost heart and became confused, but he instinctively acknowledged that Graves was far his superior. After all his hopes and the kind interest of the coach it was a most bitter blow. Ken had never played so poor a game. The ball blurred in his tear-wet eyes and looked double. He did not field a grounder. He muffed foul flies and missed thrown balls. It did not occur to him that almost all of the players around him were in the same boat. He could think of nothing but the dashing away of his hopes. What was the use of trying? But he kept trying, and the harder he tried the worse he played. At the bat he struck out, fouled out, never hit the ball square at all. Graves got two well-placed hits to right field. Then when Ken was in the field Graves would come down the coaching line and talk to him in a voice no one else could hear. "You've got a swell chance to make this team, you have, _not!_ Third base is my job, Freshie. Why, you tow-head, you couldn't play marbles. You butter-finger, can't you stop anything? You can't even play sub on this team. Remember, Ward, I said I'd get you for hitting me that day. You hit me with a potato once, too. I'll chase you off this team." For once Ken's spirit was so crushed and humbled that he could not say a word to his rival. He even felt he deserved it all. When the practice ended, and he was walking off the field with hanging head, trying to bear up under the blow, he met Arthurs. "Hello! Peg," said the coach, "I'm going your way." Ken walked along feeling Arthurs' glance upon him, but he was ashamed to raise his head. "Peg, you were up in the air to-day--way off--you lost your nut." He spoke kindly and put his hand on Ken's arm. Ken looked up to see that the coach's face was pale and tired, with the characteristic worried look more marked than usual. "Yes, I was," replied Ken, impulsively. "I can play better than I did to-day--but--Mr. Arthurs, I'm not in Graves's class as a third-baseman. I know it." Ken said it bravely, though there was a catch in his voice. The coach looked closely at him. "So you're sayin' a good word for Graves, pluggin' his game." "I'd love to make the team, but old Wayne must have the best players you can get." "Peg, I said once you and me were goin' to get along. I said also that college baseball is played with the heart. You lost your heart. So did most of the kids. Well, it ain't no wonder. This's a tryin' time. I'm playin' them against each other, and no fellow knows where he's at. Now, I've seen all along that you weren't a natural infielder. I played you at third to-day to get that idea out of your head. To-morrow I'll try you in the outfield. You ain't no quitter, Peg." Ken hurried to his room under the stress of a complete revulsion of feeling. His liking for the coach began to grow into something more. It was strange to Ken what power a few words from Arthurs had to renew his will and hope and daring. How different Arthurs was when not on the field. There he was stern and sharp. Ken could not study that night, and he slept poorly. His revival of hope did not dispel his nervous excitement. He went out into Grant Field next day fighting himself. When in the practice Arthurs assigned him to a right-field position, he had scarcely taken his place when he became conscious of a queer inclination to swallow often, of a numbing tight band round his chest. He could not stand still; his hands trembled; there was a mist before his eyes. His mind was fixed upon himself and upon the other five outfielders trying to make the team. He saw the players in the infield pace their positions restlessly, run without aim when the ball was hit or thrown, collide with each other, let the ball go between their hands and legs, throw wildly, and sometimes stand as if transfixed when they ought to have been in action. But all this was not significant to Ken. He saw everything that happened, but he thought only that he must make a good showing; he must not miss any flies, or let a ball go beyond him. He absolutely must do the right thing. The air of Grant Field was charged with intensity of feeling, and Ken thought it was all his own. His baseball fortune was at stake, and he worked himself in such a frenzy that if a ball had been batted in his direction he might not have seen it at all. Fortunately none came his way. The first time at bat he struck out ignominiously, poking weakly at the pitcher's out-curves. The second time he popped up a little fly. On the next trial the umpire called him out on strikes. At his last chance Ken was desperate. He knew the coach placed batting before any other department of the game. Almost sick with the torture of the conflicting feelings, Ken went up to the plate and swung blindly. To his amaze he cracked a hard fly to left-centre, far between the fielders. Like a startled deer Ken broke into a run. He turned first base and saw that he might stretch the hit into a three-bagger. He knew he could run, and never had he so exerted himself. Second base sailed under him, and he turned in line for the third. Watching Graves, he saw him run for the base and stand ready to catch the throw-in. Without slacking his speed in the least Ken leaped into the air headlong for the base. He heard the crack of the ball as it hit Graves's glove. Then with swift scrape on hands and breast he was sliding in the dust. He stopped suddenly as if blocked by a stone wall. Something hard struck him on the head. A blinding light within his brain seemed to explode into glittering slivers. A piercing pain shot through him. Then from darkness and a great distance sounded a voice: "Ward, I said I'd get you!" VII ANNIHILATION That incident put Ken out of the practice for three days. He had a bruise over his ear as large as a small apple. Ken did not mind the pain nor the players' remarks that he had a swelled head anyway, but he remembered with slow-gathering wrath Graves's words: "I said I'd get you!" He remembered also Graves's reply to a question put by the coach. "I was only tagging him. I didn't mean to hurt him." That rankled inside Ken. He kept his counsel, however, even evading a sharp query put by Arthurs, and as much as it was possible he avoided the third-baseman. Hard practice was the order of every day, and most of it was batting. The coach kept at the candidates everlastingly, and always his cry was: "Toe the plate, left foot a little forward, step into the ball and swing!" At the bat Ken made favorable progress because the coach was always there behind him with encouraging words; in the field, however, he made a mess of it, and grew steadily worse. The directors of the Athletic Association had called upon the old varsity to go out and coach the new aspirants for college fame. The varsity had refused. Even the players of preceding years, what few were in or near the city, had declined to help develop Wayne's stripling team. But some of the older graduates, among them several of the athletic directors, appeared on the field. When Arthurs saw them he threw up his hands in rage and despair. That afternoon Ken had three well-meaning but old-fashioned ball-players coach him in the outfield. He had them one at a time, which was all that saved him from utter distraction. One told him to judge a fly by the sound when the ball was hit. Another told him to play in close, and when the ball was batted to turn and run with it. The third said he must play deep and sprint in for the fly. Then each had different ideas as to how batters should be judged, about throwing to bases, about backing up the other fielders. Ken's bewilderment grew greater and greater. He had never heard of things they advocated, and he began to think he did not know anything about the game. And what made his condition of mind border on imbecility was a hurried whisper from Arthurs between innings: "Peg, don't pay the slightest attention to 'em fat-head grad. coaches." Practice days succeeding that were worse nightmares to Ken Ward than the days he had spent in constant fear of the sophomores. It was a terribly feverish time of batting balls, chasing balls, and of having dinned into his ears thousands of orders, rules of play, talks on college spirit in athletics--all of which conflicted so that it was meaningless to him. During this dark time one ray of light was the fact that Arthurs never spoke a sharp word to him. Ken felt vaguely that he was whirling in some kind of a college athletic chaos, out of which he would presently emerge. Toward the close of March the weather grew warm, the practice field dried up, and baseball should have been a joy to Ken. But it was not. At times he had a shameful wish to quit the field for good, but he had not the courage to tell the coach. The twenty-fifth, the day scheduled for the game with the disgraced varsity team, loomed closer and closer. Its approach was a fearful thing for Ken. Every day he cast furtive glances down the field to where the varsity held practice. Ken had nothing to say; he was as glum as most of the other candidates, but he had heard gossip in the lecture-rooms, in the halls, on the street, everywhere, and it concerned this game. What would the old varsity do to Arthurs' new team? Curiosity ran as high as the feeling toward the athletic directors. Resentment flowed from every source. Ken somehow got the impression that he was blamable for being a member of the coach's green squad. So Ken Ward fluctuated between two fears, one as bad as the other--that he would not be selected to play, and the other that he would be selected. It made no difference. He would be miserable if not chosen, and if he was--how on earth would he be able to keep his knees from wobbling? Then the awful day dawned. Coach Arthurs met all his candidates at the cage. He came late, he explained, because he wanted to keep them off the field until time for practice. To-day he appeared more grave than worried, and where the boys expected a severe lecture, he simply said: "I'll play as many of you as I can. Do your best, that's all. Don't mind what these old players say. They were kids once, though they seem to have forgotten it. Try to learn from them." It was the first time the candidates had been taken upon the regular diamond of Grant Field. Ken had peeped in there once to be impressed by the beautiful level playground, and especially the magnificent turreted grand-stand and the great sweeping stretches of bleachers. Then they had been empty; now, with four thousand noisy students and thousands of other spectators besides, they stunned him. He had never imagined a crowd coming to see the game. Perhaps Arthurs had not expected it either, for Ken heard him mutter grimly to himself. He ordered practice at once, and called off the names of those he had chosen to start the game. As one in a trance Ken Ward found himself trotting out to right field. A long-rolling murmur that was half laugh, half taunt, rose from the stands. Then it quickly subsided. From his position Ken looked for the players of the old varsity, but they had not yet come upon the field. Of the few balls batted to Ken in practice he muffed only one, and he was just beginning to feel that he might acquit himself creditably when the coach called the team in. Arthurs had hardly given his new players time enough to warm up, but likewise they had not had time to make any fumbles. All at once a hoarse roar rose from the stands, then a thundering clatter of thousands of feet as the students greeted the appearance of the old varsity. It was applause that had in it all the feeling of the undergraduates for the championship team, many of whom they considered had been unjustly barred by the directors. Love, loyalty, sympathy, resentment--all pealed up to the skies in that acclaim. It rolled out over the heads of Arthurs' shrinking boys as they huddled together on the bench. Ken Ward, for one, was flushing and thrilling. In that moment he lost his gloom. He watched the varsity come trotting across the field, a doughty band of baseball warriors. Each wore a sweater with the huge white "W" shining like a star. Many of those players had worn that honored varsity letter for three years. It did seem a shame to bar them from this season's team. Ken found himself thinking of the matter from their point of view, and his sympathy was theirs. More than that, he gloried in the look of them, in the trained, springy strides, in the lithe, erect forms, in the assurance in every move. Every detail of that practice photographed itself upon Ken Ward's memory, and he knew he would never forget. There was Dale, veteran player, captain and pitcher of the nine, hero of victories over Place and Herne. There was Hogan, catcher for three seasons, a muscular fellow, famed for his snap-throw to the bases and his fiendish chasing of foul flies. There was Hickle, the great first-baseman, whom the professional leagues were trying to get. What a reach he had; how easily he scooped in the ball; low, high, wide, it made no difference to him. There was Canton at second, Hollis at short, Burns at third, who had been picked for the last year's All-American College Team. Then there was Dreer, brightest star of all, the fleet, hard-hitting centre-fielder. This player particularly fascinated Ken. It was a beautiful sight to see him run. The ground seemed to fly behind him. When the ball was hit high he wheeled with his back to the diamond and raced out, suddenly to turn with unerring judgment--and the ball dropped into his hands. On low line hits he showed his fleetness, for he was like a gleam of light in his forward dash; and, however the ball presented, shoulder high, low by his knees, or on a short bound, he caught it. Ken Ward saw with despairing admiration what it meant to be a great outfielder. Then Arthurs called "Play ball!" giving the old varsity the field. With a violent start Ken Ward came out of his rhapsody. He saw a white ball tossed on the diamond. Dale received it from one of the fielders and took his position in the pitcher's box. The uniform set off his powerful form; there was something surly and grimly determined in his face. He glanced about to his players, as if from long habit, and called out gruffly: "Get in the game, fellows! No runs for this scrub outfit!" Then, with long-practised swing, he delivered the ball. It travelled plateward swift as the flight of a white swallow. The umpire called it a strike on Weir; the same on the next pitch; the third was wide. Weir missed the fourth and was out. Raymond followed on the batting list. To-day, as he slowly stepped toward the plate, seemingly smaller and glummer than ever, it was plain he was afraid. The bleachers howled at the little green cap sticking over his ear. Raymond did not swing at the ball; he sort of reached out his bat at the first three pitches, stepping back from the plate each time. The yell that greeted his weak attempt seemed to shrivel him up. Also it had its effect on the youngsters huddling around Arthurs. Graves went up and hit a feeble grounder to Dale and was thrown out at first. Ken knew the half-inning was over; he saw the varsity players throw aside their gloves and trot in. But either he could not rise or he was glued to the bench. Then Arthurs pulled him up, saying, "Watch sharp, Peg, these fellows are right-field hitters!" At the words all Ken's blood turned to ice. He ran out into the field fighting the coldest, most sickening sensation he ever had in his life. The ice in his veins all went to the pit of his stomach and there formed into a heavy lump. Other times when he had been frightened flitted through his mind. It had been bad when he fought with Greaser, and worse when he ran with the outlaws in pursuit, and the forest fire was appalling. But Ken felt he would gladly have changed places at that moment. He dreaded the mocking bleachers. Of the candidates chosen to play against the varsity Ken knew McCord at first, Raymond at second, Weir at short, Graves at third. He did not know even the names of the others. All of them, except Graves, appeared too young to play in that game. Dreer was first up for the varsity, and Ken shivered all over when the lithe centre-fielder stepped to the left side of the plate. Ken went out deeper, for he knew most hard-hitting left-handers hit to right field. But Dreer bunted the first ball teasingly down the third-base line. Fleet as a deer, he was across the bag before the infielder reached the ball. Hollis was next up. On the first pitch, as Dreer got a fast start for second, Hollis bunted down the first-base line. Pitcher and baseman ran for the bunt; Hollis was safe, and the sprinting Dreer went to third without even drawing a throw. A long pealing yell rolled over the bleachers. Dale sent coaches to the coaching lines. Hickle, big and formidable, hurried to the plate, swinging a long bat. He swung it as if he intended to knock the ball out of the field. When the pitcher lifted his arm Dreer dashed for home-base, and seemed beating the ball. But Hickle deftly dumped it down the line and broke for first while Dreer scored. This bunt was not fielded at all. How the bleachers roared! Then followed bunts in rapid succession, dashes for first, and slides into the bag. The pitcher interfered with the third-baseman, and the first-baseman ran up the line, and the pitcher failed to cover the bag, and the catcher fell all over the ball. Every varsity man bunted, but in just the place where it was not expected. They raced around the bases. They made long runs from first to third. They were like flashes of light, slippery as eels. The bewildered infielders knew they were being played with. The taunting "boo-hoos" and screams of delight from the bleachers were as demoralizing as the illusively daring runners. Closer and closer the infielders edged in until they were right on top of the batters. Then Dale and his men began to bunt little infield flies over the heads of their opponents. The merry audience cheered wildly. But Graves and Raymond ran back and caught three of these little pop flies, thus retiring the side. The old varsity had made six runs on nothing but deliberate bunts and daring dashes around the bases. Ken hurried in to the bench and heard some one call out, "Ward up!" He had forgotten he would have to bat. Stepping to the plate was like facing a cannon. One of the players yelled: "Here he is, Dale! Here's the potato-pegger! Knock his block off!" The cry was taken up by other players. "Peg him, Dale! Peg him, Dale!" And then the bleachers got it. Ken's dry tongue seemed pasted to the roof of his mouth. This Dale in baseball clothes with the lowering frown was not like the Dale Ken had known. Suddenly he swung his arm. Ken's quick eye caught the dark, shooting gleam of the ball. Involuntarily he ducked. "Strike," called the umpire. Then Dale had not tried to hit him. Ken stepped up again. The pitcher whirled slowly this time, turning with long, easy motion, and threw underhand. The ball sailed, floated, soared. Long before it reached Ken it had fooled him completely. He chopped at it vainly. The next ball pitched came up swifter, but just before it crossed the plate it seemed to stop, as if pulled back by a string, and then dropped down. Ken fell to his knees trying to hit it. The next batter's attempts were not as awkward as Ken's, still they were as futile. As Ken sat wearily down upon the bench he happened to get next to coach Arthurs. He expected some sharp words from the coach, he thought he deserved anything, but they were not forthcoming. The coach put his hand on Ken's knee. When the third batter fouled to Hickle, and Ken got up to go out to the field, he summoned courage to look at Arthurs. Something in his face told Ken what an ordeal this was. He divined that it was vastly more than business with Worry Arthurs. "Peg, watch out this time," whispered the coach. "They'll line 'em at you this inning--like bullets. Now try hard, won't you? _Just try!_" Ken knew from Arthurs' look more than his words that _trying_ was all that was left for the youngsters. The varsity had come out early in the spring, and they had practised to get into condition to annihilate this new team practically chosen by the athletic directors. And they had set out to make the game a farce. But Arthurs meant that all the victory was not in winning the game. It was left for his boys to try in the face of certain defeat, to try with all their hearts, to try with unquenchable spirit. It was the spirit that counted, not the result. The old varsity had received a bitter blow; they were aggressive and relentless. The students and supporters of old Wayne, idolizing the great team, always bearing in mind the hot rivalry with Place and Herne, were unforgiving and intolerant of an undeveloped varsity. Perhaps neither could be much blamed. But it was for the new players to show what it meant to them. The greater the prospect of defeat, the greater the indifference or hostility shown them, the more splendid their opportunity. For it was theirs to try for old Wayne, to try, to fight, and never to give up. Ken caught fire with the flame of that spirit. "Boys, come on!" he cried, in his piercing tenor. "_They can't beat us trying!_" As he ran out into the field members of the varsity spoke to him. "You green-backed freshman! Shut up! You scrub!" "I'm not a varsity has-been!" retorted Ken, hurrying out to his position. The first man up, a left-hander, rapped a hard twisting liner to right field. Ken ran toward deep centre with all his might. The ball kept twisting and curving. It struck squarely in Ken's hands and bounced out and rolled far. When he recovered it the runner was on third base. Before Ken got back to his position the second batter hit hard through the infield toward right. The ball came skipping like a fiendish rabbit. Ken gritted his teeth and went down on his knees, to get the bounding ball full in his breast. But he stopped it, scrambled for it, and made the throw in. Dale likewise hit in his direction, a slow low fly, difficult to judge. Ken over-ran it, and the hit gave Dale two bases. Ken realized that the varsity was now executing Worry Arthurs' famous right-field hitting. The sudden knowledge seemed to give Ken the blind-staggers. The field was in a haze; the players blurred in his sight. He heard the crack of the ball and saw Raymond dash over and plunge down. Then the ball seemed to streak out of the grass toward him, and, as he bent over, it missed his hands and cracked on his shin. Again he fumbled wildly for it and made the throw in. The pain roused his rage. He bit his lips and called to himself: "I'll stop them if it kills me!" Dreer lined the ball over his head for a home-run. Hollis made a bid for a three-bagger, but Ken, by another hard sprint, knocked the ball down. Hickle then batted up a tremendously high fly. It went far beyond Ken and he ran and ran. It looked like a small pin-point of black up in the sky. Then he tried to judge it, to get under it. The white sky suddenly glazed over and the ball wavered this way and that. Ken lost it in the sun, found it again, and kept on running. Would it never come down? He had not reached it, he had run beyond it. In an agony he lunged out, and the ball fell into his hands and jumped out. Then followed a fusillade of hits, all between second base and first, and all vicious-bounding grounders. To and fro Ken ran, managing somehow to get some portion of his anatomy in front of the ball. It had become a demon to him now and he hated it. His tongue was hanging out, his breast was bursting, his hands were numb, yet he held before him the one idea to keep fiercely trying. He lost count of the runs after eleven had been scored. He saw McCord and Raymond trying to stem the torrent of right-field hits, but those they knocked down gave him no time to recover. He blocked the grass-cutters with his knees or his body and pounced upon the ball and got it away from him as quickly as possible. Would this rapid fire of uncertain-bounding balls never stop? Ken was in a kind of frenzy. If he only had time to catch his breath! Then Dreer was at bat again. He fouled the first two balls over the grand-stand. Some one threw out a brand-new ball. Farther and farther Ken edged into deep right. He knew what was coming. "Let him--hit it!" he panted. "I'll try to get it! This day settles me. I'm no outfielder. But I'll try!" The tired pitcher threw the ball and Dreer seemed to swing and bound at once with the ringing crack. The hit was one of his famous drives close to the right-field foul-line. Ken was off with all the speed left in him. He strained every nerve and was going fast when he passed the foul-flag. The bleachers loomed up indistinct in his sight. But he thought only of meeting the ball. The hit was a savage liner, curving away from him. Cinders under his flying feet were a warning that he did not heed. He was on the track. He leaped into the air, left hand outstretched, and felt the ball strike in his glove. Then all was dark in a stunning, blinding crash-- VIII EXAMINATIONS When Ken Ward came fully to his senses he was being half carried and half led across the diamond to the players' bench. He heard Worry Arthurs say: "He ain't hurt much--only butted into the fence." Ken tried manfully to entertain Worry's idea about it, but he was too dazed and weak to stand alone. He imagined he had broken every bone in his body. "Did I make the catch--hang to the ball?" he asked. "No, Peg, you didn't," replied the coach, kindly. "But you made a grand try for it." He felt worse over failing to hold the ball than he felt over half killing himself against the bleachers. He spent the remainder of that never-to-be-forgotten game sitting on the bench. But to watch his fellow-players try to play was almost as frightful as being back there in right field. It was no consolation for Ken to see his successor chasing long hits, misjudging flies, failing weakly on wicked grounders. Even Graves weakened toward the close and spoiled his good beginning by miserable fumbles and throws. It was complete and disgraceful rout. The varsity never let up until the last man was out. The team could not have played harder against Place or Herne. Arthurs called the game at the end of the sixth inning with the score 41 to 0. Many beaten and despondent players had dragged themselves off Grant Field in bygone years. But none had ever been so humiliated, so crushed. No player spoke a word or looked at another. They walked off with bowed heads. Ken lagged behind the others; he was still stunned and lame. Presently Arthurs came back to help him along, and did not speak until they were clear of the campus and going down Ken's street. "I'm glad that's over," said Worry. "I kicked against havin' the game, but 'em fat-head directors would have it. Now we'll be let alone. There won't be no students comin' out to the field, and I'm blamed glad." Ken was sick and smarting with pain, and half crying. "I'm sorry, Mr. Arthurs," he faltered, "we were--so--so--rotten!" "See here, Peg," was the quick reply, "that cuts no ice with me. It was sure the rottenest exhibition I ever seen in my life. But there's excuses, and you can just gamble I'm the old boy who knows. You kids were scared to death. What hurts me, Peg, is the throw-down we got from my old team and from the students. We're not to blame for rules made by fat-head directors. I was surprised at Dale. He was mean, and so were Hollis and Hickle--all of 'em. They didn't need to disgrace us like that." "Oh, Mr. Arthurs, what players they are!" exclaimed Ken. "I never saw such running, such hitting. You said they'd hit to right field like bullets, but it was worse than bullets. And Dreer!... When he came up my heart just stopped beating." "Peg, listen," said Worry. "Three years ago when Dreer came out on the field he was greener than you, and hadn't half the spunk. I made him what he is, and I made all of 'em--I made that team, and I can make another." "You are just saying that to--to encourage me," replied Ken, hopelessly. "I can't play ball. I thought I could, but I know now. I'll never go out on the field again." "Peg, are you goin' to throw me down, too?" "Mr. Arthurs! I--I--" "Listen, Peg. Cut out the dumps. Get over 'em. You made the varsity to-day. Understand? You earned your big W. You needn't mention it, but I've picked you to play somewhere. You weren't a natural infielder, and you didn't make much of a showin' in the outfield. But it's the spirit I want. To-day was a bad day for a youngster. There's always lots of feelin' about college athletics, but here at Wayne this year the strain's awful. And you fought yourself and stage-fright and the ridicule of 'em quitter students. You _tried_, Peg! I never saw a gamer try. You didn't fail me. And after you made that desperate run and tried to smash the bleachers with your face the students shut up their guyin'. It made a difference, Peg. Even the varsity was a little ashamed. Cheer up, now!" Ken was almost speechless; he managed to mumble something, at which the coach smiled in reply and then walked rapidly away. Ken limped to his room and took off his baseball suit. The skin had been peeled from his elbow, and his body showed several dark spots that Ken knew would soon be black-and-blue bruises. His legs from his knees down bore huge lumps so sore to the touch that Ken winced even at gentle rubbing. But he did not mind the pain. All the darkness seemed to have blown away from his mind. "What a fine fellow Worry is!" said Ken. "How I'll work for him! I must write to brother Hal and Dick Leslie, to tell them I've made the varsity.... No, not yet; Worry said not to mention it.... And now to plug. I'll have to take my exams before the first college game, April 8th, and that's not long." In the succeeding days Ken was very busy with attendance at college in the mornings, baseball practice in the afternoons, and study at night. If Worry had picked any more players for the varsity, Ken could not tell who they were. Of course Graves would make the team, and Weir and Raymond were pretty sure of places. There were sixteen players for the other five positions, and picking them was only guesswork. It seemed to Ken that some of the players showed streaks of fast playing at times, and then as soon as they were opposed to one another in the practice game they became erratic. His own progress was slow. One thing he could do that brought warm praise from the coach--he could line the ball home from deep outfield with wonderful speed and accuracy. After the varsity had annihilated Worry's "kids," as they had come to be known, the students showed no further interest. When they ceased to appear on the field the new players were able to go at their practice without being ridiculed. Already an improvement had been noticeable. But rivalry was so keen for places, and the coach's choice so deep a mystery, that the contestants played under too great a tension, and school-boys could have done better. It was on the first of April that Arthurs took Ken up into College Hall to get permission for him to present himself to the different professors for the early examinations. While Ken sat waiting in the office he heard Arthurs talking to men he instantly took to be the heads of the Athletic Association. They were in an adjoining room with the door open, and their voices were very distinct, so that Ken could not help hearing. "Gentlemen, I want my answer to-day," said the coach. "Is there so great a hurry? Wait a little," was the rejoinder. "I'm sorry, but this is April 1st, and I'll wait no longer. I'm ready to send some of my boys up for early exams, and I want to know where I stand." "Arthurs, what is it exactly that you want? Things have been in an awful mess, we know. State your case and we'll try to give you a definite answer." "I want full charge of the coachin'--the handlin' of the team, as I always had before. I don't want any grad coaches. The directors seem divided, one half want this, the other half that. They've cut out the trainin' quarters. I've had no help from Murray; no baths or rub-downs or trainin' for my candidates. Here's openin' day a week off and I haven't picked my team. I want to take them to the trainin'-table and have them under my eye all the time. If I can't have what I want I'll resign. If I can I'll take the whole responsibility of the team on my own shoulders." "Very well, Arthurs, we'll let you go ahead and have full charge. There has been talk this year of abolishing a private training-house and table for this green varsity. But rather than have you resign we'll waive that. You can rest assured from now on you will not be interfered with. Give us the best team you can under the circumstances. There has been much dissension among the directors and faculty because of our new eligibility rules. It has stirred everybody up, and the students are sore. Then there has been talk of not having a professional coach this year, but we overruled that in last night's meeting. We're going to see what you can do. I may add, Arthurs, if you shape up a varsity this year that makes any kind of a showing against Place and Herne you will win the eternal gratitude of the directors who have fostered this change in athletics. Otherwise I'm afraid the balance of opinion will favor the idea of dispensing with professional coaches in the future." Ken saw that Arthurs was white in the face when he left the room. They went out together, and Worry handed Ken a card that read for him to take his examinations at once. "Are you up on 'em?" asked the coach, anxiously. "I--I think so," replied Ken. "Well, Peg, good luck to you! Go at 'em like you went at Dreer's hit." Much to his amazement it was for Ken to discover that, now the time had come for him to face his examinations, he was not at all sanguine. He began to worry. He forgot about the text-books he had mastered in his room during the long winter when he feared to venture out because of the sophomores. It was not very long till he had worked himself into a state somewhat akin to his trepidation in the varsity ball game. Then he decided to go up at once and have it done with. His whole freshman year had been one long agony. What a relief to have it ended! Ken passed four examinations in one morning, passed them swimmingly, smilingly, splendidly, and left College Hall in an ecstasy. Things were working out fine. But he had another examination, and it was in a subject he had voluntarily included in his course. Whatever on earth he had done it for he could not now tell. The old doctor who held the chair in that department had thirty years before earned the name of Crab. And slowly in the succeeding years he had grown crabbier, crustier, so student rumor had it. Ken had rather liked the dry old fellow, and had been much absorbed in his complex lectures, but he had never been near him, and now the prospect changed color. Foolishly Ken asked a sophomore in what light old Crab might regard a student who was ambitious to pass his exams early. The picture painted by that sophomore would have made a flaming-mouthed dragon appear tame. Nerving himself to the ordeal, Ken took his card and presented himself one evening at the doctor's house. A maid ushered him into the presence of a venerable old man who did not look at all, even in Ken's distorted sight, like a crab or a dragon. His ponderous brow seemed as if it had all the thought in the world behind it. He looked over huge spectacles at Ken's card and then spoke in a dry, quavering voice. "Um-m. Sit down, Mr. Ward." Ken found his breath and strangely lost his fear and trembling. The doctor dryly asked him why he thought he knew more than the other students, who were satisfied to wait months longer before examination. Ken hastened to explain that it was no desire of his; that, although he had studied hard and had not missed many lectures, he knew he was unprepared. Then he went on to tell about the baseball situation and why he had been sent up. "Um-m." The professor held a glass paperweight up before Ken and asked a question about it. Next he held out a ruler and asked something about that, and also a bottle of ink. Following this he put a few queries about specific gravity, atomic weight, and the like. Then he sat thrumming his desk and appeared far away in thought. After a while he turned to Ken with a smile that made his withered, parchment-like face vastly different. "Where do you play?" he asked. "S-sir?" stammered Ken. "In baseball, I mean. What place do you play? Catch? Thrower? I don't know the names much." Ken replied eagerly, and then it seemed he was telling this stern old man all about baseball. He wanted to know what fouls were, and how to steal bases, and he was nonplussed by such terms as "hit-and-run." Ken discoursed eloquently on his favorite sport, and it was like a kind of dream to be there. Strange things were always happening to him. "I've never seen a game," said the professor. "I used to play myself long ago, when we had a yarn ball and pitched underhand. I'll have to come out to the field some day. President Halstead, why, he likes baseball, he's a--a--what do you call it?" "A fan--a rooter?" replied Ken, smiling. "Um-m. I guess that's it. Well, Mr. Ward, I'm glad to meet you. You may go now." Ken got up blushing like a girl. "But, Doctor, you were to--I was to be examined." "I've examined you," he drawled, with a dry chuckle, and he looked over his huge spectacles at Ken. "I'll give you a passing mark. But, Mr. Ward, you know a heap more about baseball than you know about physics." As Ken went out he trod upon air. What a splendid old fellow! The sophomore had lied. For that matter, when had a sophomore ever been known to tell the truth? But, he suddenly exclaimed, he himself was no longer a freshman. He pondered happily on the rosy lining to his old cloud of gloom. How different things appeared after a little time. That old doctor's smile would linger long in Ken's memory. He felt deep remorse that he had ever misjudged him. He hurried on to Worry Arthurs' house to tell him the good news. And as he walked his mind was full with the wonder of it all--his lonely, wretched freshman days, now forever past; the slow change from hatred; the dawning of some strange feeling for the college and his teachers; and, last, the freedom, the delight, the quickening stir in the present. IX PRESIDENT HALSTEAD ON COLLEGE SPIRIT Wayne's opening game was not at all what Ken had dreamed it would be. The opposing team from Hudson School was as ill-assorted an aggregation as Ken had ever seen. They brought with them a small but noisy company of cheering supporters who, to the shame of Ken and his fellows, had the bleachers all to themselves. If any Wayne students were present they either cheered for Hudson or remained silent. Hudson won, 9 to 2. It was a game that made Arthurs sag a little lower on the bench. Graves got Wayne's two tallies. Raymond at second played about all the game from the fielding standpoint. Ken distinguished himself by trying wildly and accomplishing nothing. When he went to his room that night he had switched back to his former spirits, and was disgusted with Wayne's ball team, himself most of all. That was on a Wednesday. The next day rain prevented practice, and on Friday the boys were out on the field again. Arthurs shifted the players around, trying resignedly to discover certain positions that might fit certain players. It seemed to Ken that all the candidates, except one or two, were good at fielding and throwing, but when they came to play a game they immediately went into a trance. Travers College was scheduled for Saturday. They had always turned out a good minor team, but had never been known to beat Wayne. They shut Arthurs' team out without a run. A handful of Wayne students sat in the bleachers mocking their own team. Arthurs used the two pitchers he had been trying hard to develop, and when they did locate the plate they were hit hard. Ken played or essayed to play right field for a while, but he ran around like a chicken with its head off, as a Travers player expressed it, and then Arthurs told him that he had better grace the bench the rest of the game. Ashamed as Ken was to be put out, he was yet more ashamed to feel that he was glad of it. Hardest of all to bear was the arrogant air put on by the Travers College players. Wayne had indeed been relegated to the fifth rank of college baseball teams. On Monday announcements were made in all the lecture-rooms and departments of the university, and bulletins were posted to the effect, that President Halstead wished to address the undergraduates in the Wayne auditorium on Tuesday at five o'clock. Rumor flew about the campus and Carlton Club, everywhere, that the president's subject would be "College Spirit," and it was believed he would have something to say about the present condition of athletics. Ken Ward hurried to the hall as soon as he got through his practice. He found the immense auditorium packed from pit to dome, and he squeezed into a seat on the steps. The students, as always, were exchanging volleys of paper-balls, matching wits, singing songs, and passing time merrily. When President Halstead entered, with two of his associates, he was greeted by a thunder of tongues, hands, and heels of the standing students. He was the best-beloved member of the university faculty, a distinguished, scholarly looking man, well-stricken in years. He opened his address by declaring the need of college spirit in college life. He defined it as the vital thing, the heart of a great educational institution, and he went on to speak of its dangers, its fluctuations. Then he made direct reference to athletics in its relation to both college spirit and college life. "Sport is too much with us. Of late years I have observed a great increase in the number of athletic students, and a great decrease in scholarship. The fame of the half-back and the short-stop and the stroke-oar has grown out of proportion to their real worth. The freshman is dazzled by it. The great majority of college men cannot shine in sport, which is the best thing that could be. The student's ideal, instead of being the highest scholarship, the best attainment for his career, is apt to be influenced by the honors and friendships that are heaped upon the great athlete. This is false to university life. You are here to prepare yourselves for the battle with the world, and I want to state that that battle is becoming more and more intellectual. The student who slights his studies for athletic glory may find himself, when that glory is long past, distanced in the race for success by a student who had not trained to run the hundred in ten seconds. "But, gentlemen, to keep well up in your studies and _then_ go in for athletics--that is entirely another question. It is not likely that any student who keeps to the front in any of the university courses will have too much time for football or baseball. I am, as you all know, heartily in favor of all branches of college sport. And that brings me to the point I want to make to-day. Baseball is my favorite game, and I have always been proud of Wayne's teams. The new eligibility rules, with which you are all familiar, were brought to me, and after thoroughly going over the situation I approved of them. Certainly it is obvious to you all that a university ball-player making himself famous here, and then playing during the summer months at a resort, is laying himself open to suspicion. I have no doubt that many players are innocent of the taint of professionalism, but unfortunately they have become members of these summer teams after being first requested, then warned, not to do so. "Wayne's varsity players of last year have been barred by the directors. They made their choice, and so should abide by it. They have had their day, and so should welcome the opportunity of younger players. But I am constrained to acknowledge that neither they nor the great body of undergraduates welcomed the change. This, more than anything, proves to me the evil of championship teams. The football men, the baseball men, the crew men, and all the student supporters want to win _all_ the games _all_ the time. I would like to ask you young gentlemen if you can take a beating? If you cannot, I would like to add that you are not yet fitted to go out into life. A good beating, occasionally, is a wholesome thing. "Well, to come to the point now: I find, after studying the situation, that the old varsity players and undergraduates of this university have been lacking in--let us be generous and say, college spirit. I do not need to go into detail; suffice it to say that I know. I will admit, however, that I attended the game between the old varsity and the new candidates. I sat unobserved in a corner, and a more unhappy time I never spent in this university. I confess that my sympathies were with the inexperienced, undeveloped boys who were trying to learn to play ball. _Put yourselves in their places._ Say you are mostly freshmen, and you make yourselves candidates for the team because you love the game, and because you would love to bring honor to your college. You go out and try. You meet, the first day, an implacable team of skilled veterans who show their scorn of your poor ability, their hatred of your opportunity, and ride roughshod--I should say, run with spiked shoes--over you. You hear the roar of four thousand students applauding these hero veterans. You hear your classmates, your fellow-students in Wayne, howl with ridicule at your weak attempts to compete with better, stronger players.... Gentlemen, how would you feel? "I said before that college spirit fluctuates. If I did not know students well I would be deeply grieved at the spirit shown that day. I know that the tide will turn.... And, gentlemen, would not you and the old varsity be rather in an embarrassing position if--if these raw recruits should happen to develop into a team strong enough to cope with Place and Herne? Stranger things have happened. I am rather strong for the new players, not because of their playing, which is poor indeed, but for the way they _tried_ under peculiarly adverse conditions. "That young fellow Ward--what torture that inning of successive hard hits to his territory! I was near him in that end of the bleachers, and I watched him closely. Every attempt he made was a failure--that is, failure from the point of view of properly fielding the ball. But, gentlemen, that day was not a failure for young Ward. It was a grand success. Some one said his playing was the poorest exhibition ever seen on Grant Field. That may be. I want to say that to my mind it was also the most splendid effort ever made on Grant Field. For it was made against defeat, fear, ridicule. It was elimination of self. It was made for his coach, his fellow-players, his college--that is to say, for the students who shamed themselves by scorn for his trial. "Young men of Wayne, give us a little more of such college spirit!" X NEW PLAYERS When practice time rolled around for Ken next day, he went upon the field once more with his hopes renewed and bright. "I certainly do die hard," he laughed to himself. "But I can never go down and out now--never!" Something seemed to ring in Ken's ears like peals of bells. In spite of his awkwardness Coach Arthurs had made him a varsity man; in spite of his unpreparedness old Crab had given him a passing mark; in spite of his unworthiness President Halstead had made him famous. "I surely am the lucky one," said Ken, for the hundredth time. "And now I'm going to force my luck." Ken had lately revolved in his mind a persistent idea that he meant to propound to the coach. Ken arrived on the field a little later than usual, to find Arthurs for once minus his worried look. He was actually smiling, and Ken soon saw the reason for this remarkable change was the presence of a new player out in centre field. "Hello, Peg! things are lookin' up," said the coach, beaming. "That's Homans out there in centre--Roy Homans, a senior and a crackerjack ball-player. I tried to get him to come out for the team last year, but he wouldn't spare the time. But he's goin' to play this season--said the president's little talk got him. He's a fast, heady, scientific player, just the one to steady you kids." Before Ken could reply his attention was attracted from Homans to another new player in uniform now walking up to Arthurs. He was tall, graceful, powerful, had red hair, keen dark eyes, a clean-cut profile and square jaw. "I've come out to try for the team," he said, quietly, to the coach. "You're a little late, ain't you?" asked Worry, gruffly; but he ran a shrewd glance over the lithe form. "Yes." "Must have been stirred up by that talk of President Halstead's, wasn't you?" "Yes." There was something quiet and easy about the stranger, and Ken liked him at once. "Where do you play?" went on Worry. "Left." "Can you hit? Talk sense now, and mebbe you'll save me work. Can you hit?" "Yes." "Can you throw?" "Yes." He spoke with quiet assurance. "Can you run?" almost shouted Worry. He was nervous and irritable those days, and it annoyed him for unknown youths to speak calmly of such things. "Run? Yes, a little. I did the hundred last year in nine and four-fifths." "What! You can't kid me! Who are you?" cried Worry, getting red in the face. "I've seen you somewhere." "My name's Ray." "Say! Not _Ray_, the intercollegiate champion?" "I'm the fellow. I talked it over with Murray. He kicked, but I didn't mind that. I promised to try to keep in shape to win the sprints at the intercollegiate meet." "Say! Get out there in left field! Quick!" shouted Worry.... "Peg, hit him some flies. Lam 'em a mile! That fellow's a sprinter, Peg. What luck it would be if he can play ball! Hit 'em at him!" Ken took the ball Worry tossed him, and, picking up a bat, began to knock flies out to Ray. The first few he made easy for the outfielder, and then he hit balls harder and off to the right or left. Without appearing to exert himself Ray got under them. Ken watched him, and also kept the tail of his eye on Worry. The coach appeared to be getting excited, and he ordered Ken to hit the balls high and far away. Ken complied, but he could not hit a ball over Ray's head. He tried with all his strength. He had never seen a champion sprinter, and now he marvelled at the wonderful stride. "Oh! but his running is beautiful!" exclaimed Ken. "That's enough! Come in here!" yelled Worry to Ray.... "Peg, he makes Dreer look slow. I never saw as fast fieldin' as that." When Ray came trotting in without seeming to be even warmed up, Worry blurted out: "You ain't winded--after all that? Must be in shape?" "I'm always in shape," replied Ray. "Pick up a bat!" shouted Worry. "Here, Duncan, pitch this fellow a few. Speed 'em, curve 'em, strike him out, hit him--anything!" Ray was left-handed, and he stood up to the plate perfectly erect, with his bat resting quietly on his shoulder. He stepped straight, swung with an even, powerful swing, and he hit the first ball clear over the right-field bleachers. It greatly distanced Dreer's hit. "What a drive!" gasped Ken. "Oh!" choked Worry. "That's enough! You needn't lose my balls. Bunt one, now." Ray took the same position, and as the ball came up he appeared to drop the bat upon it and dart away at the same instant. Worry seemed to be trying to control violent emotion. "Next batter up!" he called, hoarsely, and sat down on the bench. He was breathing hard, and beads of sweat stood out on his brow. Ken went up to Worry, feeling that now was the time to acquaint the coach with his new idea. Eager as Ken was he had to force himself to take this step. All the hope and dread, nervousness and determination of the weeks of practice seemed to accumulate in that moment. He stammered and stuttered, grew speechless, and then as Worry looked up in kind surprise, Ken suddenly grew cool and earnest. "Mr. Arthurs, will you try me in the box?" "What's that, Peg?" queried the coach, sharply. "Will you give me a trial in the box? I've wanted one all along. You put me in once when we were in the cage, but you made me hit the batters." "Pitch? you, Peg? Why not? Why didn't I think of it? I'm sure gettin' to be like 'em fat-head directors. You've got steam, Peg, but can you curve a ball? Let's see your fingers." "Yes, I can curve a ball round a corner. Please give me a trial, Mr. Arthurs. I failed in the infield, and I'm little good in the outfield. But I know I can pitch." The coach gave Ken one searching glance. Then he called all the candidates in to the plate, and ordered Dean, the stocky little catcher, to don his breast-protector, mask, and mitt. "Peg," said the coach, "Dean will sign you--one finger for a straight ball, two for a curve." When Ken walked to the box all his muscles seemed quivering and tense, and he had a contraction in his throat. This was his opportunity. He was not unnerved as he had been when he was trying for the other positions. All Ken's life he had been accustomed to throwing. At his home he had been the only boy who could throw a stone across the river; the only one who could get a ball over the high-school tower. A favorite pastime had always been the throwing of small apples, or walnuts, or stones, and he had acquired an accuracy that made it futile for his boy comrades to compete with him. Curving a ball had come natural to him, and he would have pitched all his high-school games had it not been for the fact that no one could catch him, and, moreover, none of the boys had found any fun in batting against him. When Ken faced the first batter a feeling came over him that he had never before had on the ball field. He was hot, trembling, hurried, but this new feeling was apart from these. His feet were on solid ground, and his arm felt as it had always in those throwing contests where he had so easily won. He seemed to decide from McCord's position at the plate what to throw him. Ken took his swing. It was slow, easy, natural. But the ball travelled with much greater speed than the batter expected from such motion. McCord let the first two balls go by, and Arthurs called them both strikes. Then Ken pitched an out-curve which McCord fanned at helplessly. Arthurs sent Trace up next. Ken saw that the coach was sending up the weaker hitters first. Trace could not even make a foul. Raymond was third up, and Ken had to smile at the scowling second-baseman. Remembering his weakness for pulling away from the plate, Ken threw Raymond two fast curves on the outside, and then a slow wide curve, far out. Raymond could not have hit the first two with a paddle, and the third lured him irresistibly out of position and made him look ridiculous. He slammed his bat down and slouched to the bench. Duncan turned out to be the next easy victim. Four batters had not so much as fouled Ken. And Ken knew he was holding himself in--that, in fact, he had not let out half his speed. Blake, the next player, hit up a little fly that Ken caught, and Schoonover made the fifth man to strike out. Then Weir stood over the plate, and he was a short, sturdy batter, hard to pitch to. He looked as if he might be able to hit any kind of a ball. Ken tried him first with a straight fast one over the middle of the plate. Weir hit it hard, but it went foul. And through Ken's mind flashed the thought that he would pitch no more speed to Weir or players who swung as he did. Accordingly Ken tried the slow curve that had baffled Raymond. Weir popped it up and retired in disgust. The following batter was Graves, who strode up smiling, confident, sarcastic, as if he knew he could do more than the others. Ken imagined what the third-baseman would have said if the coach had not been present. Graves always ruffled Ken the wrong way. "I'll strike him out if I break my arm!" muttered Ken to himself. He faced Graves deliberately and eyed his position at bat. Graves as deliberately laughed at him. "Pitch up, pitch up!" he called out. "Right over the pan!" retorted Ken, as quick as an echo. He went hot as fire all over. This fellow Graves had some strange power of infuriating him. Ken took a different swing, which got more of his weight in motion, and let his arm out. Like a white bullet the ball shot plateward, rising a little so that Graves hit vainly under it. The ball surprised Dean, knocked his hands apart as if they had been paper, and resounded from his breast-protector. Ken pitched the second ball in the same place with a like result, except that Dean held on to it. Graves had lost his smile and wore an expression of sickly surprise. The third ball travelled by him and cracked in Dean's mitt, and Arthurs called it a strike. "Easy there--that'll do!" yelled the coach. "Come in here, Peg. Out on the field now, boys." Homans stopped Ken as they were passing each other, and Ken felt himself under the scrutiny of clear gray eyes. "Youngster, you look good to me," said Homans. Ken also felt himself regarded with astonishment by many of the candidates; and Ray ran a keen, intuitive glance over him from head to foot. But it was the coach's manner that struck Ken most forcibly. Worry was utterly unlike himself. "Why didn't you tell me about this before--you--you--" he yelled, red as a beet in the face. He grasped Ken with both hands, then he let him go, and picking up a ball and a mitt he grasped him again. Without a word he led Ken across the field and to a secluded corner behind the bleachers. Ken felt for all the world as if he was being led to execution. Worry took off his coat and vest and collar. He arranged a block of wood for a plate and stepped off so many paces and placed another piece of wood to mark the pitcher's box. Then he donned the mitt. "Peg, somethin's comin' off. I know it. I never make mistakes in sizin' up pitchers. But I've had such hard luck this season that I can't believe my own eyes. We've got to prove it. Now you go out there and pitch to me. Just natural like at first." Ken pitched a dozen balls or more, some in-curves, some out-curves. Then he threw what he called his drop, which he executed by a straight overhand swing. "Oh--a beauty!" yelled Worry. "Where, Peg, where did you learn that? Another, lower now." Worry fell over trying to stop the glancing drop. "Try straight ones now, Peg, right over the middle. See how many you can pitch." One after another, with free, easy motion, Ken shot balls squarely over the plate. Worry counted them, and suddenly, after the fourteenth pitch, he stood up and glared at Ken. "Are you goin' to keep puttin' 'em over this pan all day that way?" "Mr. Arthurs, I couldn't miss that plate if I pitched a week," replied Ken. "Stop callin' me Mister!" yelled Worry. "Now, put 'em where I hold my hands--inside corner... outside corner... again... inside now, low... another... a fast one over, now... high, inside. Oh, Peg, this ain't right. I ain't seein' straight. I think I'm dreamin'. Come on with 'em!" Fast and true Ken sped the balls into Worry's mitt. Seldom did the coach have to move his hands at all. "Peg Ward, did you know that pitchin' was all control, puttin' the ball where you wanted to?" asked Worry, stopping once more. "No, I didn't," replied Ken. "How did you learn to peg a ball as straight as this?" Ken told him how he had thrown at marks all his life. "Why didn't you tell me before?" Worry seemed not to be able to get over Ken's backwardness. "Look at the sleepless nights and the gray hairs you could have saved me." He stamped around as if furious, yet underneath the surface Ken saw that the coach was trying to hide his elation. "Here now," he shouted, suddenly, "a few more, and _peg_ 'em! See? Cut loose and let me see what steam you've got!" Ken whirled with all his might and delivered the ball with all his weight in the swing. The ball seemed to diminish in size, it went so swiftly. Near the plate it took an upward jump, and it knocked Worry's mitt off his hand. Worry yelled out, then he looked carefully at Ken, but he made no effort to go after the ball or pick up the mitt. "Did I say for you to knock my block off?... Come here, Peg. You're only a youngster. Do you think you can keep that? Are you goin' to let me teach you to pitch? Have you got any nerve? Are you up in the air at the thought of Place and Herne?" Then he actually hugged Ken, and kept hold of him as if he might get away. He was panting and sweating. All at once he sat down on one of the braces of the bleachers and began mopping his face. He seemed to cool down, to undergo a subtle change. "Peg," he said, quietly, "I'm as bad as some of 'em fat-head directors.... You see I didn't have no kind of a pitcher to work on this spring. I kept on hopin'. Strange why I didn't quit. And now--my boy, you're a kid, but you're a natural born pitcher." XI STATE UNIVERSITY GAME Arthurs returned to the diamond and called the squad around him. He might have been another coach from the change that was manifest in him. "Boys, I've picked the varsity, and sorry I am to say you all can't be on it. Ward, Dean, McCord, Raymond, Weir, Graves, Ray, Homans, Trace, Duncan, and Schoonover--these men will report at once to Trainer Murray and obey his orders. Then pack your trunks and report to me at 36 Spring Street to-night. That's all--up on your toes now.... The rest of you boys will each get his uniform and sweater, but, of course, I can't give you the varsity letter. You've all tried hard and done your best. I'm much obliged to you, and hope you'll try again next year." Led by Arthurs, the players trotted across the field to Murray's quarters. Ken used all his eyes as he went in. This was the sacred precinct of the chosen athletes, and it was not open to any others. He saw a small gymnasium, and adjoining it a large, bright room with painted windows that let in the light, but could not be seen through. Around the room on two sides were arranged huge box-like bins with holes in the lids and behind them along the wall were steam-pipes. On the other two sides were little zinc-lined rooms, with different kinds of pipes, which Ken concluded were used for shower baths. Murray, the trainer, was there, and two grinning negroes with towels over their shoulders, and a little dried-up Scotchman who was all one smile. "Murray, here's my bunch. Look 'em over, and to-morrow start 'em in for keeps," said Arthurs. "Well, Worry, they're not a bad-looking lot. Slim and trim. We won't have to take off any beef. Here's Reddy Ray. I let you have him this year, Worry, but the track team will miss him. And here's Peg Ward. I was sure you'd pick him, Worry. And this is Homans, isn't it? I remember you in the freshmen games. The rest of you boys I'll have to get acquainted with. They say I'm a pretty hard fellow, but that's on the outside. Now, hustle out of your suits, and we'll give you all a good stew and a rub-down." What the stew was soon appeared plain to Ken. He was the first player undressed, and Murray, lifting up one of the box-lids, pushed Ken inside. "Sit down and put your feet in that pan," he directed. "When I drop the lid let your head come out the hole. There!" Then he wrapped a huge towel around Ken's neck, being careful to tuck it close and tight. With that he reached round to the back of the box and turned on the steam. Ken felt like a jack-in-the-box. The warm steam was pleasant. He looked about him to see the other boys being placed in like positions. Raymond had the box on one side, and Reddy Ray the one on the other. "It's great," said Ray, smiling at Ken. "You'll like it." Raymond looked scared. Ken wondered if the fellow ever got any enjoyment out of things. Then Ken found himself attending to his own sensations. The steam was pouring out of the pipe inside the box, and it was growing wetter, thicker, and hotter. The pleasant warmth and tickling changed to a burning sensation. Ken found himself bathed in a heavy sweat. Then he began to smart in different places, and he was hard put to it to keep rubbing them. The steam grew hotter; his body was afire; his breath labored in great heaves. Ken felt that he must cry out. He heard exclamations, then yells, from some of the other boxed-up players, and he glanced quickly around. Reddy Ray was smiling, and did not look at all uncomfortable. But Raymond was scarlet in the face, and he squirmed his head to and fro. "_Ough!_" he bawled. "Let me out of here!" One of the negro attendants lifted the lid and helped Raymond out. He danced about as if on hot bricks. His body was the color of a boiled lobster. The attendant put him under one of the showers and turned the water on. Raymond uttered one deep, low, "O-o-o-o!" Then McCord begged to be let out; Weir's big head, with its shock of hair, resembled that of an angry lion; little Trace screamed, and Duncan yelled. "Peg, how're you?" asked Murray, walking up to Ken. "It's always pretty hot the first few times. But afterward it's fine. Look at Reddy." "Murray, give Peg a good stewin'," put in Arthurs. "He's got a great arm, and we must take care of it." Ken saw the other boys, except Ray, let out, and he simply could not endure the steam any longer. "I've got--enough," he stammered. "Scotty, turn on a little more stew," ordered Murray, cheerfully; then he rubbed his hand over Ken's face. "You're not hot yet." Scotty turned on more steam, and Ken felt it as a wet flame. He was being flayed alive. "Please--please--let me out!" he implored. With a laugh Murray lifted the lid, and Ken hopped out. He was as red as anything red he had ever seen. Then Scotty shoved him under a shower, and as the icy water came down in a deluge Ken lost his breath, his chest caved in, and he gasped. Scotty led him out into the room, dried him with a towel, rubbed him down, and then, resting Ken's arm on his shoulder, began to pat and beat and massage it. In a few moments Ken thought his arm was a piece of live India rubber. He had never been in such a glow. When he had dressed he felt as light as air, strong, fresh, and keen for action. "Hustle now, Peg," said Arthurs. "Get your things packed. Supper to-night at the trainin'-house." It was after dark when Ken got an expressman to haul his trunk to the address on Spring Street. The house was situated about the middle of a four-storied block, and within sight of Grant Field. Worry answered his ring. "Here you are, Peg, the last one. I was beginnin' to worry about you. Have your trunk taken right up, third floor back. Hurry down, for dinner will be ready soon." Ken followed at the heels of the expressman up to his room. He was surprised and somewhat taken back to find Raymond sitting upon the bed. "Hello! excuse me," said Ken. "Guess I've got the wrong place." "The coach said you and I were to room together," returned Raymond. "Us? Room-mates?" ejaculated Ken. Raymond took offence at this. "Wull, I guess I can stand it," he growled. "I hope I can," was Ken's short reply. It was Ken's failing that he could not help retaliating. But he was also as repentant as he was quick-tempered. "Oh, I didn't mean that.... See here, Raymond, if we've got to be room-mates--" Ken paused in embarrassment. "Wull, we're both on the varsity," said Raymond. "That's so," rejoined Ken, brightening. "It makes a whole lot of difference, doesn't it?" Raymond got off the bed and looked at Ken. "What's your first name?" queried he. "I don't like 'Peg.'" "Kenneth. Ken, for short. What's yours?" "Mine's Kel. Wull, Ken--" Having gotten so far Raymond hesitated, and it was Ken who first offered his hand. Raymond eagerly grasped it. That broke the ice. "Kel, I haven't liked your looks at all," said Ken, apologetically. "Ken, I've been going to lick you all spring." They went down-stairs arm in arm. It was with great interest and curiosity that Ken looked about the cozy and comfortable rooms. The walls were adorned with pictures of varsity teams and players, and the college colors were much in evidence. College magazines and papers littered the table in the reading-room. "Boys, we'll be pretty snug and nice here when things get to runnin' smooth. The grub will be plain, but plenty of it." There were twelve in all at the table, with the coach seated at the head. The boys were hungry, and besides, as they had as yet had no chance to become acquainted, the conversation lagged. The newness and strangeness, however, did not hide the general air of suppressed gratification. After dinner Worry called them all together in the reading-room. "Well, boys, here we are together like one big family, and we're shut in for two months. Now, I know you've all been fightin' for places on the team, and have had no chance to be friendly. It's always that way in the beginnin', and I dare say there'll be some scraps among you before things straighten out. We'll have more to say about that later. The thing now is you're all varsity men, and I'm puttin' you on your word of honor. Your word is good enough for me. Here's my rules, and I'm more than usually particular this year, for reasons I'll tell later. "You're not to break trainin'. You're not to eat anything anywhere but here. You're to cut out cigarettes and drinks. You're to be in bed at ten o'clock. And I advise, although I ain't insistin', that if you have any leisure time you'll spend most of it here. That's all." For Ken the three days following passed as so many hours. He did not in the least dread the approaching game with State University, but his mind held scarcely anything outside of Arthurs' coaching. The practice of the players had been wholly different. It was as if they had been freed from some binding spell. Worry kept them at fielding and batting for four full hours every afternoon. Ken, after pitching to Dean for a while, batted to the infield and so had opportunity to see the improvement. Graves was brilliant at third, Weir was steady and sure at short, Raymond seemed to have springs in his legs and pounced upon the ball with wonderful quickness, and McCord fielded all his chances successfully. On the afternoon of the game Worry waited at the training-house until all the players came down-stairs in uniform. "Boys, what's happened in the past doesn't count. We start over to-day. I'm not goin' to say much or confuse you with complex team coachin'. But I'm hopeful. I sort of think there's a nigger in the woodpile. I'll tell you to-night if I'm right. Think of how you have been roasted by the students. Play like tigers. Put out of your mind everything but tryin'. Nothin' counts for you, boys. Errors are nothin'; mistakes are nothin'. Play the game as one man. Don't think of yourselves. You all know when you ought to hit or bunt or run. I'm trustin' you. I won't say a word from the bench. And don't underrate our chances. Remember that I think it's possible we may have somethin' up our sleeves. That's all from me till after the game." Worry walked to Grant Field with Ken. He talked as they went along, but not on baseball. The State team was already out and practising. Worry kept Ken near him on the bench and closely watched the visitors in practice. When the gong rang to call them in he sent his players out, with a remark to Ken to take his warming-up easily. Ken thought he had hardly warmed up at all before the coach called him in. "Peg, listen!" he whispered. His gaze seemed to hypnotize Ken. "Do you have any idea what you'll do to this bunch from State?" "Why--no--I--" "Listen! I tell you I know they won't be able to touch you.... Size up batters in your own way. If they look as if they'd pull or chop on a curve, hand it up. If not, peg 'em a straight one over the inside corner, high. If you get in a hole with runners on bases use that fast jump ball, as hard as you can drive it, right over the pan.... Go in with perfect confidence. I wouldn't say that to you, Peg, if I didn't feel it myself, honestly. I'd say for you to do your best. But I've sized up these State fellows, and they won't be able to touch you. Remember what I say. That's all." "I'll remember," said Ken, soberly. When the umpire called the game there were perhaps fifty students in the bleachers and a few spectators in the grand-stand, so poor an attendance that the State players loudly voiced their derision. "Hey! boys," yelled one, "we drew a crowd last year, and look at that!" "It's Wayne's dub team," replied another. They ran upon the field as if the result of the game was a foregone conclusion. Their pitcher, a lanky individual, handled the ball with assurance. Homans led off for Wayne. He stood left-handed at the plate, and held his bat almost in the middle. He did not swing, but poked at the first ball pitched and placed a short hit over third. Raymond, also left-handed, came next, and, letting two balls go, he bunted the third. Running fast, he slid into first base and beat the throw. Homans kept swiftly on toward third, drew the throw, and, sliding, was also safe. It was fast work, and the Wayne players seemed to rise off the bench with the significance of the play. Worry Arthurs looked on from under the brim of his hat, and spoke no word. Then Reddy Ray stepped up. "They're all left-handed!" shouted a State player. The pitcher looked at Reddy, then motioned for his outfielders to play deeper. With that he delivered the ball, which the umpire called a strike. Reddy stood still and straight while two more balls sped by, then he swung on the next. A vicious low hit cut out over first base and skipped in great bounds to the fence. Homans scored. Raymond turned second, going fast. But it was Ray's speed that electrified the watching players. They jumped up cheering. "Oh, see him run!" yelled Ken. He was on third before Raymond reached the plate. Weir lifted a high fly to left field, and when the ball dropped into the fielder's hands Ray ran home on the throw-in. Three runs had been scored in a twinkling. It amazed the State team. They were not slow in bandying remarks among themselves. "Fast! Who's that red-head? Is this your dub team? Get in the game, boys!" They began to think more of playing ball and less of their own superiority. Graves, however, and McCord following him, went out upon plays to the infield. As Ken walked out toward the pitcher's box Homans put a hand on his arm, and said: "Kid, put them all over. Don't waste any. Make every batter hit. Keep your nerve. We're back of you out here." Then Reddy Ray, in passing, spoke with a cool, quiet faith that thrilled Ken, "Peg, we've got enough runs now to win." Ken faced the plate all in a white glow. He was far from calmness, but it was a restless, fiery hurry for the action of the game. He remembered the look in Worry's eyes, and every word that he had spoken rang in his ears. Receiving the ball from the umpire, he stepped upon the slab with a sudden, strange, deep tremor. It passed as quickly, and then he was eying the first batter. He drew a long breath, standing motionless, with all the significance of Worry's hope flashing before him, and then he whirled and delivered the ball. The batter struck at it after it had passed him, and it cracked in Dean's mitt. "Speed!" called the State captain. "Quick eye, there!" The batter growled some unintelligible reply. Then he fouled the second ball, missed the next, and was out. The succeeding State player hit an easy fly to Homans, and the next had two strikes called upon him, and swung vainly at the third. Dean got a base on balls for Wayne, Trace went out trying to bunt, and Ken hit into short, forcing Dean at second. Homans lined to third, retiring the side. The best that the State players could do in their half was for one man to send a weak grounder to Raymond, one to fly out, and the other to fail on strikes. Wayne went to bat again, and Raymond got his base by being hit by a pitched ball. Reddy Ray bunted and was safe. Weir struck out. Graves rapped a safety through short, scoring Raymond, and sending Ray to third. Then McCord fouled out to the catcher. Again, in State's inning, they failed to get on base, being unable to hit Ken effectively. So the game progressed, State slowly losing its aggressive playing, and Wayne gaining what its opponents had lost. In the sixth Homans reached his base on an error, stole second, went to third on Raymond's sacrifice, and scored on Reddy's drive to right. State flashed up in their half, getting two men to first on misplays of McCord and Weir, and scored a run on a slow hit to Graves. With the bases full, Ken let his arm out and pitched the fast ball at the limit of his speed. The State batters were helpless before it, but they scored two runs on passed strikes by Dean. The little catcher had a hard time judging Ken's jump ball. That ended the run-getting for State, though they came near scoring again on more fumbling in the infield. In the eighth Ken landed a safe fly over second, and tallied on a double by Homans. Before Ken knew the game was half over it had ended--Wayne 6, State 3. His players crowded around him and some one called for the Wayne yell. It was given with wild vehemence. From that moment until dinner was over at the training-house Ken appeared to be the centre of a humming circle. What was said and done he never remembered. Then the coach stopped the excitement. "Boys, now for a heart-to-heart talk," he said, with a smile both happy and grave. "We won to-day, as I predicted. State had a fairly strong team, but if Ward had received perfect support they would not have got a man beyond second. That's the only personal mention I'll make. Now, listen...." He paused, with his eyes glinting brightly and his jaw quivering. "I expected to win, but before the game I never dreamed of our possibilities. I got a glimpse now of what hard work and a demon spirit to play together might make this team. I've had an inspiration. We are goin' to beat Herne and play Place to a standstill." Not a boy moved an eyelash as Arthurs made this statement, and the sound of a pin dropping could have been heard. "To do that we must pull together as no boys ever pulled together before. We must be all one heart. We must be actuated by one spirit. Listen! If you will stick together and to me, I'll make a team that will be a wonder. Never the hittin' team as good as last year's varsity, but a faster team, a finer machine. Think of that! Think of how we have been treated this year! For that we'll win all the greater glory. It's worth all there is in you, boys. You would have the proudest record of any team that ever played for old Wayne. "I love the old college, boys, and I've given it the best years of my life. If it's anything to you, why, understand that if I fail to build up a good team this year I shall be let go by those directors who have made the change in athletics. I could stand that, but--I've a boy of my own who's preparin' for Wayne, and my heart is set on seein' him enter--and he said he never will if they let me go. So, you youngsters and me--we've much to gain. Go to your rooms now and think, think as you never did before, until the spirit of this thing, the possibility of it, grips you as it has me." XII KEN CLASHES WITH GRAVES Two weeks after the contest with State University four more games with minor colleges had been played and won by Wayne. Hour by hour the coach had drilled the players; day by day the grilling practice told in quickening grasp of team-play, in gradual correction of erratic fielding and wild throwing. Every game a few more students attended, reluctantly, in half-hearted manner. "We're comin' with a rush," said Worry to Ken. "Say, but Dale and the old gang have a surprise in store for 'em! And the students--they're goin' to drop dead pretty soon.... Peg, Murray tells me he's puttin' weight on you." "Why, yes, it's the funniest thing," replied Ken. "To-day I weighed one hundred and sixty-four. Worry, I'm afraid I'm getting fat." "Fat, nothin'," snorted Worry. "It's muscle. I told Murray to put beef on you all he can. Pretty soon you'll be able to peg a ball through the back-stop. Dean's too light, Peg. He's plucky and will make a catcher, but he's too light. You're batterin' him all up." Worry shook his head seriously. "Oh, he's fine!" exclaimed Ken. "I'm not afraid any more. He digs my drop out of the dust, and I can't get a curve away from him. He's weak only on the jump ball, and I don't throw that often, only when I let drive." "You'll be usin' that often enough against Herne and Place. I'm dependin' on that for those games. Peg, are you worryin' any, losin' any sleep, over those games?" "Indeed I'm not," replied Ken, laughing. "Say, I wish you'd have a balloon ascension, and have it quick. It ain't natural, Peg, for you not to get a case of rattles. It's comin' to you, and I don't want it in any of the big games." "I don't want it either. But Worry, pitching is all a matter of control, you say so often. I don't believe I could get wild and lose my control if I tried." "Peg, you sure have the best control of any pitcher I ever coached. It's your success. It'll make a great pitcher out of you. All you've got to learn is where to pitch 'em to Herne and Place." "How am I to learn that?" "Listen!" Worry whispered. "I'm goin' to send you to Washington next week to see Place and Herne play Georgetown. You'll pay your little money and sit in the grand-stand right behind the catcher. You'll have a pencil and a score card, and you'll be enjoyin' the game. But, Peg, you'll also be usin' your head, and when you see one of 'em players pull away on a curve, or hit weak on a drop, or miss a high fast one, or slug a low ball, you will jot it down on your card. You'll watch Place's hard hitters with hawk eyes, my boy, and a pitcher's memory. And when they come along to Grant Field you'll have 'em pretty well sized up." "That's fine, Worry, but is it fair?" queried Ken. "Fair? Why, of course. They all do it. We saw Place's captain in the grand-stand here last spring." The coach made no secret of his pride and faith in Ken. It was this, perhaps, as much as anything, which kept Ken keyed up. For Ken was really pitching better ball than he knew how to pitch. He would have broken his arm for Worry; he believed absolutely in what the coach told him; he did not think of himself at all. Worry, however, had plenty of enthusiasm for his other players. Every evening after dinner he would call them all about him and talk for an hour. Sometimes he would tell funny baseball stories; again, he told of famous Wayne-Place games, and how they had been won or lost; then at other times he dwelt on the merits and faults of his own team. In speaking of the swift development of this year's varsity he said it was as remarkable as it had been unforeseen. He claimed it would be a bewildering surprise to Wayne students and to the big college teams. He was working toward the perfection of a fast run-getting machine. In the five games already played and won a good idea could be gotten of Wayne's team, individually and collectively. Homans was a scientific short-field hitter and remarkably sure. Raymond could not bat, but he had developed into a wonder in reaching first base, by bunt or base on balls, or being hit. Reddy Ray was a hard and timely batter, and when he got on base his wonderful fleetness made him almost sure to score. Of the other players Graves batted the best; but taking the team as a whole, and comparing them with Place or Herne, it appeared that Reddy and Homans were the only great hitters, and the two of them, of course, could not make a great hitting team. In fielding, however, the coach said he had never seen the like. They were all fast, and Homans was perfect in judgment on fly balls, and Raymond was quick as lightning to knock down base hits, and as to the intercollegiate sprinter in left field, it was simply a breath-taking event to see him run after a ball. Last of all was Ken Ward with his great arm. It was a strangely assorted team, Worry said, one impossible to judge at the moment, but it was one to watch. "Boys, we're comin' with a rush," he went on to say. "But somethin's holdin' us back a little. There's no lack of harmony, yet there's a drag. In spite of the spirit you've shown--and I want to say it's been great--the team doesn't work together as one man _all_ the time. I advise you all to stick closer together. Stay away from the club, and everywhere except lectures. We've got to be closer 'n brothers. It'll all work out right before we go up against Herne in June. That game's comin', boys, and by that time the old college will be crazy. It'll be _our_ turn then." Worry's talks always sank deeply into Ken's mind and set him to thinking and revolving over and over the gist of them so that he could remember to his profit. He knew that some of the boys had broken training, and he pondered if that was what caused the drag Worry mentioned. Ken had come to feel the life and fortunes of the varsity so keenly that he realized how the simplest deviations from honor might affect the smooth running of the team. It must be perfectly smooth. And to make it so every player must be of one mind. Ken proved to himself how lack of the highest spirit on the part of one or two of the team tended toward the lowering of the general spirit. For he began to worry, and almost at once it influenced his playing. He found himself growing watchful of his comrades and fearful of what they might be doing. He caught himself being ashamed of his suspicions. He would as lief have cut off his hand as break his promise to the coach. Perhaps, however, he exaggerated his feeling and sense of duty. He remembered the scene in Dale's room the night he refused to smoke and drink; how Dale had commended his refusal. Nevertheless, he gathered from Dale's remark to Worry that breaking training was not unusual or particularly harmful. "With Dale's team it might not have been so bad," thought Ken. "But it's different with us. We've got to make up in spirit what we lack in ability." Weir and McCord occupied the room next to Ken's, and Graves and Trace, rooming together, were also on that floor. Ken had tried with all his might to feel friendly toward the third-baseman. He had caught Graves carrying cake and pie to his room and smoking cigarettes with the window open. One night Graves took cigarettes from his pocket and offered them to Kel, Trace, and Ken, who all happened to be in Ken's room at the time. Trace readily accepted; Kel demurred at first, but finally took one. Graves then tossed the pack to Ken. "No, I don't smoke. Besides, it's breaking training," said Ken. "You make me sick, Ward," retorted Graves. "You're a wet blanket. Do you think we're going to be as sissy as that? It's hard enough to stand the grub we get here, without giving up a little smoke." Ken made no reply, but he found it difficult to smother a hot riot in his breast. When the other boys had gone to their rooms Ken took Kel to task about his wrong-doing. "Do you think that's the right sort of thing? What would Worry say?" "Ken, I don't care about it, not a bit," replied Kel, flinging his cigarette out of the window. "But Graves is always asking me to do things--I hate to refuse. It seems so--" "Kel, if Worry finds it out you'll lose your place on the team." "No!" exclaimed Raymond, staring. "Mark what I say. I wish you'd stop letting Graves coax you into things." "Ken, he's always smuggling pie and cake and candy into his room. I've had some of it. Trace said he'd brought in something to drink, too." "It's a shame," cried Ken, in anger. "I never liked him and I've tried hard to change it. Now I'm glad I couldn't." "He doesn't have any use for you," replied Kel. "He's always running you down to the other boys. What'd you ever do to him, Ken?" "Oh, it was that potato stunt of mine last fall. He's a Soph, and I hit him, I guess." "I think it's more than that," went on Raymond. "Anyway, you look out for him, because he's aching to spoil your face." "He is, is he?" snapped Ken. Ken was too angry to talk any more, and so the boys went to bed. The next few days Ken discovered that either out of shame or growing estrangement Raymond avoided him, and he was bitterly hurt. He had come to like the little second-baseman, and had hoped they would be good friends. It was easy to see that Graves became daily bolder, and more lax in training, and his influence upon several of the boys grew stronger. And when Dean, Schoonover, and Duncan appeared to be joining the clique, Ken decided he would have to talk to some one, so he went up to see Ray and Homans. The sprinter was alone, sitting by his lamp, with books and notes spread before him. "Hello, Peg! come in. You look a little glum. What's wrong?" Reddy Ray seemed like an elder brother to Ken, and he found himself blurting out his trouble. Ray looked thoughtful, and after a moment he replied in his quiet way: "Peg, it's new to you, but it's an old story to me. The track and crew men seldom break training, which is more than can be said of the other athletes. It seems to me baseball fellows are the most careless. They really don't have to train so conscientiously. It's only a kind of form." "But it's different this year," burst out Ken. "You know what Worry said, and how he trusts us." "You're right, Peg, only you mustn't take it so hard. Things will work out all right. Homans and I were talking about that to-day. You see, Worry wants the boys to elect a captain soon. But perhaps he has not confided in you youngsters. He will suggest that you elect Homans or me. Well, I won't run for the place, so it'll be Homans. He's the man to captain us, that's certain. Graves thinks, though, that he can pull the wires and be elected captain. He's way off. Besides, Peg, he's making a big mistake. Worry doesn't like him, and when he finds out about this break in training we'll have a new third-baseman. No doubt Blake will play the bag. Graves is the only drag in Worry's baseball machine now, and he'll not last.... So, Peg, don't think any more about it. Mind you, the whole team circles round you. You're the pivot, and as sure as you're born you'll be Wayne's captain next year. That's something for you to keep in mind and work for. If Graves keeps after you--hand him one! That's not against rules. Punch him! If Worry knew the truth he would pat you on the back for slugging Graves. Cheer up, Peg! Even if Graves has got all the kids on his side, which I doubt, Homans and I are with you. And you can just bet that Worry Arthurs will side with us.... Now run along, for I must study." This conversation was most illuminating to Ken. He left Reddy's room all in a quiver of warm pleasure and friendliness at the great sprinter's quiet praise and advice. To make such a friend was worth losing a hundred friends like Graves. He dismissed the third-baseman and his scheming from mind, and believed Reddy as he had believed Arthurs. But Ken thought much of what he divined was a glimmering of the inside workings of a college baseball team. He had one wild start of rapture at the idea of becoming captain of Wayne's varsity next year, and then he dared think no more of that. The day dawned for Ken to go to Washington, and he was so perturbed at his responsibilities that he quite forgot to worry about the game Wayne had to play in his absence. Arthurs intended to pitch Schoonover in that game, and had no doubt as to its outcome. The coach went to the station with Ken, once more repeated his instructions, and saw him upon the train. Certainly there was no more important personage on board that Washington Limited than Ken Ward. In fact, Ken was so full of importance and responsibility that he quite divided his time between foolish pride in his being chosen to "size up" the great college teams and fearful conjecture as to his ability. At any rate, the time flew by, the trip seemed short, and soon he was on the Georgetown field. It was lucky that he arrived early and got a seat in the middle of the grand-stand, for there was a throng in attendance when the players came on the diamond. The noisy bleachers, the merry laughter, the flashing colors, and especially the bright gowns and pretty faces of the girls gave Ken pleasurable consciousness of what it would mean to play before such a crowd. At Wayne he had pitched to empty seats. Remembering Worry's prophecy, however, he was content to wait. From that moment his duty absorbed him. He found it exceedingly fascinating to study the batters, and utterly forgot his responsibility. Not only did he jot down on his card his idea of the weakness and strength of the different hitters, but he compared what he would have pitched to them with what was actually pitched. Of course, he had no test of his comparison, but he felt intuitively that he had the better of it. Watching so closely, Ken had forced home to him Arthurs' repeated assertion that control of the ball made a pitcher. Both pitchers in this game were wild. Locating the plate with them was more a matter of luck than ability. The Herne pitcher kept wasting balls and getting himself in the hole, and then the heavy Georgetown players would know when he had to throw a strike, if he could, and accordingly they hit hard. They beat Herne badly. The next day in the game with Place it was a different story. Ken realized he was watching a great team. They reminded him of Dale's varsity, though they did not play that fiendish right-field-hitting game. Ken had a numbness come over him at the idea of facing this Place team. It soon passed, for they had their vulnerable places. It was not so much that they hit hard on speed and curves, for they got them where they wanted them. Keene flied out on high fast balls over the inside corner; Starke bit on low drops; Martin was weak on a slow ball; MacNeff, the captain, could not touch speed under his chin, and he always struck at it. On the other hand, he killed a low ball. Prince was the only man who, in Ken's judgment, seemed to have no weakness. These men represented the batting strength of Place, and Ken, though he did not in the least underestimate them, had no fear. He would have liked to pitch against them right there. "It's all in control of the ball," thought Ken. "Here are seventeen bases on balls in two games--four pitchers. They're wild.... But suppose I got wild, too?" The idea made Ken shiver. He travelled all night, sleeping on the train, and got home to the training-house about nine the next morning. Worry was out, Scotty said, and the boys had all gone over to college. Ken went up-stairs and found Raymond in bed. "Why, Kel, what's the matter?" asked Ken. "I'm sick," replied Kel. He was pale and appeared to be in distress. "Oh, I'm sorry. Can't I do something? Get you some medicine? Call Murray?" "Ken, don't call anybody, unless you want to see me disgraced. Worry got out this morning before he noticed my absence from breakfast. I was scared to death." "Scared? Disgraced?" "Ken, I drank a little last night. It always makes me sick. You know I've a weak stomach." "Kel, you didn't drink, _say_ you didn't!" implored Ken, sitting miserably down on the bed. "Yes, I did. I believe I was half drunk. I can't stand anything. I'm sick, sick of myself, too, this morning. And I hate Graves." Ken jumped up with kindling eyes. "Kel, you've gone back on me--we'd started to be such friends--I tried to persuade you--" "I know. I'm sorry, Ken. But I really liked you best. I was--you know how it is, Ken. If only Worry don't find it out!" "Tell him," said Ken, quickly. "What?" groaned Kel, in fright. "Tell him. Let me tell him for you." "No--no--no. He'd fire me off the team, and I couldn't stand that." "I'll bet Worry wouldn't do anything of the kind. Maybe he knows more than you think." "I'm afraid to tell him, Ken. I just can't tell him." "But you gave your word of honor not to break training. The only thing left is to confess." "I won't tell, Ken. It's not so much my own place on the team--there are the other fellows." Ken saw that it was no use to argue with Raymond while he was so sick and discouraged, so he wisely left off talking and did his best to make him comfortable. Raymond dropped asleep after a little, and when he awakened just before lunch-time he appeared better. "I won't be able to practise to-day," he said; "but I'll go down to lunch." As he was dressing the boys began to come in from college and ran whistling up the stairs. Graves bustled into the room with rather anxious haste. "How're you feeling?" he asked. "Pretty rocky. Graves--I told Ward about it," said Raymond. Upon his hurried entrance Graves had not observed Ken. "What did you want to do that for?" he demanded, arrogantly. Raymond looked at him, but made no reply. "Ward, I suppose you'll squeal," said Graves, sneeringly. "That'll about be your speed." Ken rose and, not trusting himself to speak, remained silent. "You sissy!" cried Graves, hotly. "Will you peach on us to Arthurs?" "No. But if you don't get out of my room I'll hand you one," replied Ken, his voice growing thick. Graves's face became red as fire. "What? Why, you white-faced, white-haired freshman! I've been aching to punch you!" "Well, why don't you commence?" With the first retort Ken had felt a hot trembling go over him, and having yielded to his anger he did not care what happened. "Ken--Graves," pleaded Raymond, white as a sheet. "Don't--please!" He turned from one to the other. "Don't scrap!" "Graves, it's up to some one to call you, and I'm going to do it," said Ken, passionately. "You've been after me all season, but I wouldn't care for that. It's your rotten influence on Kel and the other boys that makes me wild. You are the drag in this baseball team. You are a crack ball-player, but you don't know what college spirit means. You're a mucker!" "I'll lick you for that!" raved Graves, shaking his fists. "You can't lick me!" "Come outdoors. I dare you to come outdoors. I dare you!" Ken strode out of the room and started down the hall. "Come on!" he called, grimly, and ran down the stairs. Graves hesitated a moment, then followed. Raymond suddenly called after them: "Give it to him, Ken! Slug him! Beat him all up!" XIII FRIENDSHIP A half-hour or less afterward Ken entered the training-house. It chanced that the boys, having come in, were at the moment passing through the hall to the dining-room, and with them was Worry Arthurs. "Hello! you back? What's the matter with you?" demanded the coach. Ken's lips were puffed and bleeding, and his chin was bloody. Sundry red and dark marks disfigured his usually clear complexion. His eyes were blazing, and his hair rumpled down over his brow. "You've been in a scrap," declared Worry. "I know it," said Ken. "Let me go up and wash." Worry had planted himself at the foot of the stairway in front of Ken. The boys stood silent and aghast. Suddenly there came thumps upon the stairs, and Raymond appeared, jumping down three steps at a time. He dodged under Worry's arm and plunged at Ken to hold him with both hands. "Ken! You're all bloody!" he exclaimed, in great excitement. "He didn't lick you? Say he didn't! He's got to fight me, too! You're all bunged up!" "Wait till you see him!" muttered Ken. "A-huh!" said Worry. "Been scrappin' with Graves! What for?" "It's a personal matter," replied Ken. "Come, no monkey-biz with me," said the coach, sharply. "Out with it!" There was a moment's silence. "Mr. Arthurs, it's my fault," burst out Raymond, flushed and eager. "Ken was fighting on my account." "It wasn't anything of the kind," retorted Ken, vehemently. "Yes it was," cried Raymond, "and I'm going to tell why." The hall door opened to admit Graves. He was dishevelled, dirty, battered, and covered with blood. When he saw the group in the hall he made as if to dodge out. "Here, come on! Take your medicine," called Worry, tersely. Graves shuffled in, cast down and sheepish, a very different fellow from his usual vaunting self. "Now, Raymond, what's this all about?" demanded Worry. Raymond changed color, but he did not hesitate an instant. "Ken came in this morning and found me sick in bed. I told him I had been half drunk last night--and that Graves had gotten me to drink. Then Graves came in. He and Ken had hard words. They went outdoors to fight." "Would you have told me?" roared the coach in fury. "Would you have come to me with this if I hadn't caught Peg?" Raymond faced him without flinching. "At first I thought not--when Ken begged me to confess I just couldn't. But now I know I would." At that Worry lost his sudden heat, and then he turned to the stricken Graves. "Mebbe it'll surprise you, Graves, to learn that I knew a little of what you've been doin'. I told Homans to go to you in a quiet way and tip off your mistake. I hoped you'd see it. But you didn't. Then you've been knockin' Ward all season, for no reason I could discover but jealousy. Now, listen! Peg Ward has done a lot for me already this year, and he'll do more. But even if he beats Place, it won't mean any more to me than the beatin' he's given you. Now, you pack your things and get out of here. There's no position for you on this varsity." Without a word in reply and amid intense silence Graves went slowly up-stairs. When he disappeared Worry sank into a chair, and looked as if he was about to collapse. Little Trace walked hesitatingly forward with the manner of one propelled against his will. "Mr. Arthurs, I--I," he stammered--"I'm guilty, too. I broke training. I want to--" The coach waved him back. "I don't want to hear it, not another word--from anybody. It's made me sick. I can't stand any more. Only I see I've got to change my rules. There won't be any rules any more. You can all do as you like. I'd rather have you all go stale than practise deceit on me. I cut out the trainin' rules." "_No!_" The team rose up as one man and flung the refusal at the coach. "Worry, we won't stand for that," spoke up Reddy Ray. His smooth, cool voice was like oil on troubled waters. "I think Homans and I can answer for the kids from now on. Graves was a disorganizer--that's the least I'll say of him. We'll elect Homans captain of the team, and then we'll cut loose like a lot of demons. It's been a long, hard drill for you, Worry, but we're in the stretch now and going to finish fast. We've been a kind of misfit team all spring. You've had a blind faith that something could be made out of us. Homans has waked up to our hidden strength. And I go further than that. I've played ball for years. I know the game. I held down left field for two seasons on the greatest college team ever developed out West. That's new to you. Well, it gives me license to talk a little. I want to tell you that I can _feel_ what's in this team. It's like the feeling I have when I'm running against a fast man in the sprints. From now on we'll be a family of brothers with one idea. And that'll be to play Place off their feet." Coach Arthurs sat up as if he had been given the elixir of life. Likewise the members of the team appeared to be under the spell of a powerful stimulus. The sprinter's words struck fire from all present. Homans' clear gray eyes were like live coals. "Boys! One rousing cheer for Worry Arthurs and for Wayne!" Lusty, strained throats let out the cheer with a deafening roar. It was strange and significant at that moment to see Graves, white-faced and sullen, come down the stairs and pass through the hall and out of the door. It was as if discord, selfishness, and wavering passed out with him. Arthurs and Homans and Ray could not have hoped for a more striking lesson to the young players. Dave, the colored waiter, appeared in the doorway of the dining-room. "Mr. Arthurs, I done call yo' all. Lunch is sho' gittin' cold." That afternoon Wayne played the strong Hornell University nine. Blake, new at third base for Wayne, was a revelation. He was all legs and arms. Weir accepted eight chances. Raymond, sick or not, was all over the infield, knocking down grounders, backing up every play. To McCord, balls in the air or at his feet were all the same. Trace caught a foul fly right off the bleachers. Homans fielded with as much speed as the old varsity's centre and with better judgment. Besides, he made four hits and four runs. Reddy Ray drove one ball into the bleachers, and on a line-drive to left field he circled the bases in time that Murray said was wonderful. Dean stood up valiantly to his battering, and for the first game had no passed balls. And Ken Ward whirled tirelessly in the box, and one after another he shot fast balls over the plate. He made the Hornell players hit; he had no need to extend himself to the use of the long swing and whip of his arm that produced the jump ball; and he shut them out without a run, and gave them only two safe hits. All through the game Worry Arthurs sat on the bench without giving an order or a sign. His worried look had vanished with the crude playing of his team. That night the Hornell captain, a veteran player of unquestionable ability, was entertained at Carlton Club by Wayne friends, and he expressed himself forcibly: "We came over to beat Wayne's weak team. It'll be some time till we discover what happened. Young Ward has the most magnificent control and speed. He's absolutely relentless. And that frog-legged second-baseman--oh, say, can't he cover ground! Homans is an all-round star. Then, your red-headed Ray, the sprinter--he's a marvel. Ward, Homans, Ray--they're demons, and they're making demons of the kids. I can't understand why Wayne students don't support their team. It's strange." What the Hornell captain said went from lip to lip throughout the club, and then it spread, like a flame in wind-blown grass, from club to dormitory, and thus over all the university. "Boys, the college is wakin' up," said Worry, rubbing his hands. "Yesterday's game jarred 'em. They can't believe their own ears. Why, Hornell almost beat Dale's team last spring. Now, kids, look out. We'll stand for no fussin' over us. We don't want any jollyin'. We've waited long for encouragement. It didn't come, and now we'll play out the string alone. There'll be a rush to Grant Field. It cuts no ice with us. Let 'em come to see the boys they hissed and guyed early in the spring. We'll show 'em a few things. We'll make 'em speechless. We'll make 'em so ashamed they won't know what to do. We'll repay all their slights by beatin' Place." Worry was as excited as on the day he discovered that Ken was a pitcher. "One more word, boys," he went on. "Keep together now. Run back here to your rooms as quick as you get leave from college. Be civil when you are approached by students, but don't mingle, not yet. Keep to yourselves. Your reward is comin'. It'll be great. Only wait!" And that was the last touch of fire which moulded Worry's players into a family of brothers. Close and warm and fine was the culmination of their friendship. On the field they were dominated by one impulse, almost savage in its intensity. When they were off the field the springs of youth burst forth to flood the hours with fun. In the mornings when the mail-man came there was always a wild scramble for letters. And it developed that Weir received more than his share. He got mail every day, and his good-fortune could not escape the lynx eyes of his comrades. Nor could the size and shape of the envelope and the neat, small handwriting fail to be noticed. Weir always stole off by himself to read his daily letter, trying to escape a merry chorus of tantalizing remarks. "Oh! Sugar!" "Dreamy Eyes!" "Gawge, the pink letter has come!" Weir's reception of these sallies earned him the name of Puff. One morning, for some unaccountable reason, Weir did not get down-stairs when the mail arrived. Duncan got the pink letter, scrutinized the writing closely, and put the letter in his coat. Presently Weir came bustling down. "Who's got the mail?" he asked, quickly. "No letters this morning," replied some one. "Is this Sunday?" asked Weir, rather stupidly. "Nope. I meant no letters for you." Weir looked blank, then stunned, then crestfallen. Duncan handed out the pink envelope. The boys roared, and Weir strode off in high dudgeon. That day Duncan purchased a box of pink envelopes, and being expert with a pen, he imitated the neat handwriting and addressed pink envelopes to every boy in the training-house. Next morning no one except Weir seemed in a hurry to answer the postman's ring. He came in with the letters and his jaw dropping. It so happened that his letter was the very last one, and when he got to it the truth flashed over him. Then the peculiar appropriateness of the nickname Puff was plainly manifest. One by one the boys slid off their chairs to the floor, and at last Weir had to join in the laugh on him. Each of the boys in turn became the victim of some prank. Raymond betrayed Ken's abhorrence of any kind of perfume, and straightway there was a stealthy colloquy. Cheap perfume of a most penetrating and paralyzing odor was liberally purchased. In Ken's absence from his room all the clothing that he did not have on his back was saturated. Then the conspirators waited for him to come up the stoop, and from their hiding-place in a window of the second floor they dropped an extra quart upon him. Ken vowed vengeance that would satisfy him thrice over, and he bided his time until he learned who had perpetrated the outrage. One day after practice his opportunity came. Raymond, Weir, and Trace, the guilty ones, went with Ken to the training quarters to take the steam bath that Murray insisted upon at least once every week. It so turned out that the four were the only players there that afternoon. While the others were undressing, Ken bribed Scotty to go out on an errand, and he let Murray into his scheme. Now, Murray not only had acquired a strong liking for Ken, but he was exceedingly fond of a joke. "All I want to know," whispered Ken, "is if I might stew them too much--really scald them, you know?" "No danger," whispered Murray. "That'll be the fun of it. You can't hurt them. But they'll think they're dying." He hustled Raymond, Weir, and Trace into the tanks and fastened the lids, and carefully tucked towels round their necks to keep in the steam. "Lots of stew to-day," he said, turning the handles. "Hello! Where's Scotty?... Peg, will you watch these boys a minute while I step out?" "You bet I will," called Ken to the already disappearing Murray. The three cooped-in boys looked askance at Ken. "Wull, I'm not much stuck--" Raymond began glibly enough, and then, becoming conscious that he might betray an opportunity to Ken, he swallowed his tongue. "What'd you say?" asked Ken, pretending curiosity. Suddenly he began to jump up and down. "Oh, my! Hullabelee! Schoodoorady! What a chance! You gave it away!" "Look what he's doing!" yelled Trace. "Hyar!" added Weir. "Keep away from those pipes!" chimed in Raymond. "Boys, I've been laying for you, but I never thought I'd get a chance like this. If Murray only stays out three minutes--just three minutes!" "Three minutes! You idiot, you won't keep us in here that long?" asked Weir, in alarm. "Oh no, not at all.... Puff, I think you can stand a little more steam." Ken turned the handle on full. "Kel, a first-rate stewing will be good for your daily grouch." To the accompaniment of Raymond's threats he turned the second handle. "Trace, you little poll-parrot, you will throw perfume on me? Now roast!" The heads of the imprisoned boys began to jerk and bob around, and their faces to take on a flush. Ken leisurely surveyed them and then did an Indian war-dance in the middle of the room. "Here, let me out! Ken, you know how delicate I am," implored Raymond. "I couldn't entertain the idea for a second," replied Ken. "I'll lick you!" yelled Raymond. "My lad, you've got a brain-storm," returned Ken, in grieved tones. "Not in the wildest flights of your nightmares have you ever said anything so impossible as that." "Ken, dear Ken, dear old Peggie," cried Trace, "you know I've got a skinned place on my hip where I slid yesterday. Steam isn't good for that, Worry says. He'll be sore. You must let me out." "I intend to see, Willie, that you'll be sore too, and skinned all over," replied Ken. "Open this lid! At once!" roared Weir, in sudden anger. His big eyes rolled. "Bah!" taunted Ken. Then all three began to roar at Ken at once. "Brute! Devil! Help! Help! Help! We'll fix you for this!... It's hotter! it's fire! Aghh! Ouch! Oh! Ah-h-h!... O-o-o-o!... Murder! MURDER-R!" At this juncture Murray ran in. "What on earth! Peg, what did you do?" "I only turned on the steam full tilt," replied Ken, innocently. "Why, you shouldn't have done that," said Murray, in pained astonishment. "Stop talking about it! Let me out!" shrieked Raymond. Ken discreetly put on his coat and ran from the room. XIV THE HERNE GAME On the morning of the first of June, the day scheduled for the opening game with Herne, Worry Arthurs had Ken Ward closeted with Homans and Reddy Ray. Worry was trying his best to be soberly calculating in regard to the outcome of the game. He was always trying to impress Ken with the uncertainty of baseball. But a much younger and less observing boy than Ken could have seen through the coach. Worry was dead sure of the result, certain that the day would see a great gathering of Wayne students, and he could not hide his happiness. And the more he betrayed himself the more he growled at Ken. "Well, we ain't goin' to have that balloon-ascension to-day, are we?" he demanded. "Here we've got down to the big games, and you haven't been up in the air yet. I tell you it ain't right." "But, Worry, I couldn't go off my head and get rattled just to please you, could I?" implored Ken. To Ken this strain of the coach's had grown to be as serious as it was funny. "Aw! talk sense," said Worry. "Why, you haven't pitched to a college crowd yet. Wait! Wait till you see that crowd over to Place next week! Thousands of students crazier 'n Indians, and a flock of girls that'll make you bite your tongue off. Ten thousand yellin' all at once." "Let them yell," replied Ken; "I'm aching to pitch before a crowd. It has been pretty lonesome at Grant Field all season." "Let 'em yell, eh?" retorted Worry. "All right, my boy, it's comin' to you. And if you lose your nut and get slammed all over the lot, don't come to me for sympathy." "I wouldn't. I can take a licking. Why, Worry, you talk as if--as if I'd done something terrible. What's the matter with me? I've done every single thing you wanted--just as well as I could do it. What are you afraid of?" "You're gettin' swelled on yourself," said the coach, deliberately. The blood rushed to Ken's face until it was scarlet. He was so astounded and hurt that he could not speak. Worry looked at him once, then turning hastily away, he walked to the window. "Peg, it ain't much wonder," he went on, smoothly, "and I'm not holdin' it against you. But I want you to forget yourself--" "I've never had a thought of myself," retorted Ken, hotly. "I want you to go in to-day like--like an automatic machine," went on Worry, as if Ken had not spoken. "There'll be a crowd out, the first of the season. Mebbe they'll throw a fit. Anyway, it's our first big game. As far as the university goes, this is our trial. The students are up in the air; they don't know what to think. Mebbe there won't be a cheer at first.... But, Peg, if we beat Herne to-day they'll tear down the bleachers." "Well, all I've got to say is that you can order new lumber for the bleachers--because we're going to win," replied Ken, with a smouldering fire in his eyes. "There you go again! If you're not stuck on yourself, it's too much confidence. You won't be so chipper about three this afternoon, mebbe. Listen! The Herne players got into town last night, and some of them talked a little. It's just as well you didn't see the morning papers. It came to me straight that Gallagher, the captain, and Stern, the first-baseman, said you were pretty good for a kid freshman, but a little too swelled to stand the gaff in a big game. They expect you to explode before the third innin'. I wasn't goin' to tell you, Peg, but you're so--" "They said that, did they?" cried Ken. He jumped up with paling cheek and blazing eye, and the big hand he shoved under Worry's nose trembled like a shaking leaf. "What I won't do to them will be funny! Swelled! Explode! Stand the gaff! Look here, Worry, maybe it's true, but I don't believe it.... _I'll beat this Herne team!_ Do you get that?" "Now you're talkin'," replied Worry, with an entire change of manner. "You saw the Herne bunch play. They can field, but how about hittin'?" "Gallagher, Stern, Hill, and Burr are the veterans of last year's varsity," went on Ken, rapidly, as one who knew his subject. "They can hit--if they get what they like." "Now you're talkin'. How about Gallagher?" "He hits speed. He couldn't hit a slow ball with a paddle." "Now you're talkin'. There's Stern, how'd you size him?" "He's weak on a low curve, in or out, or a drop." "Peg, you're talkin' some now. How about Hill?" "Hill is a bunter. A high ball in close, speedy, would tie him in a knot." "Come on, hurry! There's Burr." "Burr's the best of the lot, a good waiter and hard hitter, but he invariably hits a high curve up in the air." "All right. So far so good. How about the rest of the team?" "I'll hand them up a straight, easy ball and let them hit. I tell you I've got Herne beaten, and if Gallagher or any one else begins to guy me I'll laugh in his face." "Oh, you will?... Say, you go down to your room now, and stay there till time for lunch. Study or read. Don't think another minute about this game." Ken strode soberly out of the room. It was well for Ken that he did not see what happened immediately after his exit. Worry and Homans fell into each other's arms. "Say, fellows, how I hated to do it!" Worry choked with laughter and contrition. "It was the hardest task I ever had. But, Cap, you know we had to make Peg sore. He's too blamed good-natured. Oh, but didn't he take fire! He'll make some of those Herne guys play low-bridge to-day. Wouldn't it be great if he gave Gallagher the laugh?" "Worry, don't you worry about that," said Homans. "And it would please me, too, for Gallagher is about as wordy and pompous as any captain I've seen." "I think you were a little hard on Ken," put in Reddy. His quiet voice drew Worry and Homans from their elation. "Of course, it was necessary to rouse Ken's fighting blood, but you didn't choose the right way. You hurt his feelings. You know, Worry, that the boy is not in the least swelled." "'Course I know it, Reddy. Why, Peg's too modest. But I want him to be dead in earnest to-day. Mind you, I'm thinkin' of Place. He'll beat Herne to a standstill. I worked on his feelin's just to get him all stirred up. You know there's always the chance of rattles in any young player, especially a pitcher. If he's mad he won't be so likely to get 'em. So I hurt his feelin's. I'll make it up to him, don't you fear for that, Reddy." "I wish you had waited till we go over to Place next week," replied Ray. "You can't treat him that way twice. Over there's where I would look for his weakening. But it may be he won't ever weaken. If he ever does it'll be because of the crowd and not the players." "I think so, too. A yellin' mob will be new to Peg. But, fellows, I'm only askin' one game from Herne and one, or a good close game, from Place. That'll give Wayne the best record ever made. Look at our standin' now. Why, the newspapers are havin' a fit. Since I picked the varsity we haven't lost a game. Think of that! Those early games don't count. We've had an unbroken string of victories, Peg pitchin' twelve, and Schoonover four. And if wet grounds and other things hadn't cancelled other games we'd have won more." "Yes, we're in the stretch now, Worry, and running strong. We'll win three out of these four big games," rejoined Reddy. "Oh, say, that'd be too much! I couldn't stand it! Oh, say, Cap, don't you think Reddy, for once, is talkin' about as swift as he sprints?" "I'm afraid to tell you, Worry," replied Homans, earnestly. "When I look back at our work I can't realize it. But it's time to wake up. The students over at college are waking up. They will be out to-day. You are the one to judge whether we're a great team or not. We keep on making runs. It's runs that count. I think, honestly, Worry, that after to-day we'll be in the lead for championship honors. And I hold my breath when I tell you." It was remarkably quiet about the training-house all that morning. The coach sent a light lunch to the boys in their rooms. They had orders to be dressed, and to report in the reading-room at one-thirty. Raymond came down promptly on time. "Where's Peg?" asked Worry. "Why, I thought he was here, ahead of me," replied Raymond, in surprise. A quick survey of the uniformed players proved the absence of Ken Ward and Reddy Ray. Worry appeared startled out of speech, and looked helplessly at Homans. Then Ray came down-stairs, bat in one hand, shoes and glove in the other. He seated himself upon the last step and leisurely proceeded to put on his shoes. "Reddy, did you see Peg?" asked Worry, anxiously. "Sure, I saw him," replied the sprinter. "Well?" growled the coach. "Where is he? Sulkin' because I called him?" "Not so you'd notice it," answered Reddy, in his slow, careless manner. "I just woke him up." "What!" yelled Arthurs. "Peg came to my room after lunch and went to sleep. I woke him just now. He'll be down in a minute." Worry evidently could not reply at the moment, but he began to beam. "What would Gallagher say to that?" asked Captain Homans, with a smile. "Wayne's varsity pitcher asleep before a Herne game! Oh no, I guess that's not pretty good! Worry, could you ask any more?" "Cap, I'll never open my face to him again," blurted out the coach. Ken appeared at the head of the stairs and had started down, when the door-bell rang. Worry opened the door to admit Murray, the trainer; Dale, the old varsity captain, and the magnificently built Stevens, guard and captain of the football team. "Hello! Worry," called out Murray, cheerily. "How're the kids? Boys, you look good to me. Trim and fit, and all cool and quiet-like. Reddy, be careful of your ankles and legs to-day. After the meet next week you can cut loose and run bases like a blue streak." Dale stepped forward, earnest and somewhat concerned, but with a winning frankness. "Worry, will you let Stevens and me sit on the bench with the boys to-day?" Worry's face took on the color of a thunder-cloud. "I'm not the captain," he replied. "Ask Homans." "How about it, Roy?" queried Dale. Homans was visibly affected by surprise, pleasure, and something more. While he hesitated, perhaps not trusting himself to reply quickly, Stevens took a giant stride to the fore. "Homans, we've got a hunch that Wayne's going to win," he said, in a deep-bass voice. "A few of us have been tipped off, and we got it straight. But the students don't know it yet. So Dale and I thought we'd like them to see how we feel about it--before this game. You've had a rotten deal from the students this year. But they'll more than make it up when you beat Herne. The whole college is waiting and restless." Homans, recovering himself, faced the two captains courteously and gratefully, and with a certain cool dignity. "Thank you, fellows! It's fine of you to offer to sit with us on the bench. I thank you on behalf of the varsity. But--not to-day. All season we've worked and fought without support, and now we're going to beat Herne without support. When we've done that you and Dale--all the college--can't come too quick to suit us." "I think I'd say the same thing, if I were in your place," said Dale. "And I'll tell you right here that when I was captain I never plugged any harder to win than I'll plug to-day." Then these two famous captains of championship teams turned to Homans' players and eyed them keenly, their faces working, hands clenched, their powerful frames vibrating with the feeling of the moment. That moment was silent, eloquent. It linked Homans' team to the great athletic fame of the university. It radiated the spirit to conquer, the glory of past victories, the strength of honorable defeats. Then Dale and Stevens went out, leaving behind them a charged atmosphere. "I ain't got a word to say," announced Worry to the players. "And I've very little," added Captain Homans. "We're all on edge, and being drawn down so fine we may be over-eager. Force that back. It doesn't matter if we make misplays. We've made many this season, but we've won all the same. At the bat, remember to keep a sharp eye on the base-runner, and when he signs he is going down, bunt or hit to advance him. That's all." Ken Ward walked to the field between Worry Arthurs and Reddy Ray. Worry had no word to say, but he kept a tight grip on Ken's arm. "Peg, I've won many a sprint by not underestimating my opponent," said Reddy, quietly. "Now you go at Herne for all you're worth from the start." When they entered the field there were more spectators in the stands than had attended all the other games together. In a far corner the Herne players in dark-blue uniforms were practising batting. Upon the moment the gong called them in for their turn at field practice. The Wayne team batted and bunted a few balls, and then Homans led them to the bench. Upon near view the grand-stand and bleachers seemed a strange sight to Ken Ward. He took one long look at the black-and-white mass of students behind the back-stop, at the straggling lines leading to the gates, at the rapidly filling rows to right and left, and then he looked no more. Already an immense crowd was present. Still it was not a typical college baseball audience. Ken realized that at once. It was quiet, orderly, expectant, and watchful. Very few girls were there. The students as a body had warmed to curiosity and interest, but not to the extent of bringing the girls. After that one glance Ken resolutely kept his eyes upon the ground. He was conscious of a feeling that he wanted to spring up and leap at something. And he brought all his will to force back his over-eagerness. He heard the crack of the ball, the shouts of the Herne players, the hum of voices in the grand-stand, and the occasional cheers of Herne rooters. There were no Wayne cheers. "Warm up a little," said Worry, in his ear. Ken peeled off his sweater and walked out with Dean. A long murmur ran throughout the stands. Ken heard many things said of him, curiously, wonderingly, doubtfully, and he tried not to hear more. Then he commenced to pitch to Dean. Worry stood near him and kept whispering to hold in his speed and just to use his arm easily. It was difficult, for Ken felt that his arm wanted to be cracked like a buggy-whip. "That'll do," whispered Worry. "We're only takin' five minutes' practice.... Say, but there's a crowd! Are you all right, Peg--cool-like and determined?... Good! Say--but Peg, you'd better look these fellows over." "I remember them all," replied Ken. "That's Gallagher on the end of the bench; Burr is third from him; Stern's fussing over the bats, and there's Hill, the light-headed fellow, looking this way. There's--" "That'll do," said Worry. "There goes the gong. It's all off now. Homans has chosen to take the field. I guess mebbe you won't show 'em how to pitch a new white ball! Get at 'em now!" Then he called Ken back as if impelled, and whispered to him in a husky voice: "It's been tough for you and for me. Listen! Here's where it begins to be sweet." Ken trotted out to the box, to the encouraging voices of the infield, and he even caught Reddy Ray's low, thrilling call from the far outfield. "Play!" With the ringing order, which quieted the audience, the umpire tossed a white ball to Ken. For a single instant Ken trembled ever so slightly in all his limbs, and the stands seemed a revolving black-and-white band. Then the emotion was as if it had never been. He stepped upon the slab, keen-sighted, cool, and with his pitching game outlined in his mind. Burr, the curly-haired leader of Herne's batting list, took his position to the left of the plate. Ken threw him an underhand curve, sweeping high and over the inside corner. Burr hit a lofty fly to Homans. Hill, the bunter, was next. For him Ken shot one straight over the plate. Hill let it go by, and it was a strike. Ken put another in the same place, and Hill, attempting to bunt, fouled a little fly, which Dean caught. Gallagher strode third to bat. He used a heavy club, stood right-handed over the plate, and looked aggressive. Ken gave the captain a long study and then swung slowly, sending up a ball that floated like a feather. Gallagher missed it. On the second pitch he swung heavily at a slow curve far off the outside. For a third Ken tried the speedy drop, and the captain, letting it go, was out on strikes. The sides changed. Worry threw a sweater around Ken. "The ice's broke, Peg, and you've got your control. That settles it." Homans went up, to a wavering ripple of applause. He drew two balls and then a strike from Murphy, and hit the next hard into short field. Frick fumbled the ball, recovered it, and threw beautifully, but too late to catch Homans. Raymond sacrificed, sending his captain to second. Murphy could not locate the plate for Reddy Ray and let him get to first on four balls. Weir came next. Homans signed he was going to run on the first pitch. Weir, hitting with the runner, sent a double into right field, and Homans and Ray scored. The bleachers cheered. Homans ran down to third base to the coaching lines, and Ray went to first base. Both began to coach the runner. Dean hit into short field, and was thrown out, while Weir reached third on the play. "Two out, now! Hit!" yelled Homans to Blake. Blake hit safely over second, scoring Weir. Then Trace flied out to left field. "Three runs!" called Homans. "Boys, that's a start! Three more runs and this game's ours! Now, Peg, now!" Ken did not need that trenchant thrilling _now_. The look in Worry's eyes had been enough. He threw speed to Halloway, and on the third ball retired him, Raymond to McCord. Stern came second to bat. In Ken's mind this player was recorded with a weakness on low curves. And Ken found it with two balls pitched. Stern popped up to Blake. Frick, a new player to Ken, let a strike go by, and missed a drop and a fast ball. "They can't touch you, Ken," called Raymond, as he tossed aside his glove. Faint cheers rose from scattered parts of the grand-stand, and here and there shouts and yells. The audience appeared to stir, to become animated, and the Herne players settled down to more sober action on the field. McCord made a bid for a hit, but failed because of fast work by Stern. Ken went up, eager to get to first in any way. He let Murphy pitch, and at last, after fouling several good ones, he earned his base on balls. Once there, he gave Homans the sign that he would run on the first pitch, and he got a fair start. He heard the crack of the ball and saw it glinting between short and third. Running hard, he beat the throw-in to third. With two runners on bases, Raymond hit to deep short. Ken went out trying to reach home. Again Reddy Ray came up and got a base on balls, filling the bases. The crowd began to show excitement, and seemed to be stifling cheers in suspense. Weir hurried to bat, his shock of hair waving at every step. He swung hard on the first ball, and, missing it, whirled down, bothering the catcher. Homans raced home on a half-passed ball. Then Weir went out on a fly to centre. "Peg, keep at them!" called Reddy Ray. "We've got Murphy's measure." It cost Ken an effort to deliberate in the box, to think before he pitched. He had to fight his eagerness. But he wasted few balls, and struck Mercer out. Van Sant hit to Weir, who threw wild to first, allowing the runner to reach third. Murphy, batting next, hit one which Ken put straight over the plate, and it went safe through second, scoring Van Sant. The Herne rooters broke out in loud acclaim. Burr came up, choking his bat up short. Again Ken gave him the high, wide curve. He let it pass and the umpire called it a strike. Ken threw another, a little outside this time. Evidently Burr was trying out Ken's control. "He can't put them over!" yelled Gallagher, from the coaching line. "Here's where he goes up! Wait him out, Burr. Good eye, old man! Here's where we explode the freshman!" Ken glanced at Gallagher and laughed. Then he sped up another high curve, which the umpire called a strike. "That's the place, Peg! Put another there!" floated from Reddy in the outfield. Burr swung viciously, hitting a bounder toward second base. Raymond darted over, went down with his bird-like quickness, came up with the ball, and then he touched the bag and threw to first. It was a play in which he excelled. The umpire called both runners out, retiring the side. A short, sharp yell, like a bark, burst from the bleachers. Worry was smilingly thoughtful as his boys trotted in to bat. "Say, if you get a couple of runs this time we'll be _It_. Look at the students. Ready to fall out of the stands.... Peg, I'm glad Herne got a run. Now we won't think of a shut-out. That'll steady us up. And, boys, break loose now, for the game's ours." Dean started off with a clean single. On the first pitch he broke for second, and had to slide to make it, as Blake missed the strike. Then Blake went out to first. Trace walked. McCord poked a little fly over the infield, scoring Dean. Ken fouled out. The unerring Homans again hit safely, sending Trace in. With two out and McCord on third and Homans on second, Raymond laid down a beautiful bunt, tallying McCord. And when the Herne catcher tried to head Homans from making third Raymond kept on toward second. It was a daring dash, and he dove to the bag with a long slide, but the decision was against him. The coach called Homans, Ward, and Ray to him and gathered them close together. "Boys, listen!" he said, low and tense. "MacNeff and Prince, of Place, are in the grand-stand just behind the plate. They're up there to get a line on Peg. We'll fool 'em, and make 'em sick in the bargain. Peg, you let out this innin' and show up the first three hitters. Then I'll take you out and let Schoonover finish the game. See?" "Take me--out?" echoed Ken. "That's it, if you make these next three hitters look like monkeys. Don't you see? We've got the Herne game cinched. We don't need to use our star twirler. See? That'll be a bone for Place to chew on. How about it, Cap? What do you think, Reddy?" "Oh, Worry, if we dared to do it!" Homans exclaimed, under his breath. "Herne would never get over it. And it would scare Place to death.... But, Worry, Reddy, dare we risk it?" "It's playin' into our very hands," replied Worry. His hazel eyes were afire with inspiration. Reddy Ray's lean jaw bulged. "Homans, it's the trick, and we can turn it." "What's the score--7 to 1?" muttered Homans. It was a tight place for him, and he seemed tortured between ambition and doubt. "That fellow Murphy hasn't got one in my groove yet," said Reddy. "I'm due to lace one. We're good for more runs." That decided Homans. He patted Ken on the shoulder and led him out to the box, but he never spoke a word. Ken felt like a wild colt just let loose. He faced Hill with a smile, and then, taking his long, overhand swing, he delivered the jump ball. Hill made no move. The umpire called strike. The crowd roared. Ken duplicated the feat. Then Hill missed the third strike. Gallagher walked up doggedly, and Ken smiled at him, too. Then using three wicked, darting drops, Ken struck Gallagher out. "That's twice!" called Reddy's penetrating voice from the outfield. "Give him a paddle!" Halloway drew two balls and then three strikes. Ken ran for the bench amid an uproar most strange and startling to his untried ear. The long, tardy, and stubborn students had broken their silence. Dale leaped out of the grand-stand to lead the cheering. The giant Stevens came piling out of the bleachers to perform a like office. And then they were followed by Bryan, captain of the crew, and Hilbrandt, captain of the track team. Four captains of Wayne teams inspiriting and directing the cheering! Ken's bewildered ears drank in one long, thundering "_Ward! Ward! Ward!_" and then his hearing seemed drowned. The whole mass of students and spectators rose as one, and the deafening stamp of feet only equalled the roar of voices. But now the volume of sound was regular and rhythmic. It was like the approach of a terrible army. For minutes, while the umpire held play suspended, the Wayne supporters in hoarse and stamping tumult came into their own again. It was a wild burst of applause, and as it had been long delayed, so now it was prolonged fiercely to the limit of endurance. When those waves of sound had rolled away Ken Ward felt a difference in Grant Field, in the varsity, in himself. A different color shone from the sky. Ken saw Reddy Ray go to bat and drive the ball against the right-field fence. Then as the sprinter got into his wonderful stride once more the whole audience rose in yelling, crashing clamor. And when on Weir's fly to the outfield Reddy raced in to the plate, making the throw-in look feeble, again the din was terrific. As one in a glorious dream, Ken Ward crouched upon the bench and watched the remainder of that game. He grasped it all as if baseball was all that made life worth living, and as if every moment was his last. He never thought of himself. He was only a part of the team, and that team, every moment, grew sharper, faster, fiercer. He revelled in the game. Schoonover was hit hard, but fast play by Raymond and Weir kept Herne's score down. The little second-baseman was here, there, everywhere, like a glint of light. Herne made runs, but Wayne also kept adding runs. Blake caught a foul fly off the bleachers; Trace made a beautiful catch; McCord was like a tower at first base, and little Dean went through the last stages of development that made him a star. Once in the eighth inning Ken became aware that Worry was punching him in the back and muttering: "Look out, Peg! Listen! Murphy'll get one in Reddy's groove this time.... Oh-h!" The crack of the ball, as well as Worry's yell, told Ken what had happened. Besides, he could see, and as the ball lined away for the fence, and the sprinter leaped into action, Ken jumped up and screamed: "Oh, Reddy, it's over--over! No! Run! Run! Oh-h-h!" In the shrill, piercing strife of sound Ken's scream seemed only a breath at his ears. He held to it, almost splitting his throat, while the sprinter twinkled round third base and came home like a thunderbolt. Another inning passed, a confusion of hits, throws, runs, and plays to Ken, and then Worry was pounding him again. "Dig for the trainin'-house!" yelled Worry, mouth on his ear. "The students are crazy! They'll eat us alive! They're tearin' the bleachers down! Run for it, Peg!" XV A MATTER OF PRINCIPLE Ken found himself running across Grant Field, pursued by a happy, roaring mob of students. They might have been Indians, judging from the way Ken and his fellow-players fled before them. The trained athletes distanced their well-meaning but violent pursuers and gained the gate, but it was a close shave. The boys bounded up the street into the training-house and locked the door till the puffing Arthurs arrived. They let him in and locked the door again. In another moment the street resounded with the rush of many feet and the yells of frantic students. Murray, the trainer, forced a way through the crowd and up the stoop. He closed and barred the outside door, and then pounded upon the inside door for admittance. Worry let him in. "They'd make a bowl-fight or a football rush look tame," panted Murray. "Hey! Scotty--lock up tight down in the basement. For Heaven's sake don't let that push get in on us! Lock the windows in the front." "Who's that poundin' on the door?" yelled Worry. He had to yell, for the swelling racket outside made ordinary conversation impossible. "Don't open it!" shouted Murray. "What do we care for team-captains, college professors, athletic directors, or students? They're all out there, and they're crazy, I tell you. I never saw the like. It'd be more than I want to get in that jam. And it'd never do for the varsity. Somebody would get crippled sure. I'm training this baseball team." Murray, in his zealous care of his athletes, was somewhat overshooting the mark, for not one of the boys had the slightest desire to be trusted to the mob outside. In fact, Ken looked dazed, and Raymond scared to the point of trembling; Trace was pale; and all the others, except Homans and Reddy Ray, showed perturbation. Nor were the captain and sprinter deaf to the purport of that hour; only in their faces shone a kindling glow and flush. By-and-by the boys slipped to their rooms, removed their uniforms, dressed and crept down-stairs like burglars and went in to dinner. Outside the uproar, instead of abating, gathered strength as time went by. At the dinner-table the boys had to yell in each other's ears. They had to force what they ate. No one was hungry. When Worry rose from the table they all flocked after him. It was growing dark outside, and a red glow, brightening upon the windows, showed the students had lighted bonfires. "They're goin' to make a night of it," yelled Worry. "How'll my boys be able to sleep?" shouted Murray. Both coach and trainer were as excited as any of the boys. "The street's packed solid. Listen!" The tramp, tramp, tramp of thousands of feet keeping time was like the heavy tread of a marching multitude. Then the tramp died away in a piercing cheer, "_Wayne!_" nine times, clear and sustained--a long, beautiful college cheer. In the breathing spell that followed, the steady tramp of feet went on. One by one, at intervals, the university yells were given, the broken rattling rally, the floating melodious crew cheer, and the hoarse, smashing boom of football. Then again the inspiriting "_Wayne!_" nine times. After that came shrill calls for the varsity, for Homans, Reddy Ray, Raymond, and Peggie Ward. "Come up-stairs to the windows, boys!" shouted Worry. "We've got to show ourselves." Worry threw up the windows in Weir's room, and the boys gingerly poked their heads out. A roar greeted their appearance. The heads all popped in as if they had been struck. "Homans, you'll have to make a speech," cried the coach. "I will not!" "You've got to say somethin'. We can't have this crazy gang out here all night." Then Worry and Murray coaxed and led Homans to the window. The captain leaned out and said something that was unintelligible in the hubbub without. The crowd cheered him and called for Reddy, Ward, and Raymond. Worry grasped the second-baseman and shoved him half over the sill. Raymond would have fallen out but for the coach's strong hold. "Come on, Peg!" yelled Worry. "Not on your life!" cried Ken, in affright. He ran away from the coach, and dived under the bed. But Reddy Ray dragged him out and to the window, and held him up in the bright bonfire glare. Then he lifted a hand to silence the roaring crowd. "Fellows, here he is--Worry's demon, Wayne's pitcher!" called Reddy, in ringing, far-reaching voice. "Listen! Peggie didn't lose his nerve when he faced Herne to-day, but he's lost it now. He's lost his voice, too. But he says for you to go away and save your cheers for this day two weeks, when we meet Place. Then, he says, you'll have something to cheer for!" The crafty sprinter knew how to appeal to the students. All of voice and strength and enthusiasm left in them went up in a mighty bawl that rattled the windows and shook the house. They finished with nine "_Waynes!_" and a long, rousing "_Peggie Ward!_" and then they went away. "By George! look here, Peg," said Reddy, earnestly, "they gave you Wayne's Nine! _Wayne's Nine!_ Do you hear? I never knew a freshman varsity man to get that cheer." "You've got to beat Place now, after tellin' 'em you'd do it," added Worry. "But, Worry, I didn't say a word--it was Reddy," replied Ken, in distress. "Same thing," rejoined the coach. "Now, boys, let's quiet down and talk over the game. I won't waste any time jollyin' you. I couldn't praise you enough if I spent the rest of the season tryin' to. One and all, by yourselves and in a bunch, you played Herne off their feet. I'll bet MacNeff and Prince are dizzy figurin' what'll happen Saturday week. As to the score, why, scores don't mean much to us--" "What was the score, anyway?" asked Ken. The boys greeted this with shouts of doubtful laughter, and Worry glanced with disapproval at his star. "Peg, you keep me guessin' a lot. But not to know how much we beat Herne would be more 'n I could stand. On the level, now, don't you know the score?" "Fair and square, I don't, Worry. You never would let me think of how many runs we had or needed. I can count seven--yes, and one more, that was Reddy's home-run." "Peg, you must have been up in the air a little; 14 to 4, that's it. And we didn't take our bat in the last of the ninth." Then followed Worry's critical account of the game, and a discussion in which the boys went over certain plays. During the evening many visitors called, but did not gain admission. The next morning, however, Worry himself brought in the newspapers, which heretofore he had forbidden the players to read, and he told them they were now free to have any callers or to go where they liked. There was a merry scramble for the papers, and presently the reading-room was as quiet as a church. The account that held Ken Ward in rapt perusal was the _Morning Times-Star's_. At first the print blurred in Ken's sight. Then he read it over again. He liked the glowing praise given the team, and was shamefully conscious of the delight in his name in large letters. A third time he read it, guiltily this time, for he did not dream that his comrades were engrossed in like indulgence. WAYNE OUTCLASSES HERNE ARTHURS DEVELOPS ANOTHER GREAT TEAM. PEGGIE WARD AND REDDY RAY STARS. Wayne defeated Herne yesterday 14 to 4, and thereby leaped into the limelight. It was a surprise to every one, Herne most of all. Owing to the stringent eligibility rules now in force at Wayne, and the barring of the old varsity, nothing was expected of this season's team. Arthurs, the famous coach, has built a wonderful nine out of green material, and again establishes the advisability of professional coaches for the big universities. With one or two exceptions Wayne's varsity is made up of players developed this year. Homans, the captain, was well known about town as an amateur player of ability. But Arthurs has made him into a great field captain and a base-getter of remarkable skill. An unofficial computing gives him the batting average of .536. No captain or any other player of any big college team in the East ever approached such percentage as that. It is so high that it must be a mistake. Reddy Ray, the intercollegiate champion in the sprints, is the other seasoned player of the varsity, and it is safe to say that he is the star of all the college teams. A wonderful fielder, a sure and heavy hitter, and like a flash on the bases, he alone makes Homans' team formidable. Then there is Peg Ward, Worry Arthurs' demon pitcher, of freshman bowl-fight fame. This lad has been arriving since spring, and now he has arrived. He is powerful, and has a great arm. He seems to pitch without effort, has twice the speed of Dale, and is as cool in the box as a veteran. But it is his marvellous control of the ball that puts him in a class by himself. In the fourth inning of yesterday's game he extended himself, probably on orders from Coach Arthurs, and struck out Herne's three best hitters on eleven pitched balls. Then he was taken out and Schoonover put in. This white-headed lad is no slouch of a pitcher, by-the-way. But it must have been a bitter pill for Herne to swallow. The proud Herne varsity have been used to knocking pitchers out of the box, instead of seeing them removed because they were too good. Also, MacNeff and Prince, of Place, who saw the game, must have had food for reflection. They did not get much of a line on young Ward, and what they saw will not give them pleasant dreams. We pick Ward to beat the heavy-hitting Place team. Other youngsters of Arthurs' nine show up well, particularly Raymond and Weir, who have springs in their feet and arms like whips. Altogether Arthurs' varsity is a strangely assorted, a wonderfully chosen group of players. We might liken them to the mechanism of a fine watch, with Ward as the mainspring, and the others with big or little parts to perform, but each dependent upon the other. Wayne's greatest baseball team! Ken read it all thirstily, wonderingly, and recorded it deep in the deepest well of his memory. It seemed a hundred times as sweet for all the misery and longing and fear and toil which it had cost to gain. And each succeeding day grew fuller and richer with its meed of reward. All the boys of the varsity were sought by the students, Ken most of all. Everywhere he went he was greeted with a regard that made him still more bashful and ashamed. If he stepped into Carlton Club, it was to be surrounded by a frankly admiring circle of students. He could not get a moment alone in the library. Professors had a smile for him and often stopped to chat. The proudest moment of his college year was when President Halstead met him in the promenade, and before hundreds of students turned to walk a little way with him. There seemed not to be a single student of the university or any one connected with it, who did not recognize him. Bryan took him to watch the crew practise; Stevens played billiards with him at the club; Dale openly sought his society. Then the fraternities began to vie with one another for Ken. In all his life he had not imagined a fellow could be treated so well. It was an open secret that Ken Ward was extremely desired in the best fraternities. He could not have counted his friends. Through it all, by thinking of Worry and the big games coming, he managed to stay on his feet. One morning, when he was at the height of this enjoyable popularity, he read a baseball note that set him to thinking hard. The newspaper, commenting on the splendid results following Wayne's new athletic rules, interpreted one rule in a way astounding to Ken. It was something to the effect that all players who had been _on_ a team which paid any player or any expenses of any player were therefore ineligible. Interpretation of the rules had never been of any serious moment to Ken. He had never played on any but boy teams. But suddenly he remembered that during a visit to the mountains with his mother he had gone to a place called Eagle's Nest, a summer hotel colony. It boasted of a good ball team and had a rival in the Glenwoods, a team from an adjoining resort. Ken had been in the habit of chasing flies for the players in practice. One day Eagle's Nest journeyed over to Glenwood to play, and being short one player they took Ken to fill in. He had scarcely started in the game when the regular player appeared, thus relieving him. The incident had completely slipped Ken's mind until recalled by the newspaper note. Whereupon Ken began to ponder. He scouted the idea of that innocent little thing endangering his eligibility at Wayne. But the rule, thus made clear, stood out in startlingly black-and-white relief. Eagle's Nest supported a team by subscription among the hotel guests. Ken had ridden ten miles in a 'bus with the team, and had worn one of the uniforms for some few minutes. Therefore, upon a technicality, perhaps, he had been _on_ a summer nine, and had no right to play for Wayne. Ken went to Homans and told him the circumstance. The captain looked exceedingly grave, then getting more particulars he relaxed. "You're safe, Peg. You're perfectly innocent. But don't mention it to any one else, especially Worry. He'd have a fit. What a scare you'd throw into the varsity camp! Forget the few minutes you wore that Eagle's Nest suit." For the time being this reassured Ken, but after a while his anxiety returned. Homans had said not to mention it, and that bothered Ken. He lay awake half of one night thinking about the thing. It angered him and pricked his conscience and roused him. He wanted to feel absolutely sure of his position, for his own sake first of all. So next morning he cornered Worry and blurted out the secret. "Peg, what're you givin' me!" he ejaculated. Ken repeated his story, somewhat more clearly and at greater length. Worry turned as white as a ghost. "Good gracious, Peg, you haven't told anybody?" "No one but Homans." Worry gave a long sigh of relief, and his face regained some of its usual florid color. "Well, that's all right then.... Say, didn't I tell you once that I had a weak heart? Peg, of course you're an amateur, or there never was one. But 'em fat-head directors! Why, I wouldn't have 'em find that out for a million dollars. They're idiots enough to make a shinin' example of you right before the Place games. Keep it under your hat, see!" This last was in the nature of a command, and Ken had always religiously obeyed Worry. He went to his room feeling that the matter had been decided for him. Relief, however, did not long abide with him. He began to be torn between loyalty to Worry and duty to himself. He felt guiltless, but he was not sure of it, and until he was sure he could not be free in mind. Suddenly he thought of being actually barred from the varsity, and was miserable. That he could not bear. Strong temptation now assailed Ken and found him weak. A hundred times he reconciled himself to Worry's command, to Homan's point of view, yet every time something rose within him and rebelled. But despite the rebellion Ken almost gave in. He fought off thought of his new sweet popularity, of the glory of being Wayne's athletic star. He fought to look the thing fairly in the face. To him it loomed up a hundredfold larger than an incident of his baseball career. And so he got strength to do the thing that would ease the voice of conscience. He went straight to the coach. "Worry, I've got to go to the directors and tell them. I--I'm sorry, but I've got to do it." He expected a storm of rage from Worry, but never had the coach been so suave, so kindly, so magnetic. He called Homans and Raymond and Weir and others who were in the house at the moment and stated Ken's case. His speech flowed smooth and rapid. The matter under his deft argument lost serious proportions. But it seemed to Ken that Worry did not tell the boys the whole truth, or they would not have laughed at the thing and made him out over-sensitive. And Ken was now growing too discouraged and bewildered to tell them. Moreover, he was getting stubborn. The thing was far from a joke. The cunning of the coach proved that. Worry wound the boys round his little finger. At this juncture Reddy Ray entered the training-house. More than once Ken had gone to the great sprinter with confidences and troubles, and now he began impulsively, hurriedly, incoherently, to tell the story. "And Reddy," concluded Ken, "I've got to tell the directors. It's something--hard for me to explain. I couldn't pitch another game with this hanging over me. I must--tell them--and take my medicine." "Sure. It's a matter of principle," replied Reddy, in his soft, slow voice. His keen eyes left Ken's pale face and met the coach's. "Worry, I'll take Peg up to see the athletic faculty. I know Andrews, the president, and he's the one to hear Peg's story." Worry groaned and sank into a chair crushed and beaten. Then he swore, something unusual in him. Then he began to rave at the fat-headed directors. Then he yelled that he would never coach another ball team so long as he lived. Ken followed Reddy out of the training-house and along the street. The fact that the sprinter did not say a word showed Ken he was understood, and he felt immeasurably grateful. They crossed the campus and entered College Hall, to climb the winding stairway. To Ken that was a long, hateful climb. Andrews, and another of the directors whom Ken knew by sight, were in the office. They greeted the visitors with cordial warmth. "Gentlemen," began Reddy, "Ward thinks he has violated one of the eligibility rules." There was no beating about the bush with Reddy Ray, no shading of fact, no distortion of the truth. Coolly he stated the case. But, strangely to Ken, the very truth, told by Reddy in this way, somehow lost its terrors. Ken's shoulders seemed unburdened of a terrible weight. Andrews and his colleague laughed heartily. "You see--I--I forgot all about it," said Ken. "Yes, and since he remembered he's been worrying himself sick," resumed Reddy. "Couldn't rest till he'd come over here." "Ward, it's much to your credit that you should confide something there was never any chance of becoming known," said the president of the athletic faculty. "We appreciate it. You may relieve your mind of misgivings as to your eligibility. Even if we tried I doubt if we could twist a rule to affect your standing. And you may rest assured we wouldn't try in the case of so fine a young fellow and so splendid a pitcher for Wayne." Then Andrews courteously shook hands with Ken and Reddy and bowed them out. Ken danced half-way down the stairway and slid the rest on the bannister. "Reddy, wasn't he just fine?" cried Ken, all palpitating with joy. "Well, Peg, Andrews is a nice old thing if you approach him right," replied Reddy, dryly. "You wouldn't believe me, would you, if I said I had my heart in my throat when we went in?" "No, I wouldn't," replied Ken, bluntly. "I thought not," said Reddy. Then the gravity that had suddenly perplexed Ken cleared from the sprinter's face. "Peg, let's have some fun with Worry and the boys." "I'm in for anything now." "We'll go back to the training-house with long faces. When we get in you run up-stairs as if you couldn't face any one, but be sure to sneak back to the head of the stairs to see and hear the fun. I'll fix Worry all right. Now, don't flunk. It's a chance." Ken could not manage to keep a straight face as they went in, so he hid it and rushed up-stairs. He bumped into Raymond, knocking him flat. "Running to a fire again?" growled Raymond. "Got a fire-medal, haven't you? Always falling over people." Ken tried to simulate ungovernable rage and impotent distress at once. He waved one fist and tore his hair with the other hand. "Get out of my way!" roared Ken. "What'll you say when I tell you I'm barred from the varsity!" "Oh! Ken! No, no--don't say it," faltered Raymond, all sympathy in an instant. Ken ran into his room, closed the door and then peeped out. He saw Raymond slowly sag down-stairs as if his heart was broken. Then Ken slipped out and crawled down the hall till he could see into the reading-room. All the boys were there, with anxious faces, crowded round the coach. Worry was livid. Reddy Ray seemed the only calm person in the room and he had tragedy written all over him. "Out with it!" shouted Worry. "Don't stand there like a mournful preacher. What did 'em fat-heads say?" Reddy threw up his hands with a significant gesture. "I knew it!" howled Worry, jumping up and down. "I knew it! Why did you take the kid over there? Why didn't you let me and Homans handle this thing? You red-headed, iron-jawed, cold-blooded wind-chaser! You've done it now, haven't you? I--Oh--" Worry began to flounder helplessly. "They said a few more things," went on Reddy. "Peg is barred, Raymond is barred, I am barred. I told them about my baseball career out West. The directors said some pretty plain things about you, Worry, I'm sorry to tell. You're a rotten coach. In fact, you ought to be a coach at an undertaker's. Homans gets the credit for the work of the team. They claim you are too hard on the boys, too exacting, too brutal, in fact. Andrews recited a record of your taking sandwiches from us and aiding and abetting Murray in our slow starvation. The directors will favor your dismissal and urge the appointment of Professor Rhodes, who as coach will at least feed us properly." Reddy stopped to catch his breath and gain time for more invention. Of all the unhappy mortals on earth Worry Arthurs looked the unhappiest. He believed every word as if it had been gospel. And that about Professor Rhodes was the last straw. Ken could stand the deception no longer. He marvelled at Reddy's consummate lying and how he could ever stand that look on Worry's face. Bounding down-stairs four steps at a jump, Ken burst like a bomb upon the sad-faced group. "Oh, Worry, it's all a joke!" XVI THE FIRST PLACE GAME Rain prevented the second Herne game, which was to have been played on the Herne grounds. It rained steadily all day Friday and Saturday, to the disappointment of Wayne's varsity. The coach, however, admitted that he was satisfied to see the second contest with Herne go by the board. "I don't like big games away from home," said Worry. "It's hard on new teams. Besides, we beat Herne to death over here. Mebbe we couldn't do it over there, though I ain't doubtin'. But it's Place we're after, and if we'd had that game at Herne we couldn't have kept Place from gettin' a line on us. So I'm glad it rained." The two Place games fell during a busy week at Wayne. Wednesday was the beginning of the commencement exercises and only a comparatively few students could make the trip to Place. But the night before the team left, the students, four thousand strong, went to the training-house and filled a half-hour with college songs and cheers. Next morning Dale and Stevens, heading a small band of Wayne athletes and graduates, met the team at the railroad station and boarded the train with them. Worry and Homans welcomed them, and soon every Wayne player had two or more for company. Either by accident or design, Ken could not tell which, Dale and Stevens singled him out for their especial charge. The football captain filled one seat with his huge bulk and faced Ken, and Dale sat with a hand on Ken's shoulder. "Peg, we're backing you for all we're worth," said Stevens. "But this is your first big game away from home. It's really the toughest game of the season. Place is a hard nut to crack any time. And her players on their own backyard are scrappers who can take a lot of beating and still win out. Then there's another thing that's no small factor in their strength: They are idolized by the students, and rooting at Place is a science. They have a yell that beats anything you ever heard. It'll paralyze a fellow at a critical stage. But that yell is peculiar in that it rises out of circumstances leading to almost certain victory. That is, Place has to make a strong bid for a close, hard game to work up that yell. So if it comes to-day you be ready for it. Have your ears stuffed with cotton, and don't let that yell blow you up in the air." Dale was even more earnest than Stevens. "Peg, Place beat me over here last year, beat me 6-3. They hit me harder than I ever was hit before, I guess. You went down to Washington, Worry said, to look them over. Tell me what you think--how you sized them up." Dale listened attentively while Ken recited his impressions. "You've got Prince and MacNeff figured exactly right," replied Dale. "Prince is the football captain, by-the-way. Be careful how you run into second base. If you ever slide into him head first--good-bye! He's a great player, and he can hit any kind of a ball. MacNeff now, just as you said, is weak on a high ball close in, and he kills a low ball. Kills is the word! He hits them a mile. But, Peg, I think you're a little off on Keene, Starke, and Martin, the other Place cracks. They're veterans, hard to pitch to; they make you cut the plate; they are as apt to bunt as hit, and they are fast. They keep a fellow guessing. I think Starke pulls a little on a curve, but the others have no weakness I ever discovered. But, Peg, I expect you to do more with them than I did. My control was never any too good, and you can throw almost as straight as a fellow could shoot a rifle. Then your high fast ball, that one you get with the long swing, it would beat any team. Only I'm wondering, I'm asking--can you use it right along, in the face of such coaching and yelling and hitting as you'll run against to-day? I'm asking deliberately, because I want to give you confidence." "Why, yes, Dale, I think I can. I'm pretty sure of it. That ball comes easily, only a little longer swing and more snap, and honestly, Dale, I hardly ever think about the plate. I know where it is, and I could shut my eyes and throw strikes." "Peg, you're a wonder," replied Dale, warmly. "If you can do that--and hang me if I doubt it--you will make Place look like a lot of dubs. We're sure to make a few runs. Homans and Ray will hit Salisbury hard. There's no fence on Place Field, and every ball Reddy hits past a fielder will be a home-run. You can gamble on that. So set a fast clip when you start in, and hang." Some time later, when Ken had changed seats and was talking to Raymond, he heard Worry say to somebody: "Well, if Peg don't explode to-day he never will. I almost wish he would. He'd be better for it, afterward." This surprised Ken, annoyed him, and straightway he became thoughtful. Why this persistent harping on the chance of his getting excited from one cause or another, losing his control and thereby the game? Ken had not felt in the least nervous about the game. He would get so, presently, if his advisers did not stop hinting. Then Worry's wish that he might "explode" was puzzling. A little shade of gloom crept over the bright horizon of Ken's hopes. Almost unconsciously vague doubts of himself fastened upon him. For the first time he found himself looking forward to a baseball game with less eagerness than uncertainty. Stubbornly he fought off the mood. Place was situated in an old college town famed for its ancient trees and quaint churches and inns. The Wayne varsity, arriving late, put on their uniforms at the St. George, a tavern that seemed never to have been in any way acquainted with a college baseball team. It was very quiet and apparently deserted. For that matter the town itself appeared deserted. The boys dressed hurriedly, in silence, with frowning brows and compressed lips. Worry Arthurs remained down-stairs while they dressed. Homans looked the team over and then said: "Boys, come on! To-day's our hardest game." It was only a short walk along the shady street to the outskirts of the town and the athletic field. The huge stands blocked the view from the back and side. Homans led the team under the bleachers, through a narrow walled-in aisle, to the side entrance, and there gave the word for the varsity to run out upon the field. A hearty roar of applause greeted their appearance. Ken saw a beautiful green field, level as a floor, with a great half-circle of stands and bleachers at one end. One glance was sufficient to make Ken's breathing an effort. He saw a glittering mass, a broad, moving band of color. Everywhere waved Place flags, bright gold and blue. White faces gleamed like daisies on a golden slope. In the bleachers close to the first base massed a shirt-sleeved crowd of students, row on row of them, thousands in number. Ken experienced a little chill as he attached the famous Place yell to that significant placing of rooters. A soft breeze blew across the field, and it carried low laughter and voices of girls, a merry hum, and subdued murmur, and an occasional clear shout. The whole field seemed keenly alive. From the bench Ken turned curious, eager eyes upon the practising Place men. Never had he regarded players with as sharp an interest, curiosity being mingled with admiration, and confidence with doubt. MacNeff, the captain, at first base, veteran of three years, was a tall, powerful fellow, bold and decisive in action. Prince, Place's star on both gridiron and diamond, played at second base. He was very short, broad and heavy, and looked as if he would have made three of little Raymond. Martin, at short-stop, was of slim, muscular build. Keene and Starke, in centre and left, were big men. Salisbury looked all of six feet, and every inch a pitcher. He also played end on the football varsity. Ken had to indulge in a laugh at the contrast in height and weight of Wayne when compared to Place. The laugh was good for him, because it seemed to loosen something hard and tight within his breast. Besides, Worry saw him laugh and looked pleased, and that pleased Ken. "Husky lot of stiffs, eh, Peg?" said Worry, reading Ken's thought. "But, say! this ain't no football game. We'll make these heavyweights look like ice-wagons. I never was much on beefy ball-players. Aha! there goes the gong. Place's takin' the field. That suits me.... Peg, listen! The game's on. I've only one word to say to you. _Try to keep solid on your feet!_" A short cheer, electrifying in its force, pealed out like a blast. Then Homans stepped to the plate amid generous hand-clapping. The Place adherents had their favorites, but they always showed a sportsmanlike appreciation of opponents. Salisbury wound up, took an enormous stride, and pitched the ball. He had speed. Homans seldom hit on the first pitch, and this was a strike. But he rapped the next like a bullet at Griffith, the third-baseman. Griffith blocked the ball, and, quickly reaching it, he used a snap underhand throw to first, catching Homans by a narrow margin. It was a fine play and the crowd let out another blast. Raymond, coming up, began his old trick of trying to work the pitcher for a base. He was small and he crouched down until a wag in the bleachers yelled that this was no kindergarten game. Raymond was exceedingly hard to pitch to. He was always edging over the plate, trying to get hit. If anybody touched him in practice he would roar like a mad bull, but in a game he would cheerfully have stopped cannon-balls. He got in front of Salisbury's third pitch, and, dropping his bat, started for first base. The umpire called him back. Thereupon Raymond fouled balls and went through contortions at the plate till he was out on strikes. When Reddy Ray took his position at bat audible remarks passed like a wave through the audience. Then a long, hearty cheer greeted the great sprinter. When roar once again subsided into waiting suspense a strong-lunged Wayne rooter yelled, "_Watch him run!_" The outfielders edged out deeper and deeper. MacNeff called low to Salisbury: "Don't let this fellow walk! Keep them high and make him hit!" It was evident that Place had gotten a line on one Wayne player. Salisbury delivered the ball and Reddy whirled with his level swing. There was a sharp crack. Up started the crowd with sudden explosive: "Oh!" Straight as a bee-line the ball sped to Keene in deep centre, and Reddy was out. Wayne players went running out and Place players came trotting in. Ken, however, at Worry's order, walked slowly and leisurely to the pitcher's box. He received an ovation from the audience that completely surprised him and which stirred him to warm gratefulness. Then, receiving the ball, he drew one quick breath, and faced the stern issue of the day. As always, he had his pitching plan clearly defined in mind, and no little part of it was cool deliberation, study of the batter to the point of irritating him, and then boldness of action. He had learned that he was not afraid to put the ball over the plate, and the knowledge had made him bold, and boldness increased his effectiveness. For Keene, first batter up, Ken pitched his fast ball with all his power. Like a glancing streak it shot over. A low whistling ran through the bleachers. For the second pitch Ken took the same long motion, ending in the sudden swing, but this time he threw a slow, wide, tantalizing curve that floated and waved and circled around across the plate. It also was a strike. Keene had not offered to hit either. In those two balls, perfectly controlled, Ken deliberately showed the Place team the wide extremes of his pitching game. "Keene, he don't waste any. Hit!" ordered MacNeff from the bench. The next ball, a high curve, Keene hit on the fly to Homans. The flaxen-haired Prince trotted up with little, short steps. Ken did not need the wild outburst from the crowd to appreciate this sturdy hero of many gridiron and diamond battles. He was so enormously wide, almost as wide as he was long, that he would have been funny to Ken but for the reputation that went with the great shoulders and stumpy legs. "Ward, give me a good one," said Prince, in a low, pleasant voice. He handled his heavy bat as if it had been light as a yardstick. It was with more boldness than intention of gratifying Prince that Ken complied, using the same kind of ball he had tried first on Keene. Prince missed it. The next, a low curve, he cracked hard to the left of Raymond. The second-baseman darted over, fielded the ball cleanly, and threw Prince out. Then the long, rangy MacNeff, home-run hitter for Place, faced Ken. His position at bat bothered Ken, for he stood almost on the plate. Remembering MacNeff's weakness, Ken lost no time putting a swift in-shoot under his chin. The Place captain lunged round at it, grunting with his swing. If he had hit the ball it would have been with the handle of his bat. So Ken, knowing his control, and sure that he could pitch high shoots all day over the incomer of the plate, had no more fear of the Place slugger. And it took only three more pitches to strike him out. From that on the game see-sawed inning by inning, Ken outpitching Salisbury, but neither team scored. At intervals cheers marked the good plays of both teams, and time and again the work of the pitchers earned applause. The crowd seemed to be holding back, and while they waited for the unexpected the short, sharp innings slipped by. Trace for Wayne led off in the seventh with a safe fly over short. Ken, attempting to sacrifice, rolled a little bunt down the third-base line and beat the throw. With no one out and the head of the batting list up, the Wayne players awoke to possibilities. The same fiery intensity that had characterized their play all season now manifested itself. They were all on their feet, and Weir and McCord on the coaching lines were yelling hoarsely at Salisbury, tearing up the grass with their spikes, dashing to and fro, shouting advice to the runners. "Here's where we score! Oh! you pitcher! We're due to trim you now! Steady, boys, play it safe, play it safe!--don't let them double you!" Up by the bench Homans was selecting a bat. "Worry, I'd better dump one," he whispered. "That's the trick," replied the coach. "Advance them at any cost. There's Reddy to follow." The reliable Salisbury rolled the ball in his hands, feinted to throw to the bases, and showed his steadiness under fire. He put one square over for Homans and followed it upon the run. Homans made a perfect bunt, but instead of going along either base line, it went straight into the pitcher's hands. Salisbury whirled and threw to Prince, who covered the bag, and forced Trace. One out and still two runners on bases. The crowd uttered a yell and then quickly quieted down. Raymond bent low over the plate and watched Salisbury's slightest move. He bunted the first ball, and it went foul over the third-base line. He twisted the second toward first base, and it, too, rolled foul. And still he bent low as if to bunt again. The infield slowly edged in closer. But Raymond straightened up on Salisbury's next pitch and lined the ball out. Prince leaped into the air and caught the ball in his gloved hand. Homans dove back into first base; likewise Ken into second, just making it in the nick of time, for Martin was on the run to complete a possible double play. A shout at once hoarse and shrill went up, and heavy clattering thunder rolled along the floor of the bleachers. Two out and still two men on bases. If there was a calm person on Place Field at that moment it was Reddy Ray, but his eyes glinted like sparks as he glanced at the coach. "Worry, I'll lace one this time," he said, and strode for the plate. Weir and McCord were shrieking: "Oh, look who's up! Oh-h! Oh-h! Play it safe, boys!" "_Watch him run!_" That came from the same deep-chested individual who had before hinted of the sprinter's fleetness, and this time the Wayne players recognized the voice of Murray. How hopeful and thrilling the suggestion was, coming from him! The Place infield trotted to deep short-field; the outfielders moved out and swung around far to the right. Salisbury settled down in the box and appeared to put on extra effort as he delivered the ball. It was wide. The next also went off the outside of the plate. It looked as if Salisbury meant to pass Reddy to first. Then those on the bench saw a glance and a nod pass between Reddy Ray and Coach Arthurs. Again Salisbury pitched somewhat to the outside of the plate, but this time Reddy stepped forward and swung. _Crack!_ Swift as an arrow and close to the ground the ball shot to left field. Starke leaped frantically to head it off, and as it took a wicked bound he dove forward head first, hands outstretched, and knocked it down. But the ball rolled a few yards, and Starke had to recover from his magnificent effort. No one on the field saw Ward and Homans running for the plate. All eyes were on the gray, flitting shadow of a sprinter. One voice only, and that was Murray's, boomed out in the silence. When Reddy turned second base Starke reached the ball and threw for third. It was a beautiful race between ball and runner for the bag. As Reddy stretched into the air in a long slide the ball struck and shot off the ground with a glancing bound. They reached the base at the same time. But Griffith, trying to block the runner, went spinning down, and the ball rolled toward the bleachers. Reddy was up and racing plateward so quickly that it seemed he had not been momentarily checked. The few Wayne rooters went wild. "Three runs!" yelled the delirious coaches. Weir was so overcome that he did not know it was his turn at bat. When called in he hurried to the plate and drove a line fly to centre that Keene caught only after a hard run. Ken Ward rose from the bench to go out on the diamond. The voices of his comrades sounded far away, as voices in a dream. "Three to the good now, Ward! It's yours!" said Captain Homans. "Only nine more batters! Peg, keep your feet leaded!" called Reddy Ray. "It's the seventh, and Place hasn't made a safe hit! Oh, Ken!" came from Raymond. So all the boys vented their hope and trust in their pitcher. There was a mist before Ken's eyes that he could not rub away. The field blurred at times. For five innings after the first he had fought some unaccountable thing. He had kept his speed, his control, his memory of batters, and he had pitched magnificently. But something had hovered over him, and had grown more tangible as the game progressed. There was a shadow always before his sight. In the last of the seventh, with Keene at bat, Ken faced the plate with a strange unsteadiness and a shrinking for which he hated himself. What was wrong with him? Had he been taken suddenly ill? Anger came to his rescue, and he flung himself into his pitching with fierce ardor. He quivered with a savage hope when Keene swung ineffectually at the high in-shoot. He pitched another and another, and struck out the batter. But now it meant little to see him slam down his bat in a rage. For Ken had a foreboding that he could not do it again. When Prince came up Ken found he was having difficulty in keeping the ball where he wanted it. Prince batted a hot grounder to Blake, who fumbled. MacNeff had three balls and one strike called upon him before he hit hard over second base. But Raymond pounced upon the ball like a tiger, dashed over the bag and threw to first, getting both runners. "Wull, Ken, make them hit to me," growled Raymond. Ken sat down upon the bench far from the coach. He shunned Worry in that moment. The warm praise of his fellow-players was meaningless to him. Something was terribly wrong. He knew he shrank from going into the box again, yet dared not admit it to himself. He tried to think clearly, and found his mind in a whirl. When the Wayne batters went out in one, two, three order, and it was time for Ken to pitch again, he felt ice form in his veins. "Only six more hitters!" called Reddy's warning voice. It meant cheer and praise from Reddy, but to Ken it seemed a knell. "Am I weakening?" muttered Ken. "Am I going up in the air? _What_ is wrong with me?" He was nervous now and could not stand still and he felt himself trembling. The ball was wet from the sweat in his hands; his hair hung damp over his brow and he continually blew it out of his eyes. With all his spirit he crushed back the almost overwhelming desire to hurry, hurry, hurry. Once more, in a kind of passion, he fought off the dreaded unknown weakness. With two balls pitched to Starke he realized that he had lost control of his curve. He was not frightened for the loss of his curve, but he went stiff with fear that he might lose control of his fast ball, his best and last resort. Grimly he swung and let drive. Starke lined the ball to left. The crowd lifted itself with a solid roar, and when Homans caught the hit near the foul flag, subsided with a long groan. Ken set his teeth. He knew he was not right, but did any one else know it? He was getting magnificent support and luck was still with him. "Over the pan, Peg! Don't waste one!" floated from Reddy, warningly. Then Ken felt sure that Reddy had seen or divined his panic. How soon would the Place players find it out? With his throat swelling and his mouth dry and his whole body in a ferment Ken pitched to Martin. The short-stop hit to Weir, who made a superb stop and throw. Two out! From all about Ken on the diamond came the low encouraging calls of his comrades. Horton, a burly left-hander, stepped forward, swinging a wagon-tongue. Ken could no longer steady himself and he pitched hurriedly. One ball, two balls, one strike, three balls--how the big looming Horton stood waiting over the plate! Almost in despair Ken threw again, and Horton smote the ball with a solid rap. It was a low bounder. Raymond pitched forward full length toward first base and the ball struck in his glove with a crack, and stuck there. Raymond got up and tossed it to McCord. A thunder of applause greeted this star play of the game. The relief was so great that Ken fairly tottered as he went in to the bench. Worry did not look at him. He scarcely heard what the boys said; he felt them patting him on the back. Then to his amaze, and slowly mounting certainty of disaster, the side was out, and it was again his turn to pitch. "Only three more, Peg! The tail end of the batting list. _Hang on!_" said Reddy, as he trotted out. Ken's old speed and control momentarily came back to him. Yet he felt he pitched rather by instinct than intent. He struck Griffith out. "Only two more, Peg!" called Reddy. The great audience sat in depressed, straining silence. Long since the few Wayne rooters had lost their vocal powers. Conroy hit a high fly to McCord. "Oh, Peg, _only one more!_" came the thrilling cry. No other Wayne player could speak a word then. With Salisbury up, Ken had a momentary flash of his old spirit and he sent a straight ball over the plate, meaning it to be hit. Salisbury did hit it, and safely, through short. The long silent, long waiting crowd opened up with yells and stamping feet. A horrible, cold, deadly sickness seized upon Ken as he faced the fleet, sure-hitting Keene. He lost his speed, he lost his control. Before he knew what had happened he had given Keene a base on balls. Two on bases and two out! The Place players began to leap and fling up their arms and scream. When out of their midst Prince ran to the plate a piercing, ear-splitting sound pealed up from the stands. As in a haze Ken saw the long lines of white-sleeved students become violently agitated and move up and down to strange, crashing yells. Then Ken Ward knew. That was the famed Place cheer for victory at the last stand. It was the trumpet-call of Ken's ordeal. His mind was as full of flashes of thought as there were streaks and blurs before his eyes. He understood Worry now. He knew now what was wrong with him, what had been coming all through that terrible game. The whole line of stands and bleachers wavered before him, and the bright colors blended in one mottled band. Still it was in him to fight to the last gasp. The pain in his breast, and the nausea in his stomach, and the whirling fury in his mind did not make him give up, though they robbed him of strength. The balls he threw to Prince were wide of the plate and had nothing of his old speed. Prince, also, took his base on balls. Bases full and two out! MacNeff, the captain, fronted the plate, and shook his big bat at Ken. Of all the Place hitters Ken feared him the least. He had struck MacNeff out twice, and deep down in his heart stirred a last desperate rally. He had only to keep the ball high and in close to win this game. Oh! for the control that had been his pride! The field and stands seemed to swim round Ken and all he saw with his half-blinded eyes was the white plate, the batter, and Dean and the umpire. Then he took his swing and delivered the ball. It went true. MacNeff missed it. Ken pitched again. The umpire held up one finger of each hand. One ball and one strike. Two more rapid pitches, one high and one wide. Two strikes and two balls. Ken felt his head bursting and there were glints of red before his eyes. He bit his tongue to keep it from lolling out. He was almost done. That ceaseless, infernal din had benumbed his being. With a wrenching of his shoulder Ken flung up another ball. MacNeff leaned over it, then let it go by. Three and two! It was torture for Ken. He had the game in his hands, yet could not grasp it. He braced himself for the pitch and gave it all he had left in him. "_Too low!_" he moaned. MacNeff killed low balls. The big captain leaped forward with a terrific swing and hit the ball. It lined over short, then began to rise, shot over Homans, and soared far beyond, to drop and roll and roll. Through darkening sight Ken Ward saw runner after runner score, and saw Homans pick up the ball as MacNeff crossed the plate with the winning run. In Ken's ears seemed a sound of the end of the world. He thought himself the centre of a flying wheel. It was the boys crowding around him. He saw their lips move but caught no words. Then choking and tottering, upheld by Reddy Ray's strong arm, the young pitcher walked off the field. XVII KEN'S DAY The slow return to the tavern, dressing and going to the station, the ride home, the arrival at the training-house, the close-pressing, silent companionship of Reddy Ray, Worry, and Raymond--these were dim details of that day of calamity. Ken Ward's mind was dead--locked on that fatal moment when he pitched a low ball to MacNeff. His friends left him in the darkness of his room, knowing instinctively that it was best for him to be alone. Ken undressed and crawled wearily into bed and stretched out as if he knew and was glad he would never move his limbs again. The silence and the darkness seemed to hide him from himself. His mind was a whirling riot of fire, and in it was a lurid picture of that moment with MacNeff at bat. Over and over and over he lived it in helpless misery. His ears were muffled with that huge tide of sound. Again and again and again he pitched the last ball, to feel his heart stop beating, to see the big captain lunge at the ball, to watch it line and rise and soar. But gradually exhaustion subdued his mental strife, and he wandered in mind and drifted into sleep. When he woke it was with a cold, unhappy shrinking from the day. His clock told the noon hour; he had slept long. Outside the June sunlight turned the maple leaves to gold. Was it possible, Ken wondered dully, for the sun ever to shine again? Then Scotty came bustling in. "Mr. Wau-rd, won't ye be hovin' breakfast?" he asked, anxiously. "Scotty, I'll never eat again," replied Ken. There were quick steps upon the stairs and Worry burst in, rustling a newspaper. "Hello, old man!" he called, cheerily. "Say! Look at this!" He thrust the paper before Ken's eyes and pointed to a column: Place Beat Wayne by a Lucky Drive. Young Ward Pitched the Greatest Game Ever Pitched on Place Field and Lost It in the Ninth, with Two Men Out and Three and Two on MacNeff Ken's dull, gloom-steeped mind underwent a change, but he could not speak. He sat up in bed, clutching the paper, and gazing from it to the coach. Raymond came in, followed by Homans, and, last, Reddy Ray, who sat down upon the bed. They were all smiling, and that seemed horrible to Ken. "But, Worry--Reddy--I--I lost the game--threw it away!" faltered Ken. "Oh no, Peg. You pitched a grand game. Only in the stretch you got one ball too low," said Reddy. "Peg, you started to go up early in the game," added Worry, with a smile, as if the fact was amusing. "You made your first balloon-ascension in the seventh. And in the ninth you exploded. I never seen a better case of up-in-the-air. But, Peg, in spite of it you pitched a wonderful game. You had me guessin'. I couldn't take you out of the box. Darn me if I didn't think you'd shut Place out in spite of your rattles!" "Then--after all--it's not so terrible?" Ken asked, breathlessly. "Why, boy, it's all right. We can lose a game, and to lose one like that--it's as good as winnin'. Say! I'm a liar if I didn't see 'em Place hitters turnin' gray-headed! Listen! That game over there was tough on all the kids, you most of all, of course. But you all stood the gaff. You've fought out a grillin' big game away from home. That's over. You'll never go through that again. But it was the makin' of you.... Here, look this over! Mebbe it'll cheer you up." He took something from Raymond and tossed it upon the bed. It looked like a round, red, woolly bundle. Ken unfolded it, to disclose a beautiful sweater, with a great white "W" in the centre. "The boys all got 'em this mornin'," added Worry. It was then that the tragedy of the Place game lost its hold on Ken, and retreated until it stood only dimly in outline. "I'll--I'll be down to lunch," said Ken, irrelevantly. His smiling friends took the hint and left the room. Ken hugged the sweater while reading the _Times-Star's_ account of the game. Whoever the writer was, Ken loved him. Then he hid his face in the pillow, and though he denied to himself that he was crying, when he arose it was certain that the pillow was wet. An hour later Ken presented himself at lunch, once more his old amiable self. The boys freely discussed baseball--in fact, for weeks they had breathed and dreamed baseball--but Ken noted, for the first time, where superiority was now added to the old confidence. The Wayne varsity had found itself. It outclassed Herne; it was faster than Place; it stood in line for championship honors. "Peg, you needn't put on your uniform to-day," said the coach. "You rest up. But go over to Murray and have your arm rubbed. Is it sore or stiff?" "Not at all. I could work again to-day," replied Ken. That afternoon, alone in his room, he worked out his pitching plan for Saturday's game. It did not differ materially from former plans. But for a working basis he had self-acquired knowledge of the Place hitters. It had been purchased at dear cost. He feared none of them except Prince. He decided to use a high curve ball over the plate and let Prince hit, trusting to luck and the players behind him. Ken remembered how the Place men had rapped hard balls at Raymond. Most of them were right-field hitters. Ken decided to ask Homans to play Reddy Ray in right field. Also he would arrange a sign with Reddy and Raymond and McCord so they would know when he intended to pitch speed on the outside corner of the plate. For both his curve and fast ball so pitched were invariably hit toward right field. When it came to MacNeff, Ken knew from the hot rankling deep down in him that he would foil that hitter. He intended to make the others hit, pitching them always, to the best of his judgment and skill, those balls they were least likely to hit safely, yet which would cut the corners of the plate if let go. No bases on balls this game, that he vowed grimly. And if he got in a pinch he would fall back upon his last resort, the fast jump ball; and now that he had gone through his baptism of fire he knew he was not likely to lose his control. So after outlining his plan he believed beyond reasonable doubt that he could win the game. The evening of that day he confided his plan to Reddy Ray and had the gratification of hearing it warmly commended. While Ken was with Reddy the coach sent word up to all rooms that the boys were to "cut" baseball talk. They were to occupy their minds with reading, study, or games. "It's pretty slow," said Reddy. "Peg, let's have some fun with somebody." "I'm in. What'll we do?" "Can't you think? You're always leaving schemes to me. Use your brains, boy." Ken pondered a moment and then leaped up in great glee. "Reddy, I've got something out of sight," he cried. "Spring it, then." "Well, it's this: Kel Raymond is perfectly crazy about his new sweater. He moons over it and he carries it around everywhere. Now it happens that Kel is a deep sleeper. He's hard to wake up. I've always had to shake him and kick him to wake him every morning. I'm sure we could get him in that sweater without waking him. So to-morrow morning you come down early, before seven, and help me put the sweater on Kel. We'll have Worry and the boys posted and we'll call them in to see Kel, and then we'll wake him and swear he slept in his sweater." "Peg, you've a diabolical bent of mind. That'll be great. I'll be on the job bright and early." Ken knew he could rely on the chattering of the sparrows in the woodbine round his window. They always woke him, and this morning was no exception. It was after six and a soft, balmy breeze blew in. Ken got up noiselessly and dressed. Raymond snored in blissful ignorance of the conspiracy. Presently a gentle tapping upon the door told Ken that Reddy was in the hall. Ken let him in and they held a whispered consultation. "Let's see," said Reddy, picking up the sweater. "It's going to be an all-fired hard job. This sweater's tight. We'll wake him." "Not on your life!" exclaimed Ken. "Not if we're quick. Now you roll up the sweater so--and stretch it on your hands--so--and when I lift Kel up you slip it over his head. It'll be like pie." The operation was deftly though breathlessly performed, and all it brought from Raymond was a sleepy: "Aw--lemme sleep," and then he was gone again. Ken and Reddy called all the boys, most of whom were in their pajamas, and Worry and Scotty and Murray, and got them all up-stairs in Raymond's room. Raymond lay in bed very innocently asleep, and no one would have suspected that he had not slept in his sweater. "Well, I'll be dog-goned!" ejaculated Worry, laughing till he cried. Murray was hugely delighted. These men were as much boys as the boys they trained. The roar of laughter awakened Raymond, and he came out of sleep very languid and drowsy. "Aw, Ken, lemme sleep s'more." He opened his eyes and, seeing the room full of boys and men, he looked bewildered, then suspicious. "Wull, what do all you guys want?" "We only came in to see you asleep in your new varsity sweater," replied Ken, with charming candor. At this Raymond discovered the sweater and he leaped out of bed. "It's a lie! I never slept in it! Somebody jobbed me! I'll lick him!... It's a lie, I say!" He began to hop up and down in a black fury. The upper half of him was swathed in the red sweater; beneath that flapped the end of his short nightgown; and out of that stuck his thin legs, all knotted and spotted with honorable bruises won in fielding hard-batted balls. He made so ludicrous a sight that his visitors roared with laughter. Raymond threw books, shoes, everything he could lay his hands upon, and drove them out in confusion. Saturday seemed a long time in arriving, but at last it came. All morning the boys kept close under cover of the training-house. Some one sent them a package of placards. These were round, in the shape of baseballs. They were in the college colors, the background of which was a bright red, and across this had been printed in white the words: "_Peg Ward's Day!_" "What do you think of that?" cried the boys, with glistening eyes. But Ken was silent. Worry came in for lunch and reported that the whole west end of the city had been placarded. "The students have had millions of 'em cards printed," said Worry. "They're everywhere. Murray told me there was a hundred students tackin' 'em up on the stands and bleachers. They've got 'em on sticks of wood for pennants for the girls.... 'Peg Ward's Day!' Well, I guess!" At two-thirty o'clock the varsity ran upon the field, to the welcoming though somewhat discordant music of the university band. What the music lacked in harmony it made up in volume, and as noise appeared to be the order of the day, it was most appropriate. However, a great booming cheer from the crowded stands drowned the band. It was a bright summer day, with the warm air swimming in the thick, golden light of June, with white clouds sailing across the blue sky. Grant Field resembled a beautiful crater with short, sloping sides of white and gold and great splashes of red and dots of black all encircling a round lake of emerald. Flashes of gray darted across the green, and these were the Place players in practice. Everywhere waved and twinkled and gleamed the red-and-white Wayne placards. And the front of the stands bore wide-reaching bands of these colored cards. The grand-stand, with its pretty girls and gowns, and waving pennants, and dark-coated students, resembled a huge mosaic of many colors, moving and flashing in the sunlight. One stand set apart for the Place supporters was a solid mass of blue and gold. And opposite to it, in vivid contrast, was a long circle of bleachers, where five thousand red-placarded, red-ribboned Wayne students sat waiting to tear the air into shreds with cheers. Dale and Stevens and Bryan, wearing their varsity sweaters, strode to and fro on the cinder-path, and each carried a megaphone. Cheers seemed to lurk in the very atmosphere. A soft, happy, subdued roar swept around the field. Fun and good-nature and fair-play and love of college pervaded that hum of many voices. Yet underneath it all lay a suppressed spirit, a hidden energy, waiting for the battle. When Wayne had finished a brief, snappy practice, Kern, a National League umpire, called the game, with Place at bat. Ken Ward walked to the pitcher's slab amid a prolonged outburst, and ten thousand red cards bearing his name flashed like mirrors against the sunlight. Then the crashing Place yell replied in defiance. Ken surveyed his fellow-players, from whom came low, inspiriting words; then, facing the batter, Keene, he eyed him in cool speculation, and swung into supple action. The game started with a rush. Keene dumped the ball down the third-base line. Blake, anticipating the play, came rapidly in, and bending while in motion picked up the ball and made a perfect snap-throw to McCord, beating Keene by a foot. Prince drove a hot grass-cutter through the infield, and the Place stand let out shrill, exultant yells. MacNeff swung powerfully on the first ball, which streaked like a flitting wing close under his chin. Prince, with a good lead, had darted for second. It was wonderful how his little, short legs carried him so swiftly. And his slide was what might have been expected of a famous football player. He hit the ground and shot into the bag just as Raymond got Dean's unerring throw too late. Again the Place rooters howled. MacNeff watched his second strike go by. The third pitch, remorselessly true to that fatal place, retired him on strikes; and a roll of thunder pealed from under the Wayne bleachers. Starke struck at the first ball given him. The Place waiters were not waiting on Ken to-day; evidently the word had gone out to hit. Ken's beautiful, speedy ball, breast high, was certainly a temptation. Starke lifted a long, lofty fly far beyond Homans, who ran and ran, and turned to get it gracefully at his breast. Worry Arthurs sat stern and intent upon the Wayne bench. "Get that hit back and go them a run better!" was his sharp order. The big, loose-jointed Salisbury, digging his foot into the dirt, settled down and swung laboriously. Homans waited. The pitch was a strike, and so was the next. But strikes were small matters for the patient Homans. He drew three balls after that, and then on the next he hit one of his short, punky safeties through the left side of the infield. The Wayne crowd accepted it with vigor of hands and feet. Raymond trotted up, aggressive and crafty. He intended to bunt, and the Place infield knew it and drew in closer. Raymond fouled one, then another, making two strikes. But he dumped the next and raced for the base. Salisbury, big and slow as he was, got the ball and threw Raymond out. Homans over-ran second, intending to go on, but, halted by Weir's hoarse coaching, he ran back. When Reddy Ray stepped out it was to meet a rousing cheer, and then the thousands of feet went crash! crash! crash! Reddy fouled the first ball over the grand-stand. Umpire Kern threw out a new one, gleaming white. The next two pitches were wide; the following one Reddy met with the short poke he used when hitting to left field. The ball went over Martin's head, scoring Homans with the first run of the game. That allowed the confident Wayne crowd to get up and yell long and loud. Weir fouled out upon the first ball pitched, and Blake, following him, forced Reddy out at second on an infield hit. Place tied the score in the second inning on Weir's fumble of Martin's difficult grounder, a sacrifice by Horton, and Griffith's safe fly back of second. With the score tied, the teams blanked inning after inning until the fifth. Wayne found Salisbury easy to bat, but a Place player was always in front of the hit. And Place found Peg Ward unsolvable when hits meant runs. Ken kept up his tireless, swift cannonading over the plate, making his opponents hit, and when they got a runner on base he extended himself with the fast raise ball. In the first of the fifth, with two out, Prince met one of Ken's straight ones hard and fair and drove the ball into the bleachers for a home-run. That solid blue-and-gold square of Place supporters suddenly became an insane tossing, screeching mêlée. The great hit also seemed to unleash the fiery spirit which had waited its chance. The Wayne players came in for their turn like angry bees. Trace got a base on balls. Dean sacrificed. Ken also essayed to bunt and fouled himself out on strikes. Again Homans hit safely, but the crafty Keene, playing close, held Trace at third. "We want the score!" Crash! crash! crash! went the bleachers. With Raymond up and two out, the chance appeared slim, for he was not strong at batting. But he was great at trying, and this time, as luck would have it, he hit clean through second. Trace scored, and Homans, taking desperate risk, tried to reach home on the hit and failed. It was fast, exciting work, and the crowd waxed hotter and hotter. For Place the lumbering Horton hit a twisting grounder to McCord, who batted it down with his mitt, jumped for it, turned and fell on the base, but too late to get his man. Griffith swung on Ken's straight ball and, quite by accident, blocked a little bunt out of reach of both Dean and Ken. It was a safe hit. Conroy stepped into Ken's fast ball, which ticked his shirt, and the umpire sent him down to first amid the vociferous objections of the Wayne rooters. Three runners on bases and no one out. How the Place students bawled and beat their seats and kicked the floor! Ken took a longer moment of deliberation. He showed no sign that the critical situation unnerved him. But his supple shoulders knit closer, and his long arm whipped harder as he delivered the ball. Salisbury, a poor batter, apparently shut his eyes and swung with all his might. All present heard the ringing crack of the bat, but few saw the ball. Raymond leaped lengthwise to the left and flashed out his glove. There was another crack, of different sound. Then Raymond bounded over second base, kicking the bag, and with fiendish quickness sped the ball to first. Kern, the umpire, waved both arms wide. Then to the gasping audience the play became clear. Raymond had caught Salisbury's line hit in one hand, enabling him to make a triple play. A mighty shout shook the stands. Then strong, rhythmic, lusty cheers held the field in thrall for the moment, while the teams changed sides. In Wayne's half of the sixth both Weir and McCord hit safely, but sharp fielding by Place held them on base. Again the formidable head of Place's batting order was up. Keene lined to right field, a superb hit that looked good for a triple, but it had not the speed to get beyond the fleet sprinter. Ken eyed the curly-haired Prince as if he was saying to himself: "I'm putting them over to-day. Hit if you can!" Prince appeared to jump up and chop Ken's first pitch. The ball struck on fair ground and bounded very high, and was a safe hit. Prince took a long lead off first base, and three times slid back to the bag when Ken tried to catch him. The fast football man intended to steal; Ken saw it, Dean saw it; everybody saw it. Whereupon Ken delivered a swift ball outside of the plate. As Prince went down little Dean caught the pitch and got the ball away quick as lightning. Raymond caught it directly in the base-line, and then, from the impact of the sliding Prince, he went hurtling down. Runner, baseman, and ball disappeared in a cloud of dust. Kern ran nimbly down the field and waved Prince off. But Raymond did not get up. The umpire called time. Worry Arthurs ran out, and he and Weir carried Raymond to the bench, where they bathed his head and wiped the blood from his face. Presently Raymond opened his eyes. "Wull, what struck me?" he asked. "Oh, nothin'. There was a trolley loose in the field," replied Worry. "Can you get up? Why did you try to block that football rusher?" Raymond shook his head. "Did I tag the big fat devil?" he queried, earnestly. "Is he out?" "You got him a mile," replied Worry. After a few moments Raymond was able to stand upon his feet, but he was so shaky that Worry sent Schoonover to second. Then the cheering leaders before the bleachers bellowed through their megaphones, and the students, rising to their feet, pealed out nine ringing "_Waynes!_" and added a roaring "Raymond!" to the end. With two out, Kern called play. Once again MacNeff was at bat. He had not made a foul in his two times up. He was at Ken's mercy, and the Wayne rooters were equally merciless. "Ho! the slugging captain comes!" "Get him a board!" "Fluke hitter!" "Mac, that was a lucky stab of yours Wednesday! Hit one _now_!" No spectator of that game missed Ken's fierce impetuosity when he faced MacNeff. He was as keen strung as a wire when he stood erect in the box, and when he got into motion he whirled far around, swung back bent, like a spring, and seemed to throw his whole body with the ball. One--two--three strikes that waved up in their velocity, and MacNeff for the third time went out. Clatter and smash came from the bleachers, long stamping of feet, whistle and bang, for voices had become weak. A hit, an error, a double play, another hit, a steal, and a forced out--these told Wayne's dogged, unsuccessful trial for the winning run. But Worry Arthurs had curtly said to his pitcher: "Peg, cut loose!" and man after man for Place failed to do anything with his terrific speed. It was as if Ken had reserved himself wholly for the finish. In the last of the eighth Dean hit one that caromed off Griffith's shin, and by hard running the little catcher made second. Ken sent him to third on a fielder's choice. It was then the run seemed forthcoming. Salisbury toiled in the box to coax the wary Homans. The Wayne captain waited until he got a ball to his liking. Martin trapped the hit and shot the ball home to catch Dean. It was another close decision, as Dean slid with the ball, but the umpire decided against the runner. "Peg, lam them over now!" called Reddy Ray. It was the first of the ninth, with the weak end of Place's hitting strength to face Ken. Griffith, Conroy, Salisbury went down before him as grass before a scythe. To every hitter Ken seemed to bring more effort, more relentless purpose to baffle them, more wonderful speed and control of his fast ball. Through the stands and bleachers the word went freely that the game would go to ten innings, eleven innings, twelve innings, with the chances against the tiring Salisbury. But on the Wayne bench there was a different order of conviction. Worry sparkled like flint. Homans, for once not phlegmatic, faced the coaching line at third. Raymond leaned pale and still against the bench. Ken was radiant. Reddy Ray bent over the row of bats and singled out his own. His strong, freckled hands clenched the bat and whipped it through the air. His eyes were on fire when he looked at the stricken Raymond. "Kel, something may happen yet before I get up to the plate," he said. "But if it doesn't--" Then he strode out, knocked the dirt from his spikes, and stepped into position. Something about Reddy at that moment, or something potent in the unforeseen play to come, quieted the huge crowd. Salisbury might have sensed it. He fussed with the ball and took a long while to pitch. Reddy's lithe form whirled around and seemed to get into running motion with the crack of the ball. Martin made a beautiful pick-up of the sharply bounding ball, but he might as well have saved himself the exertion. The championship sprinter beat the throw by yards. Suddenly the whole Wayne contingent arose in a body, a tribute to what they expected of Reddy, and rent Grant Field with one tremendous outburst. As it ceased a hoarse voice of stentorian volume rose and swelled on the air. "_Wayne wins!_ WATCH HIM RUN!" It came from Murray, who loved his great sprinter. Thrice Salisbury threw to MacNeff to hold Reddy close to first base, but he only wasted his strength. Then he turned toward the batter, and he had scarcely twitched a muscle in the beginning of his swing, when the keen sprinter was gone like a flash. His running gave the impression of something demon-like forced by the wind. He had covered the ground and was standing on the bag when Prince caught Conroy's throw. Pandemonium broke out in the stands and bleachers, and a piercing, continuous scream. The sprinter could not be stopped. That was plain. He crouched low, watching Salisbury. Again and again the pitcher tried to keep Reddy near second base, but as soon as Martin or Prince returned the ball Reddy took his lead off the bag. He meant to run on the first pitch; he was on his toes. And the audience went wild, and the Place varsity showed a hurried, nervous strain. They yelled to Salisbury, but neither he nor any one else could have heard a thunderbolt in that moment. Again Salisbury toed the rubber, and he hesitated, with his face turned toward second. But he had to pitch the ball, and as his elbow trembled the sprinter shot out of his tracks with the start that had made him famous. His red hair streaked in the wind like a waving flame. His beautiful stride swallowed distance. Then he sailed low and slid into the base as the ball struck Griffith's hands. Reddy was on third now, with no one out, with two balls upon Weir and no strikes. In the fury of sound runner and batter exchanged a glance that was a sign. The sprinter crouched low, watching Salisbury. For the third time, as the pitcher vibrated with the nervous force preceding his delivery, Reddy got his start. He was actually running before the ball left Salisbury's hand. Almost it seemed that with his marvellous fleetness he was beating the ball to the plate. But as the watchers choked in agony of suspense Weir bunted the ball, and Reddy Ray flashed across the plate with the winning run. Then all that seemed cheering, din, and stamping roar deadened in an earth-shaking sound like an avalanche. The students piled out of the bleachers in streams and poured on the field. An irresistible, hungry, clamoring flood, they submerged the players. Up went Ken upon sturdy shoulders, and up went Reddy Ray and Kel and Homans and Dean--all the team, and last the red-faced Worry Arthurs. Then began the triumphant march about Grant Field and to the training-house. It was a Wayne day, a day for the varsity, for Homans and Raymond, and for the great sprinter, but most of all it was Peg Ward's day. XVIII BREAKING TRAINING The Wayne varsity was a much-handled, storm-tossed team before it finally escaped the clutches of the students. Every player had a ringing in his ears and a swelling in his heart. When the baseball uniforms came off they were carefully packed in the bottoms of trunks, and twelve varsity sweaters received as tender care as if they were the flimsy finery dear to the boys' sisters. At six the players were assembled in the big reading-room, and there was a babel of exultant conversation. Worry suddenly came in, shouting to persons without, who manifestly wanted to enter. "Nothin' doin' yet! I'll turn the boys over to you in one hour!" Then he banged the door and locked it. Worry was a sight to behold. His collar was unbuttoned, and his necktie disarranged. He had no hat. His hair was damp and rumpled, and his red face worked spasmodically. "Where's Peg?" he yelled, and his little bright eyes blinked at his players. It was plain that Worry could not see very well then. Some one pushed Ken out, and Worry fell on his neck. He hugged him close and hard. Then he dived at Reddy and mauled him. Next he fell all over little crippled Raymond, who sat propped up in an arm-chair. For once Raymond never murmured for being jumped on. Upon every player, and even the substitutes, Worry expressed his joy in violent manner, and then he fell down himself, perspiring, beaming, utterly exhausted. This man was not the cold, caustic coach of the cage-days, nor the stern, hard ruler from the bench, nor the smooth worker on his players' feelings. This was Worry Arthurs with his varsity at the close of a championship season. No one but the boys who had fought at his bidding for Wayne ever saw him like that. "Oh, Peg, it was glorious! This game gives us the record and the championship. Say, Peg, this was the great game for you to win. For you made Place hit, and then when they got runners on bases you shut down on 'em. You made MacNeff look like a dub. You gave that home-run to Prince." "I sure was after MacNeff's scalp," replied Ken. "And I put the ball over for Prince to hit. What else could I do? Why, that little chunky cuss has an eye, and he can sting the ball--he's almost as good as Reddy. But, Worry, you mustn't give me the credit. Reddy won the game, you know." "You talk like a kid," replied Reddy, for once not cool and easy. "I cut loose and ran some; but, Peg, you and Raymond won the game." "Wull, you make me sick," retorted Raymond, threatening to get up. "There wasn't anything to this day but Peg Ward." Ken replied with more heat than dignity, and quick as a flash he and Reddy and Raymond were involved in a wordy war, trying to place the credit for winning the game. They dragged some of the other boys into the fierce argument. Worry laughed and laughed; then, as this loyal bunch of players threatened to come to blows, he got angry. "_Shut up!_" he roared. "I never seen such a lot of hot-headed kids. Shut up, and let me tell you who won this Place game. It'll go down on record as a famous game, so you'll do well to have it straight. Listen! The Wayne varsity won this game. Homans, your captain, won it, because he directed the team and followed orders. He hit and run some, too. Reddy Ray won this game by bein' a blue streak of chain lightnin' on the bases. Raymond won it by makin' a hit when we all expected him to fall dead. He won it twice, the second time with the greatest fieldin' play ever pulled off on Grant Field. Dean won the game by goin' up and hangin' onto Peg's jump ball. McCord won it by diggin' low throws out of the dirt. Weir was around when it happened, wasn't he--and Blake and Trace? Then there was Peg himself. He won the game a _little_. Say! he had Place trimmed when he stepped on the slab in the first innin'. So you all won the big Wayne-Place game." Then Worry advanced impressively to the table, put his hand in his breast pocket and brought forth a paper. "You've won this for me, boys," he said, spreading the paper out. "What is it?" they asked, wonderingly. "Nothin' of much importance to you boys as compared with winnin' the game, but some to Worry Arthurs." He paused with a little choke. "It's a five-year contract to coach Wayne's baseball teams." A thundering cheer attested to the importance of that document to the boys. "Oh, Worry, but I'm glad!" cried Ken. "Then your son Harry will be in college next year--will be on the team?" "Say, he'll have to go some to make next year's varsity, with only two or three vacancies to fill. Now, fellows, I want to know things. Sit down now and listen." They all took seats, leaving the coach standing at the table. "Homans, is there any hope of your comin' back to college next year?" "None, I'm sorry to say," replied the captain. "Father intends to put me in charge of his business." "Reddy, how about a post-graduate course for you? You need that P.G." "Worry, come to think of it, I really believe my college education would not be complete without that P.G.," replied Reddy, with the old cool speech, and a merry twinkle in his eye. At this the boys howled like Indians, and Worry himself did a little war-dance. "Raymond, you'll come back?" went on the coach. The second-baseman appeared highly insulted. "Come back? Wull, what do you take me for? I'd like to see the guy who can beat me out of my place next season." This brought another hearty cheer. Further questioning made clear that all the varsity except Homans, Blake, and McCord would surely return to college. "Fine! Fine! Fine!" exclaimed Worry. Then he began to question each player as to what he intended to do through the summer months, and asked him to promise not to play ball on any summer nines. "Peg, you're the one I'm scared about," said Worry, earnestly. "These crack teams at the seashore and in the mountains will be hot after you. They've got coin too, Peg, and they'll spend it to get you." "All I've got to say is they'll waste their breath talking to me," replied Ken, with a short laugh. "What are you goin' to do all summer?" asked Worry, curiously. "Where will you be?" "I expect to go to Arizona." "Arizona? What in the deuce are you goin' way out there for?" Ken paused, and then when about to reply Raymond burst out. "Worry, he says it's forestry, but he only took up that fool subject because he likes to chase around in the woods. He's nutty about trees and bears and mustangs. He was in Arizona last summer. You ought to hear some of the stories he's told me. Why, if they're true he's got Frank Nelson and Jim Hawkins skinned to a frazzle." "For instance?" asked Worry, very much surprised and interested. "Why stories about how he was chased and captured by outlaws, and lassoed bears, and had scraps with Mexicans, and was in wild caves and forest fires, and lots about a Texas ranger who always carried two big guns. I've had the nightmare ever since we've been in the training-house. Oh, Ken can tell stories all right. He's as much imagination as he's got speed with a ball. And say, Worry, he's got the nerve to tell me that this summer he expects to help an old hunter lasso mountain-lions out there in Arizona. What do you think of that?" "It's straight goods!" protested Ken, solemnly facing the bright-eyed boys. "We want to go along!" yelled everybody. "Say, Peg, I ain't stuck on that idee, not a little bit," replied the coach, dubiously. "Worry has begun to worry about next season. He's afraid Peg will get that arm chewed off," put in Reddy. "Well, if I've got to choose between lettin' Peg chase mountain-lions and seein' him chased by 'em fat-head directors, I'll take my chances with the lions." Then all in a moment Worry became serious. "Boys, it's time to break trainin'. I ain't got much to say. You're the best team I ever developed. Let it go at that. In a few minutes you are free to go out to the banquets and receptions, to all that's waitin' for you. And it will be great. To-morrow you will be sayin' good-bye to me and to each other and scatterin' to your homes. But let's not forget each other and how we plugged this year. Sure, it was only baseball, but, after all, I think good, hard play, on the square and against long odds, will do as much for you as your studies. Let the old baseball coach assure you of that." He paused, paced a few steps to and fro, hands behind his back, thoughtful and somewhat sad. The members of the varsity sat pale and still, faces straight before them, eyes shining with memory of that long up-hill struggle, and glistening, too, with the thought that the time had come for parting. "Homans, will you please see to the election of the new captain?" said Worry. Homans stepped out briskly and placed a hat, twelve folded slips of paper, and a pencil upon the table. "Fellows, you will follow me in our regular batting order," directed Homans. "Each man is to write his name on one side of a slip of paper and his choice for captain on the other side. Drop the paper in the hat." Homans seated himself at the table and quickly cast his vote. Raymond hobbled up next. Reddy Ray followed him. And so, in silence, and with a certain grave dignity of manner that had yet a suggestion of pleasure, the members of the varsity voted. When they had resumed their seats Homans turned the slips out of the hat and unfolded them. "These votes will be given to the athletic directors and kept on record," he said. "But we will never see but one side of them. That is Wayne's rule in electing captains, so the players will not know how each voted. But this is an occasion I am happy to see when we shall all know who voted for who. It shall be a little secret of which we will never speak." He paused while he arranged the slips neatly together. "There are here twelve votes. Eleven have been cast for one player--one for another player! Will you all please step forward and look?" In an intense stillness the varsity surrounded the table. There was a sudden sharp gasp from one of them. With a frank, glad smile Homans held out his hand. "CAPTAIN WARD!" THE END 
39668	----	scanned images of public domain material from the Google Print archive. AT START AND FINISH BY THE SAME AUTHOR APPLES OF ISTAKHAR AT START AND FINISH William Lindsey [Illustration] Boston Small, Maynard & Company 1899 _Copyright, 1896,_ by COPELAND AND DAY * * * * * _Copyright, 1899,_ by SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY TO THE ATHLETIC TEAMS OF OLD ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND, OXFORD, CAMBRIDGE, HARVARD, AND YALE, WHO MET IN LONDON JULY 22, 1899, GOOD WINNERS AND PLUCKY LOSERS, I DEDICATE THIS BOOK NOTE. In the present volume I have drawn freely on my previous collection (now out of print), "Cinder-path Tales," omitting some material, but adding much more that is new. I have also added headpieces, in which my suggestions have been very cleverly carried out by the artist, W. B. Gilbert. W. L. CONTENTS PAGE OLD ENGLAND AND NEW ENGLAND 1 MY FIRST, FOR MONEY 36 THE HOLLOW HAMMER 62 HIS NAME IS MUD 91 HOW KITTY QUEERED THE "MILE" 107 ATHERTON'S LAST "HALF" 131 THE CHARGE OF THE HEAVY BRIGADE 153 A VIRGINIA JUMPER 176 AND EVERY ONE A WINNER 213 [Illustration: Old England and New England] It is something of an experience for an Englishman, after thirty years' absence, to stand on the steps of "Morley's" and face the sunlight of Trafalgar Square. He may not own a foot of English soil, he may have no friend left to meet him, he may even have become a citizen of the Great Republic, but he cannot look at the tall shaft on which the "little sailor" stands without a breath of pride, a mist in his eye, and a lump in his throat. It was early afternoon of a warm July day. There was barely enough wind to blow the spray of the fountains, and the water itself rose straight in the soft air. I stood contentedly watching the endless procession of busses, hansoms, and four-wheelers, with the occasional coster's cart, and asked for nothing more. Long-eared "Neddy" dragging "Arry," "Arriet," and a load of gooseberries was a combination on which my eye rested with peculiar fascination. No amateur "whip" in a red coat on a bottle-green coach could handle the "ribbons" over four "choice uns" with a finer air than "Arry" as he swung through the line and came clicking up the street. I would rather see him pass than the Lord Mayor in his chariot. I must have stood on the top step of "Morley's" for a good half-hour, not caring even to smoke, so sweet was the smell of a London street to me. I was thinking, as a man must at such a time, of old days and old friends,--not dismally, but with a certain sense of loss,--when a tall gentleman came slowly up the steps and stopped immediately in front of me. I moved aside, although there was plenty of room for him to pass; but still he looked at me gravely, and at last held out a big brown hand and said, as if we had parted only yesterday, "Well, Walter, old man, how are you?" I was a bit in doubt at first. He was so tall that his eyes were nearly on a level with my own, his figure erect and soldierly, his face bronzed as if from long exposure to a tropic sun. Only when he smiled did I know him, and then we gripped hands hard, our fingers clinging until we saw we were attracting the notice of those around us. Then our hands unclasped, and feeling a bit foolish over our emotion, we sat down together. At first we talked of commonplaces, though all the time I was thinking of an evening more than thirty years ago when we stood together on the river path, under the shadows of old Oxford towers, and said, "Good-bye." He then offered to stand by me when the friendship would have cost him something, and I declined the sacrifice. Would it have been better? Who can tell? Our first thoughts were a bit serious, perhaps, but our second became decidedly cheerful at meeting again after so long a time. I learned that he was "Colonel" Patterson, having gained his regiment a good ten years ago; that he had spent nearly all his time in India; that he had been invalided home; that he was, like myself, unmarried, and that he found himself rather "out of it" after all these years away from the "old country." I told how I had gone to America, where, finding all other talents unmarketable, I had become first a professional runner, and later a college trainer. To this occupation, in which I had been something of a success, I had given many years until a small invention had made me independent, and a man of leisure in a modest way. I saw he was a bit disappointed when I told him I had been forced to "turn pro." in order to obtain my bread and butter. I knew exactly how he felt, and well did I remember my sorrow when I dropped the "Mr." from my name. It is not a particularly high-sounding title, but to appreciate it at its true value a man need only to lose it and become plain "Smith," "Jones," or "Robinson." That nothing could raise the "pale spectre of the salt" between Frank Patterson and myself, not even going outside the pale of the "gentleman amateur," I was very certain. But when I told him a little later that I had become a full-fledged citizen of the United States, he could not conceal his surprise, although he said but little at first. We talked of other things for a while, and then my friend came back to what I knew he had been thinking about all the time, and he asked me bluntly how it was I had come to give up the nation of my birth. "It seemed only fair," I answered, "that I should become a citizen of the country in which I obtained my living, whose laws protected me, in which most of my friends were resident, and where I expected sometime to be buried." At this the Colonel was silent for a little while, and then he remarked rather doubtfully: "I cannot make up my mind just what the Americans are like. Are they what Kipling declared them in the 'Pioneer Mail' some ten years ago, when he cursed them root and branch, or what the same man said of them a few years later, when he affirmed just as strongly, 'I love them' and 'They'll be the biggest, finest, and best people on the surface of the globe'? Such contradictory statements are confusing to a plain soldier with nothing more than the average amount of intelligence. What is the use, too, of calling them Anglo-Saxon? They are, in fact, a mixture of Celt, Teuton, Gaul, Slav, with a modicum of Saxon blood, and I know not what else." I could not help smiling a little at the Colonel's earnestness. I tried to tell him that the American was essentially Anglo-Saxon in spite of all the mixture; that his traditions, aims, and sentiments were very much like his own; that he had the same language, law, and literature; that the boys read "Tom Brown at Rugby," and the old men Shakespeare, Browning, and Kipling. I told him that the boys played English games with but slight changes, and that they boxed like English boys, and their fathers fought like English men. "Yes," said the Colonel, at last interrupting my flow of eloquence, "I heard the statement made at the Army and Navy Club only last night, that the American soldier was close to our 'Tommy,' and that the Yankee sailor was second to none. Yet all the time I cannot adjust myself to the fact that he is 'one of us.' Perhaps if I saw some typical Americans I should be a little less at sea." "Well," I answered, "if that is what you want, I can give you plenty of opportunity. This afternoon occur the athletic games between Oxford and Cambridge on the one hand, and Harvard and Yale on the other. I am going with a party of Americans; we have seats in the American section, and I have a spare ticket which you can use as well as not. You can study the 'genus Americana' at your leisure, and see some mighty good sport meanwhile." "That would suit my book exactly," declared the Colonel; and he had scarcely spoken before I saw Tom Furness standing in the entrance of the hotel evidently looking for me. He was clad, despite the heat, in a long Prince Albert coat which fitted him like a glove, and wore a tall silk hat as well. He saw me almost immediately, and a moment later was shaking hands with the Colonel. The latter was dressed in a loose-fitting suit of gray flannel and sported a very American-looking straw hat, so that Tom really appeared the more English of the two. Which was the finer specimen of a man it would be hard to say, and one might not match them in a day's journey. They were almost exactly of a height, the Colonel not more erect than Tom, and not quite as broad of chest. The latter certainly had not the Colonel's clean-cut face, but there was something about his rather irregular features that would attract attention anywhere. I was pleased to see, too, that he gave to the Colonel a touch of the deference due his age and rank, which I admit some of Tom's countrymen might have forgotten. Furness was very cordial, too. "We are in great luck," he declared, "to have the Colonel with us, for a little later we should have been gone. It is about time to start now, after, of course, a little something to fortify us against the drive." So he took us into the smoking-room, where he introduced the Colonel to Harry Gardiner and Jim Harding. He also made him acquainted with a Manhattan cocktail, which the Colonel imbibed with some hesitation, but found very decidedly to his liking. Tom explained that he had taught them how to make it himself that very morning, and that it could not be bettered in all London. Furness always constitutes himself host if he has the least excuse for so doing. It is a way he has. Nothing but a man's own hearthstone in his own particular castle stops him. He takes possession of all neutral ground like that of a hotel, and considers it his duty to make matters pleasant for all around him. Harding and Gardiner were a half-dozen years younger than Furness, and it was not many years since I had trained them for very much the same kind of games as those of the afternoon. Harding was a big fellow, with broad shoulders, and a mop of yellow hair. He had been a mighty good man in his day with both "shot" and "hammer." Harry Gardiner had been a sprinter,--one of the best starters I ever knew,--and a finisher, too, which does not always follow. The Colonel got along very well with them all,--a little reserved at first, and studying all three of them in a very quiet way. He could sometimes not quite make out what Harding, who had a very choice vocabulary of Americanisms, was driving at, and one or two of Tom's jokes he failed utterly to comprehend; but he seemed to understand the men themselves fairly well, nevertheless. We chatted together a few minutes, and then Furness declared it was time to start, producing cigars which would have tempted a modern Adam more than any apple in the Garden of Eden. So the Colonel and myself left the others, and were soon comfortably ensconced in a clean hansom, behind a good piece of horseflesh, and bowling along toward the Queen's Club Grounds at a very respectable rate of speed. We enjoyed our ride very thoroughly, and arrived at the Comeragh Road entrance almost too soon, for the crowd was only beginning to gather. We obtained programmes, and entering the gateway found ourselves in full view of the grounds at once. A mighty fine sight they were, too, the stretch of level greensward, hard and velvety, with the dark brown cinder-path encircling it. The seats rose on all sides but one, and there, outside the fence, was the fringe of waving trees, and the red brick houses, trim and neat. Over all was the soft blue sky, with here and there a drifting cloud. I could see the Colonel's eyes glisten. He had spent the best part of his life in a country which alternated between the baked brown clay of the dry season and the wild luxuriance that followed the rains. He went to the very outside edge of the track, and took a careful step or two on it, examining it with the eye of a connoisseur, for he knew something of a track, although he had not seen one for many years. "'Tis fast," said he, knowingly. "With the heat and calm the conditions are right enough, and the men will have nobody to blame but themselves if they do not come close to the records." We walked slowly by the telegraph office, and back of the tennis courts. As we passed the Tea-room we could see a few people at the tables, and quite a little group was gathered around the Members' Pavilion. We went by the Royal Box, with its crimson draperies, and found our seats close to the finish of the hundred-yard, half, mile, and three-mile runs. The Colonel gave himself at once to the careful examination of the programme, as did I myself. The "Oxford and Cambridge" was printed in dark blue ink, and "Harvard and Yale" in crimson. For stewards there were C. N. Jackson and Lees Knowles, the former once the finest hurdler in England. For the Americans, E. J. Wendell and C. H. Sherrill officiated; many a bit of red worsted had I seen the latter break across the sea. Judges, referee, and timekeeper were alike well known on both continents, and had all heard the crunch of a running shoe as it bit into the cinders. Wilkinson of Sheffield was to act as "starter." "He has the reputation of never having allowed a fraction to be stolen on his pistol," remarked the Colonel. "Let him watch Blount to-day then," I said. The Colonel ran his finger down the list. "Nine contests in all. One of strength, three of endurance, two of speed, two of activity, and the 'quarter' only is left where speed and bottom are both needed. How will they come out?" he asked. "About five to four," I answered, "but I cannot name the winner. On form Old England should pull off the 'broad jump,' the 'mile' and 'three miles,' and New England is quite sure of the 'hammer' and 'high jump.' This leaves the 'hundred' and 'hurdles,' the 'quarter' and 'half' to be fought out, although of course nothing is sure but death and taxes." "I suppose it will be easy to distinguish the men by their style and manner," said the Colonel. "You will not see much difference," I replied. "The Americans wear the colors more conspicuously, Harvard showing crimson, and Yale dark blue. 'Tis the same shade as Oxford's. The Americans have also the letters 'H' and 'Y' marked plainly on the breasts of their jerseys. There are some of the contestants arriving now," I remarked, pointing across the track; "would you like to see them before they strip?" "I certainly would," he answered; and we slipped out of our seats and around the track to the Members' Pavilion, in front of which they stood. Just before we reached them, however, we met Furness, Harding, and Gardiner, the former holding a little chap about ten years old by the hand, who was evidently his "sire's son," for his eyes were big with excitement and pleasure. "Which are they?" inquired the Colonel, a little doubtfully. "That chap in front is an English lad or I miss my guess," looking admiringly at a young giant apparently not more than twenty years old, and perhaps the finest-looking one of the lot. His hat was in his hand, his eyes were bright, and skin clear, with a color that only perfect condition brings. "No," I answered, rather pleased at his mistake; "that is a Harvard Freshman, though he bears a good old English name. Since Tom of Rugby, the Browns have had a name or two in about every good sporting event on earth. Would you like to know him?" I asked, for just then the young fellow spied me out and came forward to meet me with a smile of recognition. I was quite willing to introduce H. J. Brown to the Colonel, although it was hardly fair to present him as a sample of an American boy. As Tom would have said, it was showing the top of a "deaconed" barrel of apples. The young fellow shook the Colonel's hand with an easy self-possession, coloring a little under his brown skin at the older man's close scrutiny, who said a quiet word concerning the games, and asked him if he felt "fit." "I'm as fit as they can make a duffer," he answered. "Boal, over there," pointing to an older man with a strong face full of color and who was a bit shorter and even more strongly built,--"Boal is the man who throws the hammer. He's better than I by a dozen feet." "Yes," remarked Tom, coming forward and shaking Brown's hand with a hearty grip, "this young man is not an athlete at all; he worked so hard at his studies that they sent him over here to recruit his health, impaired by too close application. He is strong only in his knowledge of Greek verbs and logarithms." At this there was quite a laugh, in which Brown joined heartily and the Colonel came in with a quiet chuckle, for he had come to quite enjoy Tom's "little jokes;" and under cover of our amusement the young fellow left us and disappeared in the dressing-room. The Colonel watched the little string of well-groomed fellows file along, taking particular notice of the smallest chap of all, who came laughing by, swinging his dress-suit case as if it weighed a scant pound. "What does he do?" the Colonel asked. "That's Rice, the high jumper," spoke up Tom. "He is good for six feet before or after breakfast. Indeed I think he could do the distance between every course of a long dinner, with perhaps an extra inch or two before the roast." "He has the best style of any man we have," volunteered Gardiner, "and goes over the bar as if he had wings." I tried to get the Colonel to look over the English lads. "Oh, they 're all right, I know. I want to see how near the American boys can come to them," said he, for the Colonel was loyal to his own, and after his long absence thought all the more of everything the Old Country produced. We did get a look at one or two, among them Vassall, an Oriel man, whom Tom pointed out, although how he knew him I could not guess. He was a grand-looking fellow, very strongly put together, and he walked as if on eggs. "He looks like a winner, sure enough," said I. "Yes," continued the Colonel, "old Oriel always has a good thing or two on field and river both." By this time the seats were filling rapidly, the stands were becoming crowded, and around the track were rows of people seated on the grass. We elbowed our way to our own places, and were settled at last, the Colonel on my left, little Billy Furness next, and Tom last of the row. In front of us were Gardiner and Harding, and behind, four or five American girls, two of them pretty, and all of them well dressed, with plenty of crimson and blue in their costumes. We had scarcely taken our seats when one of the girls discovered the royal carriage, jumping to her feet so hurriedly that she rather disturbed the Colonel's hat, for which she apologized so prettily that he must have felt indebted to her, despite the trouble. We all rose as the royal party alighted from their carriage, and the London Victoria Military Band played as only they can on such an occasion. We could see the Prince plainly, and with his light clothes and hat he set a good example of comfort to others. He looked to me much as he did when I saw him last on a Derby day many years ago. A good patron of sport has he always been, and his presence now gave color and zest to the whole affair. When he appeared in the box, he stood for a few moments, his eyes wandering over the grounds, and a smile of pleasure on his face. A royal sight it was, too, for the sun was shining brightly on the many-colored bank of spectators that circled the track. The hurdles stood in straight rows on the farther side, and right in front were the twin flag-staffs, at the feet of which hung the Union Jack and Stars and Stripes ready to hoist as one or the other country won. In the middle of the field were the blackboard and a megaphone, suspended from a tripod for indicating to eye and ear the results of the contest and records made. The first contestants to show were the "hammer throwers," and the big fellows were greeted with a rattling round of applause as they crossed the track, Greenshields of Oxford, Baines of Cambridge, Boal and Brown of Harvard, chatting cordially together as they walked over the field to their places in the farther corner. The little girl behind us offered the Colonel her field-glasses, which he was glad to get, and for which he thanked her heartily. "Take them whenever you want," she said with a smile; "you'll find them right here in my lap." Now this certainly was a freedom to which the Colonel was not accustomed, but I noticed that he seemed to adjust himself to it very easily. It was not, perhaps, the manner of the "Vere de Veres," but was very cordial, which was something better still. "Who is expected to win?" inquired the Colonel, as Greenshields began to swing the hammer around his head. "This is supposed to be a sure thing for Boal of Harvard," I answered. "Yes," spoke up little Billy, "and I know him too. Case Boal is a daisy." "A daisy is he?" asked the Colonel, looking down at the little fellow's flushed face. "He looks to me more like a big red rose. Do you throw the hammer too?" "No," answered Billy, gravely, "though I've got a cousin, most fifteen, who throws the twelve-pound hammer, and is a 'cracker jack.'" "A cracker jack, is he?" inquired the Colonel; "and are you a cracker jack too?" "Oh no," answered Billy, "I'm not much. I sprint a little, and won second place in the 'hundred' at my school games this spring. I want to run the 'quarter,' but dad won't let me till I'm older. That was his distance, and when I go to college I shall try for the quarter too." "Bless his heart," said the Colonel to me. "Are there many American boys like him?" "The woods are full of them," I answered. "There goes Brown; I want you to see him throw. He will not do Boal's distance, but is improving every day, and has a very pretty style. He is probably a few yards better than Greenshields, and Baines can hardly get the hammer away at all. The Englishmen have really no show in this event, for it is not cultivated as it should be in the Universities." "Why, then," asked the Colonel, "did our men include it with no hope of winning?" "It was a very sportsmanlike thing to do," declared Furness, "and arranged in much the same spirit as the three-mile run, which is a distance unknown in America, and in which we have not the least chance." "Yes," said I, "I cannot remember a contest in which there was so little jockeying in the preliminaries. They were conducted in the most liberal manner on both sides, and many concessions were made. One of the best illustrations is the 'hurdle race,' which will be run over turf, as is the custom here, while the hurdles will be movable, as is usual in America." "That is the true spirit of amateur sport," said the Colonel, "and is a mighty fine thing, whichever wins." Now I must confess that at this moment I found myself in a very peculiar state of mind. I was not sure which team I preferred to carry off the odd event. This was very unusual for me, as I am always something of a partisan, and cannot see two little chaps running a barefooted race along the street without picking a favorite, being a bit pleased if he wins and disappointed if he loses. But to-day there was on one side the country of my birth and on the other that of my adoption, and between them I was utterly unable to choose. So evenly did they draw upon my sentiment that I made up my mind I should be satisfied either way, and meanwhile I could enjoy myself without prejudice. "There's the jumpers," suddenly cried out little Billy, whose quick eye had first discovered them emerging from the crowd that fringed the track in front of the dressing-rooms. Sure enough, there were Daly and Roche in their crimson sweaters looking over the ground. The former carefully paced off his distance from the joist and marked his start, and as he did so, Vassall and Beven appeared, sporting respectively the dark and light blue, and shook hands with their opponents. "Who is the favorite here?" inquired the Colonel. "Oh, Vassall will win in a walk," answered Tom. At this the Colonel was entirely at sea. "But," said he, "I did not think there was to be a walk at all," examining his programme carefully. Then catching Tom's meaning, he continued, "You mean he wins easily? Well, I'm glad of that. I should like to see one first at least pulled off by the old college." "Nothing will stop him but an attack of apoplexy before his first jump," declared Tom, positively. "He will not need to take another. I saw him in the spring games, and a more natural jumper I never saw. He is at least a foot better than Daly, who I believe never made a broad jump in public until it was known he might be needed by his college." "You ought to see him play football," said Billy here, looking up at the Colonel with admiring eyes. "He's a 'dandy,' and just as cool as that 'measurer' over there," pointing to a gentleman who had bent over the many throws of the hammer until he was in a most profuse perspiration. At this there was a laugh from all round, which was followed by another as Billy's example of coolness wiped his beaded brow. The "hammer" and "long jump" are not very rapid events at best, but they answered very well while the late-comers were finding their seats. I was particularly pleased to note that Tom had eyes only for Vassall, whose easy style took his fancy amazingly, while the Colonel saw nothing to admire but the Americans' exhibition with the weight. He borrowed the glasses from the little girl behind him, with whom he had become very friendly for so reserved a man, and watched Brown carefully as he planted his feet firmly in the seven-feet circle, swung the heavy hammer around his head again and again without moving from his ground, until with a last fierce effort he sent the missile whirling through the air in a long arc to strike with a dull thud. Just as the Colonel started to comment on it admiringly, however, he was interrupted by a cheer as on one of the flag-poles that rose side by side in front of the royal box the Union Jack was hoisted to indicate that England had won the first event. A little later on the other pole the Stars and Stripes were run up, and we knew that the "hammer throw" had gone to the Americans, and honors were easy. The blackboard showed that Vassall had jumped his twenty-three feet, and Boal had thrown one hundred and thirty-six feet eight and one-half inches, both very excellent performances. The Colonel was enjoying himself immensely, and I was gratified to see how much at home he had made himself. He found in Furness a very congenial spirit, Billy was a boy after his own heart, and the young ladies behind him were interesting enough to take quite a little of his attention. He was telling them something about a polo match in India when I interrupted him to point out the men going to their marks for the "hundred-yard dash." We could look along the splendid track with the narrow laneways made by the white cords. Hind of Oxford inside, then Quinlan with an "H" on his crimson jersey, then Thomas with the narrow stripes of dark blue, and outside Blount with a jersey of the same color and the "Y" on his breast. "Who wins here?" asked the Colonel. "I give it up," answered Tom; "this is a race." We could hear the starter's "Marks," "Set;" the wreath of smoke rose from his pistol, and before the sound reached us, they were off, Blount a bit the first, Hind and Quinlan close together, and Thomas a shade behind. Did Blount beat the pistol? I am not sure. He was certainly in the lead; then Quinlan came up, to be in turn collared by Thomas, who had a shade the best of it until the last few strides, when the big fellow in the crimson jersey made a supreme effort and shot by us, a winner by a foot. "Close work that," remarked Harding. "Yes," said Tom, "it was a close fit, and not much cloth left." When the American flag went up again, and the blackboard showed the ten seconds with no fraction to mar its symmetry, there was very hearty applause from the whole field. Even time in the "hundred"! Only the aristocracy belong here. This is where fractions tell, this race "that is run in a breath." There are thousands good for ten-two, tens are equal to the ten-one, but the men who can do the straight ten can be counted on the fingers of the hand, and even then the conditions must suit them. "Do you know," remarked the Colonel, with a far-away look in his eyes, "I can remember the day when I would have given a year of my life to have seen those figures after my name? I had a friend once who held the watch over me on a still June afternoon who showed the figure, but I never saw it again, and I fear that friendship made the watch stop a bit too soon." The "mile" was not a race at all. When Hunter of Cambridge romped in a winner by a good twenty yards, with Dawson of Oxford beating out Spitzer of Yale by a very determined finish, Tom declared that it was "a very pretty procession, with a big gap after the band wagon." Freemantle gave a beautiful example of pacemaking, and what Hunter might have done had he been forced is only guesswork. It now stood even again with a two to two, to which Oxford and Cambridge had each contributed a win, and Harvard two. Yale had not distinguished herself as yet; 1899 is certainly not Yale's year. As the men went to their marks for the hurdles, starting in the farther corner of the field and finishing far to our right, they were watched with particular interest, for this was considered by many to be the pivotal race. Paget-Tomlinson was known to be good for his sixteen seconds, and might knock a fraction off this. Just what Fox could do was more of a question, although the story of a very pretty trial had leaked out in some way. Tom told the Colonel it was a case of "horse and horse," which expression he was forced to explain, as it was a shade too doubtful. A hurdle-race is a pretty sight over cinders, but on turf as green and level as a billiard-table it was doubly beautiful. We could see Fox and Hallowell crouch for the start, and Tomlinson and Parkes bend forward. I did not hear the pistol, so fascinated was I, as the men came away, skimming over the ground like four swallows, and rising over the first row of hurdles as if they had wings. It is easy to judge a hurdle-race from any angle. All that is necessary is to watch the men rise, for the one that lifts first is certainly ahead. Sometimes a race is won in the "run in," but not often. At the first hurdle the men rose almost together, at the second Parks and Hallowell were a bit late, at the third they were plainly behind, and Paget-Tomlinson was also a bit tardy. From this out, Fox drew ahead all the time, finishing with a burst of speed that put the result entirely out of doubt. I had just remarked, after the applause had somewhat subsided, that Tomlinson must have been "off form" when the board showed a fifteen and three-fifths, and I revised my conclusion. The "Cantab" had done better time than ever, but Fox had demolished the record. It was right here that the Colonel received something of a shock, for a little behind us and on our right a young fellow suddenly sprang to his feet, and called out at the top of his voice: "All together now. Three long Harvards, and three times three for Harvard." And then from a hundred throats came "Harvard, Harvard, Harvard, rah rah rah rah rah rah rah rah rah, Harvard." The Colonel confessed to me afterward that his first thought was that some one had gone crazy. "By Jove," said he, "I have heard 'Fuzzy Wuzzy' make some queer noises in my time, but that beats them all." I explained to him that it was a custom among the American colleges to have a particular cheer to encourage or applaud, but I saw that it took all the Colonel's accumulated enthusiasm to carry him through. It did sound a bit queer on the Queen's Grounds, however it might go on the Soldiers' Field in Cambridge, Massachusetts. The events now stood three to two in favor of New England, and their chances did look very good to me. They needed but two more wins out of the four remaining, and one of these was the "high jump," which on form was a certainty for them. To be sure, it was whispered that Burke had "gone stale," but I had seen him win so many times when he was plainly not in condition, that I did not count him out. Then, again, there was Boardman in the "quarter," and Yale was "about due," according to Tom. At the very start of the "half" Struben started out to make pace in a very business-like manner, which the Americans might have copied to advantage. Indeed from first to last they showed little knowledge of this useful accomplishment. That Burke tailed on was a surprise to no one who had seen him run, for with his turn of speed his game is to keep close up and run his man down in the last fifty yards. Yet I did not like the way he took his first step. He seemed dead and in difficulties after the first lap. I heard the little girl behind us declare confidently, "Just wait till Tom Burke reaches the straight." We did wait, sure enough, but he never came. Graham passed Struben, and finished comfortably in one fifty-seven and one-fifth, with Adams a poor third. The score was now even again, with three to three, and, as Furness declared, he was "beginning to have a touch of 'heart disease.'" "It is certainly 'up to Boardman' now," said Tom, as the men went to their marks for the "quarter." "Unless he can pull this off we are counted out, and no mistake." The young Yale Freshman had before this run half round the track, to limber up a bit, and appeared right on edge. There was hardly a sound as the men waited for the signal. Nobody cared to talk as they took their places for that most punishing of all distances, the "quarter mile," and every one watched the little bunch of men in the far corner of the field. Hollins, the stocky little Oxford man, was away first, as if for one hundred yards. He drew Boardman and Fisher after him at a killing pace, Davison running easily behind. Round the first turn they came, Boardman inside and on practically even terms with Hollins, the tall Yale man looking a bit anxious even then. Down the stretch they sprinted, still at top speed. At the last turn Boardman shot ahead, and for a brief second looked all over a winner. It was only for a second, however, for Hollins swung wide, and Davison came through like a locomotive, as strong and speedy. Boardman made a plucky effort, but the big "Cantab" would not be denied; he came to the front thirty yards from the finish, and the best the Yale man could do was to stagger over, five yards to the bad, and dead run out. Whether or no he would have done any better if he had stayed back instead of following Hollins I cannot tell. "Poor old Yale," said Furness, contemplatively, when the applause had died out, the Americans joining gamely, although they knew their last hope went with this event. "Poor old Yale, it was not always thus. I can remember a time when Yale men had a very pretty knack of breaking the worsted and letting the other fellows run between the posts, but this is not Yale's day nor year." We now had time to watch the "high jumping," which was going on in front of us and a little to the right. The bar had reached five feet ten inches, and Paget-Tomlinson had gone out at five-five. Rotch comes first and is over, although he touches the bar, and it trembles a moment uncertain. Adair is over too. The English lad takes his run a bit across and goes over with a grand lift from his long legs. Here comes Rice, who has not yet pulled off his sweater, although the bar is already several inches over his head. The little chap bends forward, gets on his toes, gives a short run straight at it, lifts in the air like a bird, shoots over, turning in the air meanwhile, lands lightly with his face to the bar he has just cleared, and runs back under it to his place. It is the prettiest performance for a high jump that the Colonel has ever seen, and he applauds vigorously, as do many others. At the next lift of the bar Rotch goes out, for he has not been himself quite, and is not equal to the six feet which he has so often negotiated. We expected also to see Adair drop out here, for five eight and one-fourth had been his best record; but he showed daylight between himself and the bar, and for the first time I began to be anxious. I truly did not care which team won, but I did not want to see anything worse than a five-four, and it looked now as if it might be a six-three. Up goes the bar to five-eleven, and again both Adair and Rice are equal to the task before them. With Adair it is the performance of a grand natural jumper, but with Rice it is all this, and a style that must be worth inches to him. At six feet the Oxford man did not go at the bar with quite the determination he had previously shown, and down it came. Rice now pulls off his sweater for the first time, showing how well put together he is from head to foot. Straight for the bar he goes, just the same as when it was at five-six, and he clears it with apparently the same ease as at the lower distance. Adair struggles gamely, but his last try is unsuccessful, and the score stands four to four, with only the "three-mile" left. I could see very plainly now that the Colonel was getting a bit nervous. "Do you consider this a certain thing for Workman?" he asked me, after Tom had declared that the Americans had no chance at all, and that the contest was all over "but the shouting." "Yes," I answered. "None of the Americans have ever done the distance, and this is where condition tells. I doubt if they could pull it off on neutral ground; after a sea voyage and a few days in a different climate they are simply out of it." "Well," said the Colonel, "I shall feel better when it is over. I have seen enough of the Yankee boys to have considerable respect for them, even in a race they have no right to win." The six contestants took their places in that leisurely manner which is always shown in a distance run. This race is not won at the start,--not much. All the same the Britishers were quite willing to make pace, for they swung ahead at the beginning, and for several laps Workman of Cambridge, Smith and Wilberforce of Oxford, showed the way around at a fair pace. Tom had his watch out and caught four fifty-eight for the first mile. At the end of the fifth lap Smith retired, after having made pace for a considerable part of the journey, leaving his man, Workman, in the lead and running strongly. Only a little later Clarke, who had given no clue to his difficulties and had been running well, suddenly collapsed, dropping on the track without a word, almost without a stagger, and was carried to the grass completely "run out." It was a "run out" too, and not one of the grand-stand performances which we sometimes see. At the close of the two miles Wilberforce suddenly retired, having suffered badly with a stitch in his side which he could not overcome, and Workman, Palmer, and Foote only were left, the last dropping a bit behind all the time, but sticking doggedly to it nevertheless. "By Jove!" exclaimed the Colonel, in the middle of the seventh lap, "that man Palmer looks dangerous; he is clinging to Workman's heels and is running fully as easily." "He is doing well," I answered, "but I do not like his color. Look at Workman's face and you will see the difference." "Difference or not," spoke up the Colonel, excitedly, "there he goes;" and true enough, Palmer suddenly quickened his stride and took the lead. "He'll do it," cried the Colonel; but the "Cantab" immediately regained his premier place again, while a great cheer went up from the crowd. Twice after in the eighth lap did Palmer repeat the performance, but each time Workman came up again. Every one was now on his feet, as the bell rang for the last lap. There was a hoarse murmur of excitement; the Colonel muttered something under his breath. Tom was pressing his leg against mine as if he thought he could push his man along. Billy was jumping up and down, and the little girl behind us was laughing rather hysterically. Which would win, Old England or New England? It was settled in a most conclusive way by Workman himself, for the bell seemed to act like an elixir of life to him. Suddenly he began to lengthen and quicken his stride, and he left Palmer as if he were anchored. Round the track he swung as if it was the first lap of the "half," and when he broke the worsted he was raised by willing hands to the shoulder and carried to the dressing-room in triumph. The crowd surged onto the track, as they ought not, and interfered with Palmer's finish; but it did not harm him, for he was really "run out," and Foote was yards behind, though running pluckily. We were all mixed up together for a few minutes, shaking hands all round, all of us with flushed faces. Billy had a suspiciously red nose, and the little girl behind us one big tear on her cheek. Suddenly the Colonel caught my arm and pointed to the two flags, the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes waving side by side. "Look at that," he cried; "that's a sight worth coming far to see." "Yes," said Tom, uncovering, "and with lads like those who have fought it out to-day to defend them, it would be a bad job to try to pull them down." We lingered for a little while, and when we separated it was agreed that Tom and I should join the Colonel and a friend at the Army and Navy Club for dinner. There we talked of many things, but mostly of the two great nations which we represented. "'Tis the same breed, after all," declared the Colonel, oracularly. "Of course the cross strain is there, but it has not hurt at all as far as I can see. Do you know what did the most to convert me? Well, it was that handshake with young Brown. A Frenchman can't shake hands, and neither can a German, though good fellows both may be. But Brown had the good firm grip close to the crotch of the thumb, and looked me straight in the eye meanwhile. 'Tis only the Anglo-Saxon can do this properly." When the evening was well on, we drank a toast or two; for the Colonel's friend, who was a retired naval officer, declared that it was an occasion where a dry dinner would be a disgrace, and he was strongly seconded by Tom. So first came "The Queen, God bless her." Then "The President, God help him," as Tom piously ejaculated. We drank to the two teams, good winners and plucky losers both, and then to the flags. "I have nothing against the other bits of bunting," declared Tom, generously; "but what is the use of having more than two? Let us arrange it now. The Union Jack shall fly over the eastern, and the Stars and Stripes over the western hemisphere. The Frenchman, German, and Russian shall take what is left." "That leaves them the sea," I interposed. "The sea!" cried Tom; "why, that is ours already beyond dispute." It was just at midnight that we drank our last toast with all the honors. It was the "Anglo-Saxon Race." May its two great nations never meet in sterner conflict than that fought out in friendliness, on green field and brown cinder-path, under a smiling sky! [Illustration: First For Money] It was late in the winter of 186- that I arrived in Boston, having bade farewell to Old England for good and all. It was not an easy thing to do, and it was with a wrench of the heart that I made the break-away. I confess the separation was not entirely of my own choosing, that I left under a cloud I do not care to lift, that I had sinned the sins of youth and repented of them. Nothing more shall I say; but one thing I can never quite forget,--back in old Lancashire was I gentleman born and bred. When I landed, less than fifty dollars had I in my pocket; but that did not fret me, for I had been assured an Englishman of good birth and breeding had but to pick and choose in the "States." All my money and most of my conceit were gone when I met Arthur Hacking a month later. I had first stopped at a good hotel, and offered my services at genteel occupations, such as banking and school-teaching. But business men, very naturally, declined to trust a man without references who admitted that his past was not clear; and from school-teaching I was prohibited by a lamentable weakness in both mathematics and the languages. Indeed, I then realized for the first time that there were more important schools than that of the "cinder-path," and something more was needed to get on in the world than a highly cultivated pair of legs. As my money disappeared my ideas moderated. I moved to less and less pretentious quarters, until an attic-room and a sickly fire became luxuries I was likely soon to miss. As if it were yesterday do I remember the raw March morning, when, having spent a few cents out of my only remaining dollar, I set out to make a last desperate effort for employment other than that of the horny-handed son of toil. At noon I stood on the corner of Washington street and Cornhill, utterly at a loss what to do. My overcoat was in pawn, and an east wind, such as Boston only knows, was freezing my very marrow. The streets were full of half-melted snow and ice, and my feet were wet and cold. As I stood there with much of the feeling and something of the attitude of a lost dog, I suddenly recognized a man to whom I had applied a few days before for a position as bookkeeper. I stopped him and asked bluntly for work of any kind. He offered me a job as day laborer, cutting ice on some pond several miles away; for he was the manager of an ice company. I should have accepted at once had he not, with true Yankee shrewdness, argued from my evident necessity and unskilfulness that I should work for less than a regular day's pay. At this I demurred, but should certainly have yielded had not Hacking, by some freak of fortune, passing by, caught in my speech the accents of the "old Shire." He introduced himself without ceremony, and taking me by the arm, led me away, telling the ice-cutter to go to a place where the climate would give him no occupation, unless he changed his business. Hacking was a big, bluff chap with a red face, and not a bit of the Yankee about him, though he was then some ten years over. When he offered me his friendship, and suggested that we could talk better in a warm place, and after a lunch, you may be sure I did not refuse him. My heart and stomach were alike empty. All through my disappointments a stiff upper lip had I kept, but this first bit of kindness was almost too much for me, and I nearly played the woman for all my twenty years. We adjourned to the "Bell-in-hand," where I told as little as possible of my story to him, between alternate mouthfuls of cold beef and swallows of old ale. I confessed to him I was "dead broke," and could find no employment; that is, no employment for which I was fitted. He asked me for what I was fitted, and I told him I was blessed if I knew; that as near as I could discover day labor was about all I was good for. He clapped me on the back with a "Never say die, my lad!" but could think of no suggestion which promised me any relief, and finally invited me to drive home with him. He owned a little inn at Brighton, and promised me food and shelter for a few days until I could "gather myself together." That this very necessary feat could be performed in a "few days" I very much doubted; but the invitation I accepted gratefully, and five o'clock found me sitting beside him on the narrow seat of a light carriage, my portmanteau tied on behind. The road to Brighton was a very decent one, and the big roan mare he drove reeled off the miles in a way that opened my eyes to the possibilities of the trotting horse. I doubt if there was her equal in all England. A clock was striking six when we stopped before the door of the "Traveller's Rest," and I slid off the seat on to the frozen ground, my legs so stiff that I could scarcely walk. It was a large white house, with green blinds, and a piazza with tall white pillars in front. Cosy enough it seemed, too, with its lighted windows and its smell of hot meats; while from the bar in the corner came the sounds of a jingling piano and a good voice singing an Old Country ballad of "Jack and his Susan." I found the inside of the house as comfortable as the outside looked inviting, and it was after a better dinner than I had eaten for many days that I sat with Hacking in a little parlor off the bar, my feet toasting at a coal fire, taking a comforting pipe and an occasional sip of the "necessary." It did not take me long to find that Hacking was most interested in sporting matters, and our conversation gradually harked back to the cracks of the cinder-path who were in their glory when he left Lancashire, ten years before. A little information I gave him about old friends, and then we talked of those who had taken their places, Hacking bewailing the fact that there were none like the "good uns" of the past. "How many men are there to-day," he asked, "who can do the hundred in even time?" "There are very few good sound even-timers in all England," I answered, "and only two among the amateurs,--one a Cockney, the other a Yorkshireman. The only Lancashireman who can do the hundred in ten seconds is sitting with you to-night, and little likely to see the Old Country again for many a long year, if ever." At this, Hacking gave me a very comprehensive look, puffed a few times vigorously at his pipe, and said, "Young fellow, boasting is a very bad habit, particularly on sporting matters. I will bet you your board bill for a month against the pipe you smoke, that you cannot show me better than eleven seconds to-morrow morning." "Eleven seconds!" said I, "a school-boy should do that." "Yes, eleven seconds," spoke up Hacking again. "You are not in condition and the track is slow, which will even matters up, and I'll give you the advantage of the odd fraction." I accepted his proposition very promptly, though the pipe was the only friend I had, and a relic of old college days which I should have hated to lose. While I was certainly not in training, poverty and worry had left me no superfluous flesh, and it must be a bad track indeed which could pull me back to eleven. We talked and smoked until a little after ten, when I pleaded fatigue and went upstairs to bed, Hacking agreeing to call me at six o'clock the following morning, as he said he had reasons for wishing the trial private. He showed me to a very comfortable room on the second floor, which seemed luxurious after my experiences of the last two weeks. Although I had left home without the formalities of farewell calls, and under the cover of the night, I had put in my luggage, small as it was, a pair of running shoes, trunks, and jersey. Why I did this I could not have told; certainly not in expectation of using them again, for I thought there was no sport in America, and that I had run my last race. I think now it must have been the unconscious wish to keep one link with the good old days when I had carried the "dark blue" to the front, or thereabout, over brown cinder path and soft green sod. I did not sleep very well for all my comfortable quarters, and when Hacking knocked at my door on the following morning I had been up an hour or more, and was clad in full running togs, having ripped from trunks and jersey all trace of the well-loved color. When he looked me over his eyes glistened, for he had not seen an English athlete in a proper rig for many a long day. We went down the back stairs and through the barn yard to a little track behind the house. It was a foggy morning and one could barely see the length of the hundred yards. I jogged once or twice over the course to warm up, and discover some of the bad spots, and then announced that I was ready for the trial. Just then the sun came out, and as I waited at the start while Hacking went to the finish, he walked through a golden haze. It seemed a good omen. I felt more at home in my running-shoes than I had since I left the Old Country, and was once again happy, with my foot on the mark, drinking in full draughts of fresh air and waiting for the signal to be off. This was the drop of a handkerchief, for Hacking did not care to use a pistol. There was the quick spring, the crunch of the cinders, the rush of the soft wind, the ever-quickening stride, until with one last effort I passed the post with a rush. It was a rough trial, sure enough, but Hacking's watch showed ten and four-fifths. He announced himself satisfied, confirmed his promise, and my worry about food and shelter was over for a full long month. I now spent a number of days trying still to find something to do which I could fairly handle, going into the city each day, but entirely without result. I was at no expense, however, for I walked to and from town, and took a cold lunch with me. This last was attended to by Hacking's niece, a tall, fair-haired girl, a trifle awkward yet, for she was only sixteen, but pretty, and promising to be a real beauty later. She was very kind and gracious, as a good girl is sure to be toward one in trouble. Indeed, Jennie's sympathy soon became liking, and might perhaps have grown to something more had it received any encouragement. I do not mean by this that I was irresistible or that she was at all unmaidenly, for a more modest girl I never saw. But she was very lonely, her uncle allowing her not the least word with any of his customers. I was the first young fellow she had ever known, and sixteen is a romantic age. Never was I beast enough to have gone further than a mild flirtation with a girl like Jennie, and now I was bound in honor not to abuse the confidence of a friend, the only one I had. There were some old Lancashire memories, also, which would not down. I had not been long at the "Traveller's Rest" before, at Hacking's request, I went into mild training, and soon after he broached to me a plan by which I might make enough to keep me for some months, and incidentally a comfortable penny for his own purse. This was the plan: There was in Boston a man by the name of Simmons, who was yards better than any one in the country. Hacking plainly told me that while I ought to win, even I had no sure thing, but that he would risk a hundred dollars or more on my success; that he could get odds of at least two to one, and that he would give me one-third of the winnings. It may be a matter of surprise that I should decline this offer,--almost an object of charity, with everything to win and nothing to lose; but there was something very disagreeable to me in the thought of turning professional. The line between amateur and professional was then, and is now, much more closely drawn on the other side than here,--and rightly so, to my mind. While I do not propose to preach a sermon on this text, "I could, an' if I would." The jockeying in our American colleges, though very skilfully done, is bad in every way and hurts legitimate sport not a little. I felt, I say, that in running for a wager with a professional I was forfeiting my standing as a gentleman amateur, and my claim to be considered a gentleman at all. Jennie thought the same thing, and came mighty near a quarrel with her uncle over the matter. But he, led more by the ambition to pull off a good thing than by mercenary motives, would not give up his plan, though Jennie begged with tears in her eyes,--an argument which had never before been ineffectual. It was only when I had lived on his bounty a full week over the month that he hinted, delicately enough (for a right good fellow was he), that my time was up. There was nothing else to do but consent, and a week later the "Boston Herald" announced that there was "a match on between Chipper Simmons and Hacking's Unknown, $200 to $100, distance one hundred yards, to be run May 1, at Hacking's Brighton track, at four o'clock in the afternoon." I had three weeks of careful training on the wretched little track, and when the morning of May 1 dawned I was fit as possible, and able to run for my life. It was not an English May day, but more like what I was used to seeing in the Old Country a month earlier. The sky was blue, and across it drifted soft white clouds, for there had been showers in the night. There was the smell of the moist earth, and what little wind there was blew from the south, and carried the fragrance of the pear-blossoms from a young orchard to my window as I threw it open. I took my tub and Hacking gave me a right good rub down after; not a very artistic performance, but given with good will and with a strong hand. When it was done he looked me over with a critical eye, pronouncing me very fit, "barring a heavy pound or two;" but as I had done my work faithfully he could find no fault. He thought me a bit over-confident, and told me so; but I had never for a moment doubted my ability to defeat anything against me, and I paid little attention to his words. I was not conceited, but I knew there were not a half-dozen amateurs in all England in my class, and was sure an Old-Country crack must outclass anything the States could produce. As early as two o'clock the spectators began to arrive, and I, following my own inclination as well as Hacking's suggestion to "get under cover," went upstairs and knocked at the door of Jennie's little sitting-room. She greeted me most cordially with a handshake and a "good day to a good winner." She was dressed in her best gown, and had been sitting at the window to watch the arrivals. I took a seat by her side on the little chintz-cushioned window-seat, and watched with her. To those who to-day see the throngs of well-dressed and refined people, many of them ladies, who attend college, amateur, and even professional sports, it may not be amiss to describe the spectators of my first match at Hacking's Brighton track, back in the sixties, for a typical sporting crowd it was. They drove to the door in all sorts and descriptions of vehicles, drawn by animals as various. They soon filled the long sheds back of the house, and then a dilapidated fence was utilized for hitching-posts, and even a few trees of the young orchard. The drivers were many of them Englishmen, for the average American was too keen after the dollars in those days to leave them for sport of any kind. The adjournment to the bar was almost unanimous, where enough money was taken for fancy drinks to make good Hacking's stake had he lost. We could see them come swaggering up the steps, many of them carrying whip in hand, and there was much loud talk of passing Tom, Dick, or Harry on the road, with the "little bay" or the "brown colt." We could hear them plainly, for the window was up a bit, and they did not talk in whispers. Every now and again some one would chaff Hacking on his Unknown, telling him to "trot out the wonder," or "give us a sight of the man who runs Simmons even." It was three o'clock when a long moving wagon labelled "Boston Belle" drove up to the door, containing Simmons, his backers and immediate attendants; and the crowd at the bar sauntered out on the piazza to meet them, and hurried back in augmented numbers to patronize still further the tall bottles behind the mahogany. I had a glimpse of Simmons as he stepped out; but he was enveloped in a long ulster, and all I could discover was that he was extremely tall and dark. His supporters had plenty of money, and soon ran the odds up to three to one, at which figures Hacking accommodated them to a considerable extent. I had not another supporter, however, for they all seemed to consider that Hacking had quite lost his head, and took the match as a huge joke. It was very evident that, if I broke the tape, it would be a most unpopular, as well as unexpected, win. Hacking stuck to them well, but at last got all he wanted, and declined to risk any more. So confident was Simmons' principal backer that he proposed another match, though this was not yet pulled off, agreeing to concede three yards when we ran again. It is wonderful what effect such talk has on a contestant, no matter how confident he may be. I had not for a moment doubted the ability of a crack man like myself to beat anything in the States at my distance, but I now began to admit the possibility of defeat, and to consider that it meant almost starvation to me. You must remember I was barely twenty years old, in a strange country, and a man trained close to the limit is particularly liable to fancies. Jennie had been talking to me all the time in her quiet way, for she had the good old English habit of subdued speech; but little did I hear then, and now I remember almost nothing at all. I first noticed that she had become vastly indignant at a reflection on the courage of the "Unknown who dares not show himself." "Don't fret: you'll see him soon enough, my man," she said, with a toss of her head. She was giving me some absurd instructions about letting Simmons get the best of the start, and then sailing by him in the last few yards, so that the disappointment might be more intense, when some one in the crowd yelled out with a Yorkshire accent, "Fifteen dollars to five on the long-legged Chipper. Fifteen to five against the 'veiled lady.'" There was a loud laugh at this, which was too much for Jennie. She jumped up, went to her little desk in the corner, and took from one of those secret drawers, which are so evident, her purse, and emptying it in her lap counted out five dollars and a few cents over. She then called the chamber-maid, gave her the five dollars, and told her to give it to Jerry, the hostler, to bet on Mr. Brown. "'Tis an easy way to make money," she said, with an immense amount of disdain at my remonstrance. I sat with her a while longer, she doing all the talking, for my mind was occupied, to put it mildly. When the little clock on the shelf pointed to three-thirty, I left to get into my running-togs, she giving me a good grip with her soft warm hand, and saying, "I shall see you win from the attic window." When I reached my room, which Hacking told me to keep locked, I had a difficulty in finding the key-hole that I had never experienced, except "after dinner" or at late hours of the evening, my fingers being quite unsteady. As I stripped, my courage seemed to leave me with every garment. I remember I wondered if it would come back again when I put on my running-clothes. A little better I did feel, but at the last moment I broke the lace of my left shoe as I was pulling it tight. Now, there is an old superstition that this means a lost race, and though I had never thought of such a foolish thing before, it seemed now a sure omen of defeat. Indeed, I may as well confess first as last, that when Hacking knocked at my door, for the first time in all my life (and the last as well) I was in a blue funk. Yes, a rank quitter was I on that afternoon of May 1, 186-, and I am not sure I should not have cut and run, had there been the least chance to get away. Hacking discovered my condition at once, and grew mighty serious when his efforts to hearten me were unsuccessful. And truly the man had good reason to be serious,--a good three hundred dollars at risk, and here was his man with knees kissing and lips white. There was nothing to do but to go on with the game, though, to make it worse, as I walked down the back stairs, I caught my spikes in a crack and nearly put myself out of the race by a bad fall before the start. It is almost an absurd thing to say, but when I picked myself up and discovered I was entirely uninjured, I cursed the ill-luck which had not allowed me to be disabled. I did have pride enough to make a brace when I reached the open air, and flattered myself I did not show how badly I felt. I was enveloped in a long top-coat, which hid me completely, but as we forced our way to the track through the spectators, who crowded around to get a look at me, my teeth were set to keep them from chattering. There were several offers of three to one, and one of four to one, as we passed; but Hacking said he had enough, and I think he told the truth and could have said "more." He hurried on with me to the start, where Simmons stood with a little cluster of his most ardent admirers. As we approached, Simmons threw off his ulster, and came forward to meet me. His eye caught mine, and he smiled in a very peculiar way, discovering immediately my condition, and held out a long brown hand, without a word. I extended mine mechanically, expecting an ordinary handshake, but greatly to my surprise he gripped it in a most vicious squeeze which brought almost a cry of agony to my lips. I learned afterwards that this was a common trick to intimidate and dishearten, but was entirely unprepared for anything of the kind, having always run against gentlemen, where all proper courtesies were observed. The effect upon me was, however, directly opposite that expected. My trouble was not so much lack of courage as simple nervousness. With the shock of the pain this disappeared as if by magic, and in its place came at first a blind rage at the injury, which I could scarcely restrain, and then the determination to win, if I never ran again. I was a different man. I threw off my top-coat, and facing my opponent, looked him over critically and carefully. I am free to say I could not deny him a long breath of admiration. He was over six feet tall, dark and slender, showing signs of the infusion of Indian blood which was in his veins. He was clad in a common undershirt, far from clean. Instead of trunks he wore overalls cut off just above the knees, and on his feet were a pair of well-seasoned moccasins. Yet despite his unsportsmanlike and ludicrous costume, a better-built man for a sprinter I never saw, and I have seen some of the best. His legs were long and lithe, well-rounded, but not too heavily muscled, and every cord and sinew showed through the brown skin as fine and firm as a bowstring. He carried not an ounce of extra weight above the belt, although his chest was full and his arms sinewy. With the strong jaw and piercing black eyes, there could be no question of their possessor's determination. I knew my work was cut out for me with a big pair of shears; that I had met a man as good if not better than myself, and I must do all I knew to win. That I was to win I had now determined,--a grand, good condition of mind for a contestant to possess. Simmons observed me as critically as I did him, and I think that the more he saw of me the less he liked me. The contrast between us was as great as possible. I was as fair as he was dark, several inches shorter, and although without any superfluous flesh, much larger boned and muscled. Indeed I was built more like a "quarter-miler" than a sprinter. I must have bettered his weight by several pounds, and had not the top-coat covered me, and my nervousness shown itself, I question if he would have tried his little bit of brutality upon me. While the survey of my opponent was most comprehensive, it was the work of seconds. He suddenly produced a roll of dirty bank-bills, and shook them in my face with a "See here, young fellow, I go you one hundred to fifty you're a loser." I opened my mouth to decline the bet, but my words were drowned by a torrent of mingled abuse, invective, and I know not what of "billingsgate." It ended in an endless repetition of the very conclusive sentence, "Put up, or shut up," "Put up, or shut up," which evidently gave him an extreme amount of satisfaction. I was not then the possessor of fifty cents, and was pleased when the starter silenced him with the peremptory order to "Get on your marks." I went to the line at once, followed by Simmons, and as the crowd was being pressed back slowly behind the ropes, Hacking drew me a little aside and gave me his last instructions. "Now, my lad, listen to what I say. You've got your heart back all right, and can win if you use your head. The starter will hurry the pistol a bit, for he would like to see you win, and you need not be afraid of going away too soon. Get a yard to the good, and hold it, for if you cannot show clear at the tape, you will stand no show with the referee." I learned afterwards that while both were supposed to be fair and unprejudiced men, Hacking had practically named the starter, and Simmons' backer the referee. The former would give me all possible advantage, and the latter would see none but my opponent at the finish without opera-glasses unless I had him plainly beaten. To those who do not know, I will say that, in a sprint, very much depends on the start; that a contestant must be off with the pistol, or steal on it if he can. But if he gets away before the shot, he is brought back and penalized a yard for each offence. Knowing that the pistol would be a bit quick was a decided advantage to me, as I could start without fear of being set back. As I got in position, I had made up my mind to the following facts: First, that I had the best side of the track. It was the west or farthest from the house, and well I knew every inch of the brown cinder-path that stretched before me. For the first fifty yards there was nothing to choose; but on the east side, which Simmons had taken, just before the finish was a soft spot which would trouble him. Second, the rain of the previous night had made the track quite heavy, which should also help me, as my greater strength must push me through. Third, my appearance had not been without its effect on the crowd, and I had heard a word or two of approval of my "get-up," also of the quiet and business-like way in which I had met Simmons' tirade. We were on our marks and waiting for the word when suddenly my opponent discovered my running-shoes, and insisted that I must run in smooth soles like himself. He kept up a wordy warfare with Hacking on this subject for at least five minutes, Hacking arguing that there were no restrictions, and that I could wear top-boots or golden slippers if I chose. Simmons was silenced at last by the crowd, who plainly saw I would not run without spikes, and were bound to see a race. All this controversy, together with the continued brutality of my opponent, had put me fairly on edge. I was as cool as possible, ready to do all I knew, eager to start, and growing more determined if not more confident every minute. I had given an occasional glance at the attic window of the hotel where I could see Jennie, and every time I looked came the wave of a little handkerchief that did me a heap of good. As I "set myself," and looked down the track, fringed on either side by the crowds of spectators pressed close against the ropes, not one of whom was friendly to me, every nerve of my body tingled, and the "fighting blood" passed down to me through many generations of good old English stock was at a fever heat. Now I saw nothing and thought of nothing but the red worsted at the finish; I strained at the mark with every muscle tense, my weight well forward, and a buzz in my ears like the song of a huge top. From the starter's lips came the "On your marks,"--"Ready,"--"Set," and then a bit ahead of time came the "crack" of the pistol, and we were off. Can any one describe the mad ten seconds of a sprint? 'Tis over in a breath, and words are slow. I doubt I had a foot the best of the start, but Simmons was a trifle "phased" by the quick shot, and did not get his speed so quickly. But when he did get it, how he came! At fifty yards we were even, and at seventy-five (do all I could) Simmons had drawn a yard to the good. A yell went up from the crowd. It made him think he had me beat. But had he? His easy wins had taught a fatal fault of slowing at the finish. The soft ground helped it, and the yell that gave him a false confidence drove me mad with glory. I let out the last link in me, and passing like a shot, broke the tape, a clear winner by a yard. There was no mistake: Hacking's "Unknown" had won. I ran much farther over the finish than did Simmons, and when I worked my way to the referee through the crowd, the decision was announced, and my opponent was like a fiend. He threatened the referee, and swore he would break the neck of the d---- "ringer" with the spiked shoes. Although I was not looking for trouble, I should not have hesitated to show him I knew another game beside running if he had laid a hand on me. Thanks to his friends' persuasion, with some physical force added, he was pulled away and through the crowd. This last had now become quite friendly to me, having gone from curiosity to admiration for the man who could beat the "Chipper" even. Some shook my hand, others patted me on the back, and many suggested an adjournment to the bar with unlimited liquid refreshment as the "proper medicine for a good winner." They took my declining in good part, and soon Hacking forced his way to me, and tearing me from my admirers, gave me a chance to retire to my room. I found Jennie at the top of the stairs, with tears of joy in her eyes, and a bit hysterical from excitement. Greatly to my surprise (and her own as well, when she realized what she had done), she threw both arms round my neck, and kissed me twice before she came to herself. Then there was a bright blush, a quick turn, the rustle of skirts, and the slam of the door. I was glad enough to reach the solitude of my room, where from the window I saw Simmons bundled into the "Boston Belle" by a half-dozen dejected supporters, and with none to do him honor among the many. "_Le roi est mort, vive le roi_," is as true on the cinder-path as in the great world outside. But as I sat in my room, a winner, with the cheers still echoing in my ears, and good money awaiting me, it was a sad heart that beat under my jersey. For the "red pottage of Esau" I had sold my birthright. [Illustration: The Hollow Hammer] It was on a June day back in the late "sixties" that I first saw Angus MacLeod, the hero of my story of "The Hollow Hammer." I had given a boxing-lesson to a little jeweller in South Boston who was burdened with a pugilistic ambition, and was walking leisurely homeward, enjoying the fine weather and the exercise in the open air. As I sauntered along at an easy pace, with my eyes wandering here and there, something in the day or the neighborhood reminded me of the "Old Country," and particularly the ancient town of Bury. I think it must have been the sight of the iron-foundry down the street, with the flames streaming from its chimneys. I know I was harking back to almost forgotten scenes, and old acquaintances who had doubtless long ago forgotten me (excepting one, perhaps), when a chorus of rough voices brought me to myself with a start. The noise came from behind the high fence which shut in the iron-works yard, and I could not make out what it meant until I reached the open gate and looked in. It was the noon hour, and there were a lot of men lounging about, eating from their tin pails, smoking short black pipes, and doing whatever else they fancied. The yard was as level and smooth as a tennis-court, but without the least sign of turf except along the fence and fringing the foundation-stones of the foundry building. The noise came from a crowd of workmen, clustered together not far from the huge door. A row of them sat on the ground with their backs against the wall, and there were a dozen or more standing together in a bunch. These were mostly the younger men, who, not content with five hours' work since sunrise, were having a friendly test of strength in putting the shot. They were using for the purpose an old cannon-ball, which must have weighed a bit over the sixteen pounds by the size of it. Cannon-balls were plenty in those days, for the war was not many years over. Now, there is always something interesting to me in the sport of a lot of workingmen. They take a bit of a lark with all the more heartiness because they do not have too many of them. Then, again, this shot-putting contest was for the pure love of the game, and without the selfish incentives of money, prize, or glory. There was a running fire of good-natured chaff all the time, and at each "put," good, bad, or indifferent, the contestant was guyed unmercifully for his style or distance. Failing this, some old personality was raked up, the allusion to which brought out no end of laughter and applause. It was an interesting scene, with plenty of variety and color. The men were mostly big, brawny fellows, with sleeveless flannel shirts of red, blue, or gray, open at the breast; and grime or rust could not hide the splendid development of arms, chests, and shoulders. The sun was warm and bright, and here and there a tin pail would catch the light, and shine as clear, I warrant, as ever the shield of a good knight, back in the old days when there were sterner sports than tossing an iron shot. Many a good man could I see, but at the game they were trying they had much to learn. 'Twas a case of "bull beef," and little more. I watched them a few minutes, but was about to move on when there appeared at the door of the foundry a young fellow who caught my eye at once. He was stripped to the waist, fresh from a struggle with the stubborn iron, and his body was drenched and shining with sweat. His arms and shoulders were round and firm; but there was no abnormal development, or sign of a bound muscle, and he stood with an ease that proved good legs under him, though hidden by the thick corduroys. His hair was light and curly, and his face was smooth and clean cut. Many bigger and some stronger men have I seen, but none whose proportions were so perfect. Among the few remembrances of my books is that dialogue of Plato which describes the sensations of Socrates at first seeing the beautiful youth, Charmides. Well (may Socrates forgive me the comparison), I had the same feeling when I first looked at Angus MacLeod on that June day, back in the "sixties." Barring the difference in costume, and the grime which a little water would remove, I believe they were alike as two peas. The lad (he looked scarcely twenty years of age for all his development) stood a moment or two in the doorway, watching with an amused smile a big fellow put the shot a scant twenty feet, after an enormous amount of effort. Then he was noticed by some one who called out, "Come here, Mac, you porridge-eater, and show them how to do it." At this he laughed, shook his head, and would not budge. But the call was taken up by others, with a lot of chaff, like, "The lad's bashful," "A Scotch puddler's always shy except on pay-day," and a plenty more like it. At last a young fellow in a blue jersey, and an old chap, the color and material of whose shirt were alike doubtful, took each an arm, and led him, holding back a bit and laughing, to the circle within which the shot lay. He picked it up, dropped it while he drew his narrow belt a hole or two tighter, and then picked it up again. He rolled it a bit in his hand, raised it two or three times from his shoulder high above his head, balanced a moment on his right leg, with the left lifted, and then, with that easy wrist and hand motion, and that little "flick" at the end, he sent the old cannon-ball a good two yards farther than any who had tried. It was a right good "put," though not a phenomenal one, and hardly a fault could I find with the style, barring a little failure to get the full turn of the body. Almost as soon as the shot landed, and before the mingled applause and good-natured chaffing were over, he left them with a parting joke, and disappeared through the door, going back to his waiting furnace. This was my first sight of Angus MacLeod. I looked him up a few days later, got acquainted easily, and in fact hit it off right well with him from the beginning. I was just enough older for him to look up to me a bit in other matters beside athletics, and on this last subject he gave me credit for possessing all the knowledge in the market. I learned that he had been in this country some four years, that he lived with an uncle, one of the pillars of a Scotch Presbyterian church, and that Angus was himself a churchman, devout and regular in his habits. He had taken to athletics, with no other preparation than the school-boy sports of old Aberdeen, making a specialty of the "shot-put" and "hammer-throw." This last was his favorite sport, and by dint of regular practice in an open lot back of his house he was able to show about ninety feet as a best performance. He improved this at once under my instruction, working up to a regular hundred feet in a couple of weeks. This pleased him very much, and he took kindly to my suggestion that he enter some open competition, and see what he could do in a contest. Indeed, he was quite confident that he could give a good showing, making much of the fact that the MacLeods had been noted for their strength for centuries. Many stories he told me of old John M'Dhoil-vic-Huishdon, from whom he claimed to have descended. This John was the head of the MacLeods of Lewis. He lived in the days of James VI., and, though a man of small stature, was of matchless strength. Some of the tales, I confess, I should have doubted, had not Angus been both a Scotchman and a church member of good standing. It was quite easy for us to choose an opportunity for Mac's début, as there were some very convenient sports only a few weeks ahead. These games, Scotch and otherwise, were the principal attraction at an annual excursion of Caledonian societies, comprising all those within a radius of one hundred miles of Boston. Purses were small, but the enthusiasm great; and many a canny Scot, under the influence of a "wee drappie," would back an impossible winner for all his pockets might hold. These were the good old days of Duncan Ross and Captain Daily, and at one of these Caledonian excursions there afterward occurred that never-to-be-forgotten wrestling bout on the deck of a boat moored in the lake. So fierce was the struggle that the men worked overboard, and neither being willing to break hold, they were well filled with water, and in fact half-drowned before they separated. Angus belonged to one of the Boston clans, and naturally chose these Caledonian games for his first appearance, working hard, training faithfully, and saying nothing, for a very quiet chap was Mac. If all the men I have trained had been as easy to handle as MacLeod, I should have one or two less gray hairs than I now possess. Unfortunately, church members are not in as large a percentage as I would wish on the cinder-path. Now, I had at first no intention of pulling a dollar out of the affair, except my regular fee for training. Even this I at first declined, wishing to help my friend purely out of friendship. Mac would not have it, however, and as his pay was high, I allowed him to have his way. I had now been making a business of training athletes for nearly a year, getting a good living out of it, and had at the beginning a nice little nest-egg in the bank, ready for a rainy day. Exactly how this was accumulated I do not care to say. These tales are in no sense confessions, and I shall avoid the "strutting I" as much as possible. After my defeat of "Chipper" Simmons, at Hacking's Brighton track, there were a couple of years passed not at all to my liking, though profitably enough for one of small ideas. I took on matches wherever they promised a dollar. I ran everybody, and every distance, from a fifty-yard dash to a mile run, and almost invariably won, largely because of the pains I took with myself, and my careful training. I learned all the tricks of the trade, gave close finishes always, did an artistic "fainting act," and made myself a subject of regretful, not to say painful, remembrance to a large part of the sporting fraternity. They stood it all right for a couple of years, but the summer before I met MacLeod I suddenly discovered I had about squeezed the orange dry. They had, very naturally, grown more and more shy of me, until it had become impossible to obtain a match, except under prohibitive conditions. I tried giving good men eight yards in the "hundred" and one hundred yards in the mile for a while, but discovered it was a hard business, with nothing in it. My only profit, as far as I could see, was to run crooked, and fake a race or two, but at this, though not over-nice, I drew the line. I was willing to underrate my powers, and fool the fancy on my condition; to win by a scant yard with pretended effort, in order to pull on my opponent to another race; but to back him on the sly and lie down, to pull money from my friends, I could not. A gentleman I might not be, but honest I would be still. Indeed, despite the "winning way" I had, my reputation was of the best as a rare, good runner, as a square man who gave his backers a straight run for their money, and as the most knowing man in the States concerning work and training for the cinder-path. On this last I made up my mind to trade. I announced my absolute retirement as a contestant, and my intention to make a business of training and handling others. My prices startled them a bit at the beginning, but after I had made a few winners out of almost impossible timber, I was kept fairly well occupied. When the winter put a stop to my out-of-doors work, I became instructor in a gymnasium, and gave lessons in boxing and fencing. I even prepared one man for a ring contest, which he won, thanks to his perfect condition, after acting as a chopping-block to a better boxer for a couple of hours, this affair satisfying me at once and forever with the prize ring. At the coming of the spring I found my book very well filled, and would by June have been quite content to have trained Mac with no recompense whatever. Yet I had no objections to make money from others, and discovered a very fair opportunity, as I thought, about two weeks before the games. I then received a bit of information that there was a dark horse grooming for the hammer throw, in the person of an Irishman by the name of Duffy. He was an enormous fellow, as strong as an ox, could do nearly one hundred feet, and the tip made him a sure winner. Now, I was very confident I knew better, though ninety feet, in those days, was phenomenal for an amateur, and a throw of one hundred had not been made in any previous contest. The best of the news was kept for the last, and that was that Duffy had plenty of friends with good money to back him. I figured at once that MacLeod could just about call the trick, that being a smaller man would help the odds, and that, properly managed, there was a pretty penny in it. Mac was now doing from one hundred to one hundred and five in the most consistent manner, and I made up my mind to plunge on him a bit, keeping quiet so that Duffy's friends might show their hands first. This was easy enough, for Mac did all his work after supper in the vacant lot back of his house, where no one could pull a tape over his throws. It was prudent, also, for MacLeod had very rigid ideas about betting (gambling he called it), and would undoubtedly have protested, if he had not declined to show at all. Duffy's friends began very cautiously with small figures, and I took all that showed through a third party. When one hundred dollars was promptly covered, however, they made up their minds there was something else good, and became a bit shy. I let them alone until the evening before the excursion, when I sallied into the Duffy neighborhood, and at one to two offered to produce a man weighing under one hundred and seventy pounds who would win against all. Now, a hammer-thrower of this weight is rare, and I found all the money I cared to cover. Indeed, I exceeded my limit a trifle. Then I wandered over to Mac's field, pulled the tape over his throw of one hundred and eight, and went home and to sleep, for not a grain of anxiety had I over the result. I doubt if I should have given five per cent. to be insured a winner. The day dawned, fine and hot. We went down from Boston a good three hundred strong, men, women, and children, the last turning out a whole clan by themselves. There were bagpipes squealing, babies crying, and a Babel of rough Scotch tongues. Tartans were displayed in all the colors of the rainbow. Some were content to show only a tie, ribbon, or shawl, but a fair percentage were in full Highland costume, and far from comfortable many of them looked. The dress is wonderfully picturesque, and nothing is more becoming to an athletic man with straight legs and strong brown knees. But for a petty tradesman with legs like pipe-stems, knock-kneed, and ghastly white it is particularly trying, and many of the gallant Scots looked as if they would like to don the protecting "breeks" to which they had become accustomed. We all piled into the hot and dusty cars, and after an hour and a half were glad to get a breath of fresh air as we steamed down the bay. Indeed, when we reached the "Point," a little before noon, I was loath to go ashore, for the trees on a ridge of land cut off the wind, and the place was like a furnace. Nothing looked comfortable but a pair of bronze lions who flanked the roadway to the hotel, and had they been alive I am sure they would have found the day altogether too tropical. I could see the crowds flocking around the swings, merry-go-rounds, and the monkey cage, and there was a motley crowd in hired bathing-suits enjoying a dip in the salt water. Of these last only was I in the least envious. The clans, immediately upon landing, formed in procession, and marched off in the broiling sun, a half-dozen pipers playing "The Campbells are coming" as loudly as possible, skirling like so many pigs under a gate. The most conspicuous figure was an old fellow who blew as if his life depended on the effort, and until I feared he would burst his bagpipe if he did not rupture a blood-vessel first. He seemed to feel that the world was looking at him, and he was well conscious of its admiration. He was big-boned, loose-jointed, and so sandy that it was a riddle to guess his age. His shoulders were badly rounded, but he straightened up every few seconds in an abortive effort to appear erect on this occasion, if never again. He was clad in full Highland costume, even to dirk and claymore,--a rather unusual accompaniment, and dangerous as well, for a Scot on a merry-making where Scotch whiskey and Scotch ale mingle freely. He wore the MacNab tartan, and the kilt looked as if it had been slept in, all twisted and wrinkled. As the clans marched up the hill and between the lions, I could see the bright red tartans of the Frasers, the black and green of the Gordons, and the beautiful parti-colors of the Stewarts. There were many others, all showing bright in the sun; and there was a lift to the heels of the marchers which nothing could have caused but the shrill notes of the bagpipes. Indeed, they were enough to start the sluggish blood in my veins, though I suppose my ancestors had long years ago heard the same sounds with resentment, as the Scots swarmed over the border. As a parlor instrument I should admit it had its superiors, but for strong men going to battle I doubt if it has its equal. There were all kinds of men in the crowd, from the gray-haired veteran to the little fellow, born on American soil, who had never seen the tartan kilts except on a holiday. There were a number of contestants in the line, with strong, athletic figures, but not one could compare with Angus, in the yellow and black of the MacLeods, as he marched, almost the last. I saw the girls had their eyes on him, though Mac neither noticed nor cared, for he thought them "kittle cattle," and was much fonder of handling hammer and shot. I had seen little of Angus since the start, for he was a clan officer and had many duties, but found him, to my surprise, not in the least nervous, and quite confident of winning. Did not old John M'Dhoil-vic-Huishdon outclass all competitors in the old days, and was not Angus MacLeod a lineal descendant, to whom had come the family strength? He said he had heard that there had been considerable money bet on him to win, which he deplored, and that he would not have gone into the thing at all had he foreseen it. I told him he was very foolish, for a man might bet how long a Sunday sermon would last, and that if he did not risk anything himself, not to trouble himself about others. Though unable to argue, he shook his head, and was, I saw, uneasy, but I had no fear of his drawing out at this late day. When the crowd disappeared, I went to the hotel, and engaged a quiet room, on the cool side of the house, where Angus joined me as soon as the procession broke ranks. I made him lie down a little while, gave him a sponge and rub-down, and after a good lunch, such as a man should eat who expects soon to call upon the best powers of his body, he pronounced himself feeling strong enough to throw the hammer into the bay. We could see the crowd, contestants and all, file into the long dining-rooms, where "clam-bakes" were served. A very nice lunch for an excursionist, but about the most awful diet possible for an athlete, particularly if he gorge himself in a laudable ambition to get the full value of his fifty cents. We waited until it was after two o'clock, and found the games already started when we arrived at the place called in compliment the "athletic grounds." It was simply an enclosure roped off from an open field; track there was none, except as the feet of contestants had worn off the turf and the sun had baked the surface hard. There were no seats, and we found our way with some difficulty through the spectators, who crowded a dozen deep all the way round, and tested the strength of the rope and the firmness of the wooden posts through which it was drawn. An eager, hot, and perspiring crowd it was, jostling, pushing, and elbowing, and the last half-dozen rows might as well have been in the Orkneys, as far as seeing the sports was concerned. As usual the tall and strong were in front, and the short and weak were behind. We found the enclosure full of contestants and their friends, the latter an insupportable nuisance, in everybody's way, not excepting their own. We saw Duffy standing with a little knot of henchmen, and they gave Mac a critical glance as he walked by my side. It had leaked out in some way who my man was, and the interest in him was great. They knew I was not in the habit of taking up anything unless it was good, and some of Mac's friends from the foundry had got a day off, with their last pay envelopes with them. All the officials and two-thirds of the crowd were Caledonians, but the contests were nearly all open, and there was a large number of other nationalities represented, particularly the Irish. Of system there was next to none, changes were frequent, and orders given and countermanded in the same breath. The noise was deafening and the heat insupportable. The dust was like a good Scotch snuff as far as sneezing properties were concerned, and of about the same color. We were just in time to see the "fat men's race," in which the contestants ran themselves almost into apoplexies. I am sure some of these mountains of flesh must have permanently injured themselves, and endangered their lives by their exertions. I do not pretend to remember all the contests that followed, but there were opportunities for every one, man, woman, and child, old or young, to distinguish himself. Beside the regular sprints, runs, jumps, and weight contests, there were "sack," "wheelbarrow," "potato," and "three-legged" races, all opportunities for great laughter and applause. I ordered Mac back to the hotel when we learned that the "hammer-throw" was the very last event, and only sent for him when the afternoon had nearly dragged itself out. The last casts were then being made at "tossing the caber," which, being the most characteristic Caledonian game of all, had a most formidable list. Indeed, Angus was much disappointed that he had not entered, in which feeling I did not at all join, for I wanted him to save all his strength. I remember now a little bandy-legged fellow in a crazy-looking kilt who struggled with the heavy log, which he could scarcely lift, let alone toss. He turned to me after a superhuman effort, his face aglow with pride and exertion, and remarked breathlessly, "Rinnin's weel eneugh for laddies; thot's the sport of a mon." The "hammer-throw" had been left for the last, as I was informed, because none would leave until it was over, thus ensuring a full attendance until the end. The reason the "hammer-throw" was so popular was because there was more money on it than all the other events combined, also because of the race feeling excited by the nationalities of the two most-favored contestants. Perhaps a third of the spectators were Irish, and being more aggressive and outspoken, were almost as much in evidence as the Scotch themselves. Indeed, the applause when an Irishman won (and they had more than their proportion of firsts that day) was as loud as at the victory of a Scot. In the "hammer-throw" there were a scant half-dozen entries, the reputed prowess of Duffy and MacLeod disheartening the less ambitious. I was surprised to see among them old Sandy MacNab, the piper, but learned that he had been a famous man with the weights, and had pulled off the event here only last year. Indeed, for all his age (and more than twenty was he) he was a good man yet despite his cadaverous appearance. He had for years pulled money out of these Caledonian games, although the amount of his winnings had diminished with his increasing years. To-day he had backed himself to win the "Old Men's Race," and won easily, but unfortunately stood to lose all he had made, and more too, in the "hammer-throw." In making his book to get second or better, he thought he had been remarkably conservative, but receiving startling information concerning Duffy and Mac when it was too late, had found it impossible to hedge. He went into the contest expecting to lose, but resolved to make a try for his money all the same. His contortions were wonderful, and convulsed the crowd every time he threw, although he was serious enough, and succeeded in getting into the finals with nearly ninety feet. I shall never forget how the old fellow threw down his bonnet in the dust, spit on his hands, and braced himself for his first trial. There was a little crowd around the measurer, who stood a good one hundred and twenty feet away. These MacNab noticed just before he threw, and insisted that they "gang awa oot o' dainger" before he would make his try, although there was just as great chance of his hitting the flag-staff of the hotel. After he had finished his dialogue with the crowd, in which he held his own, and more, he grasped the handle again with his long, bony fingers. At first swinging very slowly, then faster and faster, until with a double twist that made his kilt stand out like a ballet-dancer's skirt about his long, knee-kissing legs, he gave a grunt and a gasp, and let go. He watched the hammer through the air with bulging eyes, and when it landed, ran after, and argued with the measurer over an extra half-inch in a maddening fashion. Sandy was a privileged character, however, and had a roar of applause every time he tried. When MacLeod came up for his first throw, he caught the crowd immediately, so handsome and modest was he. He found particular favor with the "ladies," and not alone did I hear "Eh, but he's a braw laddie," but one little Irish girl, close to the ropes, with blue eyes and the proverbial smudge under them, set an example of cosmopolitan freedom by clapping violently. Yes, a right well-looking man was MacLeod that day, as he twisted his fingers round the hammer-handle and prepared to throw. He had a fair, open face, well colored by the sun; indeed, darker was it than the hair that curled round his forehead. His arms and shoulders were splendidly developed, and his legs brown, and corded like a distance runner's. So well-proportioned was he that he did not look the twelve stone which he really weighed, and there were murmurs of applause when he threw the hammer ninety-eight feet in his first trial, Duffy having shown but ninety-six just before him. Neither bettered in their second attempts, but when Duffy sent the hammer over ninety-nine feet in his third, putting into the effort all the enormous strength of which he was master, a yell went up from his well-wishers which did his heart good, and he came as near smiling as was possible for so surly a fellow. There are no supporters on earth like an Irish crowd; they are hopeful to the last, and many an event has an Irishman won, under the inspiration of the cheers of his adherents. Less loud, though not less hearty, was the applause when Mac sent the hammer one hundred and one and a fraction, in the faultless style I had taught him. Not the equal of Duffy in strength (for the Irishman was almost a giant in height and girth), he knew how to use all he had to the best advantage, and he was working himself slowly up to his best effort to follow. As I have already said, MacLeod, Duffy, and MacNab were left in the finals. Duffy was grave and quiet when he made the first of his last three throws, and grew graver yet when the measurer gave him less than before, and while Sandy was doing his contortion act, twisting, jumping, and breathing hard, like a man possessed, he had a conference with two of his principal backers who stood by themselves apart. I was feeling very comfortable, for Duffy, I was sure, had done all he was capable of; and when Mac did one hundred and four I decided I was on "Easy Street," and began to count my earnings. All the time I kept my eyes about me, and was surprised to see the look of confidence with which the Irishman came up for his next to last turn. He planted his feet firmly, swung his huge arms round his head until he grew black in the face, and then a last effort, and the hammer flew through the air. I knew the moment it left his hand that it would best any throw made, but I was astounded when the measurer announced over one hundred and eleven. Where was my money? I could not believe it possible, for I had sure information that Duffy had never quite covered one hundred feet, and while Mac should do his one hundred and eight or a trifle better, I did not believe he could make the one hundred and eleven to save his life. It was while Angus was making his next to last throw that a sudden suspicion came to me. I was probably wrong, but my money was in danger, and no chance would I throw away to save it. This time Mac was dead in earnest, and getting his strength in just right threw only an inch short of one hundred and ten. I waited until Duffy was about to make his last, and then walked down just in time to be by the side of the measurer when the hammer landed. I saw the tape, it was over one hundred and twelve; and the yell that followed the announcement was enough to madden one who stood to lose a half-year's earnings. I picked the hammer up, and tested it carefully, balancing it in my hand, and as I held it there came to me a grain of hope. Was it light, or was I led astray by my wish? I had seen it weighed by the judge; the head looked full size, and the handle all right. In those days the handles were of wood weighing about a pound, and made the total seventeen pounds or close to it. I had carried the hammer half-way back, when Mac came to me and said, his eyes black with determination, "'Tis my last chance, but I'll beat him yet." I gave him no answer, but walked on until Duffy saw me. I was testing his hammer in my hand, doubtful whether or not to ask for a reweighing, when I caught his eye, and decided. MacNab saw me too, discovering something queer about my face, and he and Duffy were at my side together, the latter holding out his hand to take the hammer, his face flushed and his voice husky, as he asked "What in h----" I was trying to do. MacNab said something, just what it was I do not know, but it showed his disposition to support me, for he was on the anxious seat as well as myself. To Duffy's demand I answered as calmly as possible, "I believe this hammer under weight, and ask for a reweighing," holding it behind me meanwhile. At this there was a "hurly-burly" at once, Duffy's friends surrounding me, and had it not been for MacNab's support I should have been in difficulties. The old man did not know what fear was; no one dared lay a hand on him, because of his popularity with the crowd, and he drowned all other voices with his shrill pipings. He demanded a reweighing much more forcibly than I. "I winna gie it 'tell the weght iss weghted. I winna, na, I winna," he yelled again and again, like a broken-winded bagpipe for all the world. Mr. Fraser, the judge, and a very fair man, saw that he must do something, and silenced the uproar, although old Sandy kept up a muttering all the time. "You saw me weigh the hammer," said he, looking at me. "I called it seventeen pounds one ounce, and you made no protest."--"I do not cast any reflections on you," I answered, "but this hammer which has just been thrown is certainly not a sixteen-pound hammer. I can prove my statement, and ask that all throws with it be disallowed." Then MacNab, who stood between me and Duffy, with one hand on the handle, set up such an infernal din that Fraser immediately consented, and I handed him the hammer. At this Duffy changed his tune, and proposed to withdraw, saying he would not have any dirty Englishman nor sneaking Scotchman doubt his word. He shook his huge fist in Fraser's face and demanded the immediate return of his property. In this he made a mistake, for the judge was as full of fire as a little Scotch terrier, and he promptly walked to the scales and laid the hammer on them. Then there was a dead silence. MacLeod came to my side, for the lad had not spoken a word since the row began; not that he lacked pluck, but he had a mortal antipathy to a windy dispute, and knew I was fully competent to protect his interests. The weight was on the seventeen-pound mark, but the hammer did not lift it, and I saw by the eager faces that the crowd was becoming suspicious. The little judge pushed the weight to sixteen pounds, and still the beam hung; and only at fifteen-eight did it rise. Everybody looked at Duffy's flushed face, and Fraser demanded an explanation, though there did not seem to be much that could be said. The tall Irishman hemmed and hawed a bit, and then said huskily, "Faith, I think it must have struck a stone and knocked off a piece." Despite our seriousness, this ingenious explanation was too much for us, and the whole crowd laughed until it could laugh no more, Duffy sneaking off in the confusion. Old man MacNab became almost delirious in his joy at saving his money in this miraculous way, for Duffy's disqualification put the lank Scott second; and after he had loaded me with acknowledgments, he left, with the laudable ambition of getting outside all the whiskey on the premises. The last I saw of him, his long legs were swinging gayly to the notes of the Highland fling, with a fair prospect of winning the prize. As the crowd flocked back to the hotel, Fraser thanked me for my firmness which had led to the discovery of the fraud, and I declined to accept any, as I had only watched my money. I did agree to take the light hammer, and he gave it to me together with another which had been picked up from underneath the feet of the crowd. On the way home MacLeod and myself compared them carefully, and were greatly puzzled. They were almost identical; the size and form of the heads, the turn of the handles, and the initials "P. D." burned into the ends were alike in both. We could not understand where the difference in the weights came in, until we arrived at my rooms. Here I knocked out the handle of the light hammer, and found the centre of the head hollowed out in a most artistic manner, and the mystery was solved. I have no doubt but that Duffy did not use this until he was forced to do so, and that he threw the full-weight hammer which Fraser tested for the first four trials. Only when he was sure that MacLeod, "the little Scottie," was a better man, and his (Duffy's) money was as good as gone, did he fall back on the artistic reproduction, which could have been easily handed to him by a friend in the crowd. I confess I made a very pretty penny out of this transaction, and it was all the more welcome because of the fright I had been in over it. Poor Mac was not so fortunate, for although he positively declined to take a penny from me, he was given credit at the church for having gambled disgracefully, and was near being expelled for it. If this should seem at all an improbable tale, I will assure you that much the same incident occurred among our gentlemanly friends, the college athletes, at a comparatively recent date, although it was kept quiet in deference to somebody's feelings, and not exploited as was the "hollow hammer" back in the late "sixties." [Illustration: His Name Is Mud] There is always a "post mortem" atmosphere about Fall track athletics. Baseball shows a bit more life, for now the ambitious Freshman receives his "trying out" and struggles valiantly to catch the critical eye of the Captain, in search of new material for the "Nine." The only "real thing" is football, which reigns supreme until Thanksgiving Day dethrones him. This period is the most trying one of all the year to a trainer. One after another of his men on whom he depends for points on field and track are drafted for the "gridiron," until there is scarcely one left except the second-raters, whom he would gladly spare. Try to imagine my feelings as I watch a football game from the side lines, when Hopkins, my only ten one-fifth man is picked out of the bottom of a "scrimmage" with one of his precious legs twisted, or Baily retires with a dislocated shoulder,--Baily, who alone can be depended upon for any distance with the "shot." Shaw pulls his sweater over his head and takes Hopkins' place at "half back," Marlowe drops his blanket and fills the gap at "tackle" caused by Baily's retirement, and the game goes on just as before. No one seems to care much, but I think of the coming Spring and wonder what kind of a showing we are destined to make. I had seen a short practice game between the second and third elevens, and had watched a few men listlessly circling the track, until the gathering dusk warned me that it was time for dinner. I stopped a moment at "Conner's" to arrange for some shoes for the team, and was half-way across the square when I saw ahead of me, and in the middle of the street, quite a little crowd, from the centre of which came a confused jumble of barks, growls, yelps, and howls, the sure sign of a canine disagreement. Now, of course, I did not countenance any such low sport as a battle between two street curs, but I elbowed my way through, as I am afraid most men would have done, and I am not quite sure that my motive was wholly the separation of the combatants. I found them to be a very large and very good-natured St. Bernard, not quite full grown, and a very small and intensely angry terrier, weighing about as much as his opponent's left leg. Indeed it was not, strictly speaking, a fight at all, if it takes more than one to make a fight, which is I believe an accepted axiom. The terrier, a mixture of hair, mud, and impotent rage, would scramble over the wet pavement and make a desperate spring at the big St. Bernard's throat, either to be avoided by a lift of the head or a turn of the body, and the little fellow would roll over and over, then gather himself up and attack his good-natured foe again with renewed virulence. It was really very funny, for neither of them was getting hurt, and when at last the big fellow, in sheer desperation, placed his paw on his assailant and held him down struggling vainly, it caused a hearty laugh from all the crowd. The St. Bernard looked doubtfully at us, very much as if to say, "Is not this a very awkward position for a gentleman to find himself in?" and at last, seeing a gap in the crowd, he suddenly lifted his paw and tried to make good his escape. In this he nearly succeeded, but was not quite quick enough, for his crazy little assailant caught him by the first joint of his hind leg, and buried his sharp little teeth deep in the cartilages. This was really too much for the big fellow's temper, already sadly tried, and turning with a howl of pain, he seized his vicious little enemy in his big jaws, shook him a second or two fiercely, and then dropped him on the pavement. It was all over before we could interfere, and the big fellow's anger passed as quickly as it came. He saw at once that something was wrong, for the ragged little body lay on its side entirely motionless, with the exception of a spasmodic twitching of the legs. He sniffed at him carefully, then gave us a look of reproach, at which I confess I felt ashamed, and trotted sadly away. It was just at this moment that a number of the football men appeared, led by big Shack Sawyer, who quickly elbowed his way to the inner circle by my side, demanding "What's the row, Professor?" "Only a little dog fight," I answered, a bit shocked at the sudden transformation from comedy to tragedy. "It looks more like a dog funeral than a dog fight," spoke up Seever, who was as usual at Shack's elbow. "I wonder what his name is?" inquired an hysterical woman with a falsetto voice, who had appeared from I know not where, to ask this particularly interesting question. "The dog's name!" exclaimed Shack; "his name is 'Mud,' I guess, and no mistake." At which there was a half-hearted laugh, for the silent little chap on the pavement was a pathetic sight indeed. Somebody said, "Throw some water on him," and a bareheaded boy with a dinner-pail in his hand filled it at a horse-trough close by, and Shack took it and threw half its contents on the terrier. No sooner had the water struck him than he gave a sneeze, like the hunchback in the "Arabian Nights" who had the unfortunate experience with the fish-bone, struggled to his feet, and after a somewhat unsteady circuit of the crowd in a vain effort to find his late antagonist, decided he had put him to flight, and began to bark triumphantly. Indeed, the "dying gladiator" showed every sign of being as good as new, with the exception of a little patch of red at his throat and a very muddy and bedraggled coat. He went from one to another, wagging his stump of a tail frantically; and when the crowd broke up he dropped in at Sawyer's heels as if he had always belonged there. Shack allowed him to follow him home, and after a somewhat perfunctory effort to find an owner, he became Shack's dog from this time on, and a very lucky dog he was. When "Mud," for Shack's random christening proved permanent, was treated to the twin luxuries of a bath and a comb, he showed quite an attractive personality. That his coat of arms bore the "bar sinister," there was not the least doubt. His master declared there was no "blot on his scutcheon," and that he was a pure-blooded, wire-haired fox terrier; but his legs were too short, and his hair both too long and too silky for any such claim. Seever made out an imaginary pedigree for him, in which many canine aristocrats of different breeds appeared; but Marlowe declared he certainly must have numbered somewhere among his ancestors a very plebeian New England woodchuck. Shack took a deal of chaffing over his "high-bred dog," but clung to him nevertheless, and Mud sprang into instantaneous popularity with the whole college. He had indeed a number of very valuable qualities, the most important of which was an undaunted courage. He was afraid of nothing that walked on four legs, or two either, for that matter. A dog of his own size or smaller he treated with an easy condescension. He looked upon anything larger as an enemy, and a very big dog he considered a personal insult, no matter how he behaved. I am inclined to think that the root of his anger was simply jealousy of superior inches. Whatever the motive was, however, Shack was kept busy pulling him out of the jaws of bigger dogs whenever he took him for an airing. Mud could certainly not claim to be "no respecter of persons," for he had a very different manner with which to treat the gentleman from that he gave the laboring man. He was suspicious of the latter, even in his Sunday broadcloth, and when he met him clad in overalls and jumper he greeted him with a canine fusillade that was irrepressible. For rags and dirt, despite his very questionable past and decidedly suggestive name, Mud had a great antipathy. The sign "No admittance to beggars and pedlers," which decorated the lower hall, was quite unnecessary after Mud became a tenant, for he could pick these gentry out, no matter how skilfully disguised, and indeed showed qualities which would have made him invaluable in Scotland Yard. He was forever on the move, and could tire out the most persistent visitor in any sort of a game. Mud's favorite was a sort of "rough and tumble" in which his opponent tried to bury him in the sofa pillows, and out of which he always emerged with every hair on end, his eyes like live coals, and his voice cracked from his efforts to make himself heard under a pyramid of cushions. Shack tried to keep his hand in for the "hammer throw," and practised rather intermittently when football gave him a few spare moments. Then was Mud in his particular glory. He would trot to the gymnasium at his master's heels, watch gravely from one of the long benches while Shack stripped and dressed, and then follow him into the middle of the field with an unmistakable air of pride. When Shack took the hammer in hand Mud would begin to whimper, and as it whirled faster and faster round Shack's head, the howl grew more and more crescendo until the missile took to flight, with Mud after it so fast that it seemed as if he must sometime get the good sixteen pounds on the middle of his back. So great was the danger that Shack hit upon the expedient of having Mud guard his sweater, which turned out to be the only way to keep the energetic little fellow still. It was surprising too what a changed dog he became when this responsibility was put upon him. He watched suspiciously every one who approached, and there was no friend near enough to be allowed to encroach on the forbidden ground occupied by Shack's old sweater. Marlowe tried to pull it away suddenly one day, and left a piece of his sleeve between Mud's sharp teeth as a memento of the encounter. It was after two or three weeks' residence in Shack's hospitable quarters that Mud attained the zenith of his popularity and became mascot of the class of 188-. In fact, he bade fair to attain the very pinnacle of a dog's ambition, and to occupy the position of "luck bringer" to the whole college. His predecessor had been a brindled bulldog of such extraordinary ugliness that it approached the beautiful, but he had fallen into disgrace after allowing the Freshmen to win the deciding game of baseball in the Spring, and the class had not filled the vacant place until Mud came to ornament it. Shack failed this year to make the big team and played on his class eleven, where he was a bright particular star. In the first game with the Freshmen which they won, Shack at "centre," and Mud as mascot on the side lines, divided the honors, and the game went eighteen to nothing in their favor. After this Mud was solemnly installed in his position by Seever, who gave him a charge much like that to a newly installed minister, and to which Mud listened very seriously, with his head on one side, as he sat on a big chair with Shack's cap over his left eye. It was hoped that Mud would furnish sufficient magic to make his class winner in the game with the Seniors, which would decide the college championship. When the day arrived he appeared at the gymnasium with an enormous ribbon at his throat and much pride in his breast. He was so distinctly elated that when Marlowe threw Shack's moleskin trousers at him and told him to "Shake 'em," he declined to descend to so undignified a sport. No, his game was to be football that day. It was late in October, and there was a thin mist threatening rain, through which they travelled to reach the gridiron on which the struggle was to be fought out. It was rather a rough field, with the trees all around it, and the ground was quite covered in places by the dead maple leaves. There was a mixed mob composed of the two classes; much enthusiasm and more noise. Mud was installed in a place of honor on the side lines close to the centre, and for a throne was given Shack's old sweater and told to "Watch it." Immediately across could be seen the Senior mascot, a very disreputable Billy goat, "bearded like the pard" and with only one horn left. When Mud got a glimpse at his rival, nothing but a distinct sense of duty restrained him from an immediate attack. When "William" was led, struggling violently, around the field just before the game started, Mud ran out on the long sleeve in a vain effort to reach his very disreputable-looking enemy, but even then could not be tempted to leave his precious charge. He became very much excited when the men took their places for the "kick-off," and barked furiously at every "down" during the first "half." It was a hard old game, too, and one remembered long after. Class games are often more severe than contests with outside teams, for class rivalry is very strong, and there are not the same pains taken to restrain roughness. The Seniors kept bucking the line fiercely, and Shack at "centre" had all the fun he wanted holding his ground against repeated assaults. He was well backed up, however, by Marlowe on one side and Terry on the other, and the "half" ended with the score six to nothing in favor of the Sophs. It was a proud moment indeed for little Mud when he was led around the field with the big ribbon on his neck, and so important did he feel that he did not even notice old "Billy," although he trotted close by him. The Seniors started in with the same tactics when the whistle blew again, although they had not been at all successful. Not a "round the end" play did they make, and they were at last rewarded for their perseverance by knocking the wind out of Marlowe so completely that he was obliged to retire. The man that took his place was sandy enough, and well up in the game; but he was too light to keep his feet on the soft ground, and it did not take the Seniors long to discover that a plunge at "right guard" was good for from two to five yards every time. Old Shack gave all the assistance he could, but he was fairly well employed in attending to his opposite, and the result was that the ball was worked slowly but steadily up the field with every prospect of being carried over the Sophs' line. Nothing but the call of time could save them, and they lined up more and more slowly, struggling desperately and praying for the sound of the whistle. Down the lines the spectators followed, cheering hoarsely, and cutting up the soft turf like a huge drove of cattle. There were but two more minutes of play and a scant five yards to make. Old Shack had a cut over his right eye, and a little stream of blood trickled down his mud-stained cheek. He was steaming like a "yoke of oxen," and his canvas jacket was drenched with sweat, one stocking was down over his shoe, and a sleeve of his jersey was gone, showing the huge arm with its corded muscles. He knew well enough that the "touchdown" must come unless something was done, but no good chance did he get until the ball was inside the five-yard line. "Four-twelve-twenty" called out the "quarter back," and the big "senior centre," crouching low against Shack's strong shoulder, snapped the ball back just as he had done a hundred times before that day. He got a bit too low, in fact, for Shack gave him a jerk, and before the little "quarter" could get the ball out of his hands Shack's big paw was on him, rolling him over like a kitten, and before he knew what had happened he had lost the ball, and Shack had it snugly tucked under his arm. How the Sophs cheered, and when a moment later the whistle blew they would have shouldered Shack had he not made it impossible by lying flat on the muddy ground. During these last five minutes Mud had been deserted and well-nigh forgotten, mascot though he was. The crowd had surged up the field where the fierce struggle was going on, and the little fellow was left all alone, with nothing to occupy him but his own thoughts. He could look across to "Billy" on the other side, tied to a post, and alternately barked at him and whined for the friends who had left him. Mud had no chains but those of duty, yet for him they were sufficient. He would very much have liked to follow the crowd, or better still to have had his own little game of football with "Billy" across the way, with neither an umpire nor a referee to keep account of distance or prevent rough play; but here was Shack's precious sweater, and here he was bound to stay. It had been raining too for a little while, and the little fellow was getting cold and wet. He trotted around the narrow limits of his desert island, giving an occasional shiver of discomfort, and wishing in his heart that he was in his own snug place by Shack's warm fireside. The thought of Shack warmed him a bit, despite the cold, and he lay down again, waiting patiently for his master. When the whistle blew he sprang to his feet, for he knew as well as anybody that the game was now over, and when he heard the shouts he gave a bark or two of triumph. His friends would be back soon, and might perhaps lead him around the field again. He could not see very well, for it was almost dark, and still the crowd lingered at the far end of the field. At last they began to come toward him; at first moving slowly, then more hurriedly at the thought of dinner, until some started to run, and there was a big rush for the narrow path which opened through the trees not far from where Mud stood. The latter saw them coming, and he waved his stump of a tail and wiggled his little body as he thought of the hand touches, and the "Good old Mud" he was so soon to hear from Shack himself. The crowd came like a wide, wide sea; but little Mud had no thought of danger until they were close to him. He saw the big wave about to roll over, he half turned as if for flight, and then, crouching low, he sprang at the first man who set foot on the sweater he was left to guard. He made no sound, and in the darkness and confusion the wave of humanity swept over him, and did not pause until it left him crushed and scarce alive. When Seever saw him as he followed the rushing mob, the little fellow was dragging himself painfully back to the big sweater and had a bit of gray cloth in his sharp teeth, which he had torn from the first intruder. Shack was giving a shoulder to Marlowe when some one cried out, "Shack, old man, Mud's hurt;" and he left Marlowe in an instant, and was off like a shot with a dozen men after him. When they reached the crowd that clung in a dense circle, much as on the first night, they found Mud lying on the sweater, his poor little body a shapeless thing. Shack bent over him with a groan, then lifted him tenderly in his arms, and for a moment there came in the little fellow's fast-glazing eyes the light of recognition. He licked the big hand that held him so carefully, shivered a little, crept close to Shack's stained jacket, trembled a little longer, and then lay still at last on Shack's broad breast. [Illustration: How Kitty Queered The Mile] I hear it whispered every now and again that the reason a probable winner disappoints is because he is drugged. This is why that quarter on which Tom White had a mortgage goes to an inferior man, and because of this Jack Lewis, who was yards better than his field, is beaten out in the "run in" of the "220" hurdles. Now, I am prepared to say, after a longer track experience than falls to the lot of most men, that in almost all such affairs the fault is with the men themselves, who have either not done their work, or, more likely still, have overtrained and gone stale. Indeed, I honestly believe that in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred the best man wins because he is the best man, and the rest of the field lose simply because they have not the legs, lungs, heart, or courage necessary to bring them in first. There is mighty little "hocus-pocus" business in amateur athletics, and the atmosphere of the cinder-path is, after all is said, as pure as any on earth, not excepting that of politics and the legal profession. I know a very few events where men were drugged to put them out of contests, but they are, in the main, uninteresting tales which I do not care to tell. In the little crack I mean to have with you, although no drugs were used, there is about the clearest case of "fix" I know, and, what is more to the point, I'll bet a fiver you will read it to the end. I became acquainted with Kitty Murray when I was putting the finishing touches to the athletic team of a large New England academy, just what and where I cannot say, for very obvious reasons. They had on their list an annual contest in field sports with a rival academy, and called in outside training talent only six or eight weeks before the games. Kitty, with whom I struck up a friendship a day or two after my arrival, was a little English girl, as fresh and fragrant as an "Old-Country" rose such as I used to find long ago in a distant Lancashire garden. She was only five years over, and it seemed like going back again just to hear her talk. We became great friends during my stay in the little town, and I shall never quite forget her. I hope the story I am about to tell will not be thought to reflect on her, and it will not, unless I bungle badly in the telling of it. Now, I do not, of course, defend the "queering" of a race, and Kitty as surely put a contestant out of winning place as if she had used a drug, yet it was not done for money. The man did not deserve to win, and I confess I like her all the better for the deed. Kitty's father had come from an Oldham factory, thinking, like many another, that in America he would own his mill within a five year. The five years had passed, and he was still running his eight looms in the big weave-shed by the river, where he first went to work. Kitty had tended her five looms by his side for a year or so, and then found more congenial as well as more remunerative surroundings in a little store near the academy grounds. This store occupied the lower story of a dwelling-house, which had been built out toward the street, until its wooden porch infringed on the sidewalk, and its flight of long steps rose from the edge of the gutter. Whether it fractured any of the town ordinances by preëmpting the sidewalk in this way I do not know, but it had a particularly inviting appearance, like a host coming half way to meet you, and the porch, sheltering from sun and shower, was a perfect drag-net for customers. The front was all window, and the stock in trade plainly visible from the opposite side of the street. Here was candy in jars on the shelves and in trays on the counter, fruit in boxes and baskets by the windows, a huge soda fountain near the door, and an ice-cream parlor back of the store, with its horrible marble-topped tables, like gravestones awaiting the inscription of "Sacred to." I have travelled a bit, first and last, but nothing more dismal than an American ice-cream parlor do I remember to have seen. While it cannot be denied that Kitty's confectionery was often stale, her fruit flavorless, her soda frothy, and her ice-cream as full of starch as a Chinese laundry, Kitty herself was all right, and fresh and dainty enough to offset all the deficiencies of her wares. I can see her now, as I tell this story, with her bright "Old-Country" blushes, her soft brown hair, her blue eyes, and her trim little figure which her gowns always fitted so snugly. She was a marvel of neatness from ribbon to shoe tip, and was rather extravagant in the matter of foot-gear, for Kitty had a sweet foot and ankle of her own, concerning which she was not ignorant. Cap'n Holden, the proprietor of the store, was a long, lank Vermonter, who had run a ding-dong race with consumption for twenty years, and was likely now to make an age record ahead of many a hearty man. He lived in a couple of rooms back of the ice-cream parlor, and left the management of the store very largely to Kitty, doing the drudgery, and leaving the high artistic to his assistant, content to find the money-drawer comfortably filled each night. There was a steady stream of the academy boys flowing in and out the door of Holden's store all day, ruining their digestions, and going broke on pocket-money for the sake of basking in Kitty's smiles. A clever little business woman was she, too, for eighteen years, and very well aware of her worth, as Mr. Holden had learned to his cost, for he paid her what seemed a fabulous salary. Now, my coming to the town was a serious misfortune to Kitty's business. The taking some thirty of her best customers and forbidding their accustomed indulgence in sweets, under penalty of not making the team, must have resulted in serious inroads on her trade. She laughingly took me to task for this, one morning, soon after my arrival, asking me how I expected her to get her living, and declaring that Mr. Holden was looking at the poor-house with fearful glances. And then, as I leaned on the counter, she began to pump me in a very pretty way concerning the academy's chances in the coming games, showing an especial interest in the mile. Would I please tell her who would win in this event? Now, it must not be thought that I have been in the habit of giving tips to inquisitive young ladies, for one thing a successful trainer must learn is to hold his tongue; but in this case there was no secret involved, and almost no money on, so I told her frankly that there were only two men of any use at all, Black and Harris. Well, would I please tell her (ladies always say "please" in a particularly wheedling way when they ask what they know they should not),--would I please tell her which was the faster. I answered that Harris was a very neat little runner who would win in average company, but that Black's stride was too much for him, and Harris could not show within five seconds of Black's time for the distance. Here the corners of Kitty's pretty mouth dropped most suddenly, and I then and there surprised the secret that under the folds of her flowered muslin lurked a shy liking for Jack Harris. This was not at all to be wondered at, for Jack was a mighty nice boy, pleasant to every one, and a fine performer in almost all branches of sport. Black was about the same age as Harris, nearly twenty, and, unlike Harris, was tall and dark, and rather surly and superior. They were both to leave for college at the end of the year, considered themselves men grown, and cherished a mighty strong liking for little Kitty. They were equally anxious to win the "mile," and to this end had trained very conscientiously, breaking the tape in the sight of Kitty's bright eyes being, after all, the strongest incentive. I talked quite freely with the little girl, for she reminded me of old Lancashire, and she on her part took no particular care to conceal the fact that she should like very much to see Jack Harris win. As the days went by I took special pains with Jack, but though he improved nicely he could not quite reach Black, and as the time of the contests approached I could give Kitty no encouragement, much as I should have liked to do so. The very night before the games I went into the store and, in answer to her question, told her plainly that unless Black was taken suddenly ill, he would certainly best Jack, and that from all reports Harris was just as sure of second place, as the other academy had only moderate talent to offer in the "mile." "And would Jack win, then, if Black was out of it, or a bit off?" she asked, with a little tremble of disappointment in her voice. I answered that a race was never won until the tape broke, and the judges had given their decision, but that it certainly looked that way; and while Kitty was weighing out some peppermints to an old lady, with an ounce of smiles for which she did not charge, I passed quietly through the ice-cream parlor into Mr. Holden's little den in the rear. Holden and I were quite cronies by this time; we often chatted together of an evening, and I dropped quite naturally into a rocking-chair near the door, which was ajar, and through which I could get a good view of the store without being myself observed. He was reading the "Boston Globe" with the aid of his glasses, his pipe, and a pitcher of hard cider. He filled me a glass of the last, pushed the tobacco-jar across the table toward me, and handed me the sporting half of the paper without a word. I took a drink, lit my pipe, and pretended to read the paper, keeping a close watch on the front shop meanwhile. Now, I had a method in all this, which was to be where I could see that none of the boys broke training in this most dangerous place, on the night before the contests. I had given the boys a much more rigorous course of training than was usual, and was a bit afraid of some of them, not accustomed to deprivations of any kind. I sat smoking my pipe, and reading my paper, a fragment at a time, customers coming and going, but saw nothing of interest until about nine o'clock, when Harris entered, looking particularly well in tennis flannels and sweater. He bade Kitty a "good evening," in that pleasant way of his, and asked for a pound of mixed chocolates. "A pound of mixed chocolates!" exclaimed Kitty, instantly alert. "Why, Jack Harris, you know you ought not to touch a single piece, and you to run to-morrow! Not an ounce will I give you." I think Harris was pleased at the motherliness of the little girl, for he told her without any chaffing that the candy was intended for his sisters, who were spending the night at the hotel, with their aunt. "Do you know, Kitty," said he, "they would not give up their chocolates to win a world's championship?" "I would, then," said Kitty. "It must be splendid to go over the line first, with the rest following after. I suppose that's what you'll do to-morrow." "Not likely," he answered frankly; "Black is yards better, and unless he has a stroke of paralysis in the stretch, I shall have the pleasure of following him in, and must content myself with second place or worse." "Oh, Jack," said Kitty, "I wish you could win; you must win. Can't I help you in some way?" "I don't know how," he answered, "unless you can furnish me a pair of legs as long and as good as Black's, and they are hard to find." "Don't joke," said Kitty, with a look of reproach. "If I were you I'd beat him without any legs, I'd get ahead, and stay there if it killed me." There was in this just a hint of reflection on the boy's courage, but it was given in such good heart, that he could not take offence, and he laughed in rather a forced way and said, "I suppose I am an awful duffer not to be able to call the trick, for I have worked my best, and not thrown away a single chance. The truth is that Black is a better man at the distance, has been as careful as myself, and is not likely to take any liberties with himself until the race is over. I saw him a little while ago, and he was looking 'out of sight.'" At this there was silence for a little, for the outlook was certainly quite hopeless. From my seat by the door I could see them plainly, and I felt rather like an eavesdropper, when Kitty put her hand on Jack's sleeve in her earnestness. They made a pretty picture with their flushed faces and easy attitudes, and I thought of an old garden-gate in Lancashire where there had been much the same scene long ago. They talked together a moment or two longer in low tones, and then Kitty became suddenly conscious, and went back again behind the counter, with a touch of embarrassment. Jack took his box of candy, and said "Good night," stopping at the door a moment to say, "Win or lose, I shall do all I know. I promise you he shall know he has been in a race, and I shall run clear out, or run a winner." There were only a few more customers, for we kept good hours in the little town, and I was about to take my leave, satisfied that my men were all in bed, when Black entered. Now, this was clearly in disobedience of my instructions, which were, for this night, bed at nine-thirty, and it was now five minutes later by the clock over the stove. While the training of this academy team was a small matter for me, some of my best friends whom I had handled on big college teams were anxious for them to win, had considered the matter well-nigh settled when they had prevailed on me to take them on, and I had been very strict and painstaking in my handling of them. I was naturally provoked that Black should openly disobey instructions, and I sat back in my chair to watch developments. I do not remember what Black said, but he made an effort to be agreeable which was not particularly successful. There was something about his manner indicating condescension, which was not at all pleasing to Kitty's democratic spirit. She very promptly took him to task for being out after hours, and with a very different tone from that used when reproving Jack Harris. "I don't mean to be dictated to by any old played-out martinet of a trainer," said he gruffly. "It is all well enough for those who have no sure thing. I saw Harris going to his room fifteen minutes ago, but I'll sleep when I like, and beat him then." At this very foolish and boasting remark, involving also a reflection on Jack's prowess, I could see Kitty's eyes flash, and her cheeks redden, and then there came over her face a very peculiar expression of determination I could not at all understand. She changed gradually from indifference to interest, and finally said, with a well-assumed air of admiration, "It must be splendid to be so sure of winning; and don't you have to train at all?" "Deuced little," he answered; "I go through the motions with old Brown, but eat and drink just what I like, and sleep four or eight hours, as I prefer." Now, this was a bare-faced lie, and his sin found him out as quickly as in any "goody" book I ever read, for Kitty went on to say in her pretty way, becoming every moment more genial and fascinating, "Isn't that nice? then you can take a soda with me before I start for home." Remember that I was all the time in the back room with Mr. Holden, listening to the talk, rather hot under the collar at Black's "old played-out martinet," and wondering what in the world little Kitty was plotting. Black looked a bit doubtful at her offer; he had trained to the dot, and did not mean to throw away a single chance to win, but such an invitation from Kitty was an unheard-of honor, he could not very well eat his words, so he consented with an assumed alacrity, and Kitty proceeded to draw a glass of soda for him. And such a glass of soda as it was! If Mr. Holden had seen it he would have had a fit; nothing like it had ever gone over his counter, expense was not considered, and profit there could have been none. I could see the whole devil's brew myself, but Black could not, for Kitty stood between him and the glass. First she put in a double quantity of heavy, thick chocolate, then a liberal lump of ice-cream, and finally hardly enough soda to mix them. She drew a glass of Vichy for herself, and I watched as they drank, and chatted, and laughed together. Now, what were the reasons why I did not interfere, while my best mile-runner was getting outside of this horrible mixture? The first was, that we did not need him to win the "mile"; the second was, that his remarks concerning myself were not inclined to make me care for him personally; the third was, that I thought defeat might teach him a much-needed lesson; and the last and most potent, I must confess, was, that I had not the heart to spoil Kitty's wicked little game, which she was playing so beautifully. As I said before, it was as clear a case of "fix" as if she had given him a drug, and between a mild dose of poison and the glass she mixed, there was little for an athlete in training to choose. I sat in the back room for at least a half-hour longer, and saw Black drink three more glasses of different flavors, chosen with special reference to their baleful effects; and so pleasant and jolly was Kitty, and so happy was Black, that I am sure she could have substituted a dose of rhubarb without his notice. It was after ten o'clock when Kitty put on her hat, and I afterward learned that she talked a full hour longer with him at her gate, an unheard-of thing for Kitty, who was particularly careful of gossip, and it was midnight when he rolled into bed. He must have had the digestion of an ostrich not to have been immediately and positively ill; but he was not, and barring a little lack of color, he gave no indication of his previous night's extraordinary training, when he went to the mark for the mile. It had been a mighty busy day for me; the boys were young, some of them had never been contestants before, and they were nervous and uncertain. I got through the morning as best I could, giving advice here, answering a question there, telling some little fellow with a white face that there was no doubt of his winning, and another, who was over-confident, that he had no chance unless he followed instructions to the dot. Dinner over (for at our boarding-house we dined at noon) I started for the "grounds," which were over on the other side of the little town. The wide street was well dotted with carriages, and the sidewalks crowded with townspeople, country folk, and a liberal sprinkling of the supporters of the rival academy. Most of the mill-hands were out, and the rattle of the looms was subdued, half of them being silent. I threaded my way through the mob as best I could, for, every few feet, some one would buttonhole me to ask a fool question. Then again, did you ever notice how much harder it is to work your way through a crowd of country people than one of equal density in the city? There is a sluggishness and inertness very different from the quick movements of those whose feet are accustomed to tread city paves. However, when I got beyond the shopping quarter, where the dwelling-houses began, the streets were free enough, and I crossed over to the south side, the day being warm, and the shade of the elms grateful. I was passing Holden's store, when Kitty appeared in the doorway, as if by accident, and with a very pretty look of mingled surprise and pleasure. She looked as if she had just arrived from Arcadia, or had stepped out of a Dresden dish, with her fresh muslin figured with little sprays of flowers, a big hat on her soft brown hair, and a parasol in her hand which displayed the academy color. Her cheeks were bright, and grew a shade brighter as she asked, "Please, Mr. Brown, may I walk along with you?" Receiving my very hearty assent she tripped down the steps and across the street, taking special pains to save the figured muslin from the dust of the street. I think I said that Kitty's ankles were irreproachable. Although it was very evident Kitty had been to some pains to see me, I found her very silent and preoccupied. She had said not much more than a silly word or two about the weather, when we reached the Lee place, where she said she must leave me, as she had promised to stop for Sally and Kate. As she put her hand on the latch of the gate she gave me the first hint of what was burdening her mind by asking, "Are the boys all feeling well?" I said, "Yes, as far as I know," and then to try her, "though Black looks a bit queer, for some unaccountable reason." "That's too bad," answered Kitty, with considerable affectation of sorrow, as she swung the gate open; but I noticed a little widening of the mouth, and a tell-tale dimple in her cheek almost betrayed her. Not once did she raise her eyes to mine either, something very unusual with her, for she had the frankest glance possible. I watched her as she mounted the steps and rang the bell, and then walked on beneath the tall elms, philosophizing over that most interesting subject, "a woman and her ways," something the masculine mind cannot understand, but likes to struggle with. The track was in the centre of the "campus," an enclosure of several acres of soft green turf, fringed and fenced by its row of tall trees. Around the track the spectators were gathering, and the grand stand was beginning to fill. All the officials and most of the contestants were already inside the ropes, the former bustling around with their bright-colored badges flapping, and extremely busy doing nothing; the latter, in their spotless trunks and jerseys, with bare brown legs and arms, looking "sweet enough to kiss," so I heard a pretty little matron say on one of the lower seats. Indeed, I know few finer sights than a young fellow, clean-limbed and lithe, trained to perfection, with eyes bright, and face darkened by the sun, waiting in his running-togs, with a background of green grass, and overhead the cloudless sky. As soon as I got among them, the boys flocked around me, and after a hearty word or two I sent the team off by the catcher's fence, a little beyond, for there were no dressing-rooms, and I wanted to know where to find them. Jack was looking "finer than silk," and Black not half bad, although a trifle dark under the eyes. I was not at all sure that even Kitty's dose was enough to stop him. Now, I do not propose to say a word about any event but the "mile." This was the last event on the list, we were comfortable winners already, and everybody was speculating how badly Black would fracture the record; there seemed to be no doubt about his winning, and, unpopular as he was, it was with many admiring exclamations that he ran a few yards to limber up. His long legs moved like clock-work, and his stride was remarkable. We had just lost the final heat of the "220," and when the starter's whistle blew for the "mile" I could see the faces brighten up, for it was confidently expected that Black and Harris would run first and second, and leave a pleasant taste in the mouth to take home to supper. There were six starters, and when Jack took his place on the outside, he was the finest-looking boy of the lot. Not having grown so fast, he was more rounded and filled out than the others, though he carried not an ounce of useless tissue. His arms and legs were better developed, and his face was clean cut as a cameo. Kitty sat directly on a line with the tape, on the top row of seats, between the Lee girls. One of them, I could see, was keeping a watchful eye on the west, where the thunder heads were gathering. But Kitty did not see any clouds, not she. She did not care if the deluge came after this race; and what was a shower, or a wet gown? She was red and pale by turns, breathing hard, and had both elbows on the top rail behind her, as if to brace herself for the ordeal. Wonderfully attractive was she in this attitude of repressed excitement, and though the grand stand was full of pretty girls, dressed in their best bibs and tuckers, I saw none to compare with her. When Jack glanced up at her, she leaned forward and waved her hand, giving him a look that brought the color to his cheeks. But when he turned, got on his mark, and put out his hands, his flush faded, the half smile disappeared, and in their place came as stern a look of resolution as I ever saw in a boy's face. And yet I doubted he could win. True, he was just the one to do a shade better in competition than in training, but Black was likely to do no worse (unless pulled back by the sodas), and with a strong five seconds to the good, it was a beautiful race to guess on. "Marks! Set!" The bang of the pistol, with its little wreath of smoke rising in the still air, and they are off. "Crunch, crunch, crunch" sound the quick feet on the cinders, a stout fellow, not half trained, taking the lead, and bound to drop out before the "half," unless I am no judge. They disappear a second behind the catcher's fence, emerge again, swing round the turn, straighten out again, and the men are well trailed, as usual, at the lower turn. Down the stretch they come, and just before they pass the posts Black jumps into the lead, amid the applause of the grand stand. Where is Jack? Why, where he ought to be with the pace like this, and three-quarters more to run. He has followed my orders to the dot, starting off easily (one of the almost impossible things to teach a young runner), trailing behind the field, and he finishes the first quarter last of the six, and a full twenty yards behind Black, running strong and well, though not so showily as his rival. I see poor little Kitty's face grow white and hopeless as they go by. Round the track they swing again, two men dropping out at the lower turn, already run off their feet, and one of them the stout fellow, as I expected. Indeed, as they pass the posts the second time all have come back a bit to Jack but Black, and Kitty's face is touched by grim despair, for that dreadful twenty yards still stretches between the one she wishes to win and the one she tried to put out of the race. On the third quarter Jack lets out a link, picking up one after another, until only Black leads him, and when they start on the last lap he is running strong and fairly fresh, only ten yards behind, and the rest trailed badly. Kitty's face is the queerest mixture of hope and fear I ever saw. Black runs with the confidence of repeated victories in trials, and attempts to open up the gap again; but Jack has a bit up his sleeve still, answers with a little spurt of his own, will not be denied, and is only a bare five yards to the bad as they straighten out for the last hundred yards. Here Black glances over his shoulder, and I can see his look of surprise. Jack has never been so close up at this stage of the game. It is evident that both the boys are approaching "Queer Street," "Queer Street" with its pounding heart and panting lungs, its parched mouth, singing ears, and leaden feet. Both are game to the core, and it is now only a question of endurance. Here is the runner's purgatory, where the sins of the past are settled, and here it is that Kitty's ice-cream sodas take a hand in the sport. What would Black give if he had not imbibed their awful sweetness? Inch by inch Jack draws up on him, his jaw set, his eyes aflame, his stride shortening, but still quick and straight. Black's face is leaden, his eyes glassy, his long legs giving at the knees at every stride. Down the stretch they come, the crowd on its feet, but too excited to yell, Kitty with her hand over one eye, and her handkerchief tight between her white teeth. For twenty yards they run almost side by side, and then Jack pumps ahead and breaks the tape, a winner by a scant yard. Black follows over in a heap, staggers a step or two, and falls before any one can catch him. Sick, was he? Well, rather! He had a touch of colic that doubled him up like a grasshopper. He groaned and coughed, he writhed and twisted, like a lobster on the coals. I knew it was not a dangerous matter, and gave him little sympathy, extracting a half confession concerning his training escapade of the previous evening. Kitty, the little Jezebel, blushed like a rose when Jack waved his hand at her, as he was carried off on the shoulders of some enthusiastic friends. Little did he know how he came to win over a faster man; little did Black understand there had been a plot for his undoing; and unless she reads this story, Kitty will always think her secret is a secret to all the world. [Illustration: Atherton's Last Half] Back in the mountains of North Carolina, where the air is like a tonic, free from all taint of river mist and swamp malaria, and medicined by the fragrance of pine and hemlock, lives Teddy Atherton. His house is perched on a spur of the mountains, and can be seen with a good glass from Asheville on a clear day. It has green blinds, tall wooden pillars, and granite steps. It is the pattern that New England builders used to fancy fifty years ago or more, and looks a bit strange in its setting of mountain and forest. Here Teddy spends his time among his books, fishing and hunting, in the company of his dogs, or the society of an occasional friend, truant from business or profession. For a few weeks only in midsummer he risks the dangers of our east winds, and is seen at the Somerset and Country Clubs, much to the gratification of a host of friends. He has had me South with him a couple of times, and never goes back without inviting me to dine with him. I always accept, though the pleasure of his society is more than offset by painful recollections. We linger long at the table over my favorite madeira, and we talk of the old days, the old contests, and the old boys, grown now to be stout merchants, lawyers, and I know not what. Some of them have lads who will bring new honor to names already famous on track and field, and some, alas! have been beaten out by that famous runner and certain final winner, old Death himself. Often, as I sit and watch Atherton across the table, there comes into my eyes, not at all accustomed to such a freak, so clear a hint of moisture, that nothing but a mighty volume of smoke saves me from detection. He is a small man, five feet five or less, and not exceeding eight stone in weight. His closely shaven face is thin and brown, his eyes dark and full of fire, his mouth firm and sensitive. There is nothing of the despairing or helpless invalid about him; his shoulders are square, and his movements resolute; yet he knows, and I know, that his life hangs by a thread. I know whose fault it is, in part at least, that his days are numbered, that his chest is hollow, and that, despite his self-control, he cannot restrain every now and again that hacking cough. I shall tell the story, not because I like to, but as a warning to those who are willing to make a winner, no matter what the risk or cost. Late on an afternoon, just before the inter-collegiate games of 188-, there sat on the gymnasium steps a group of college sports, with heavy brows and serious minds. Even the weather was dubious, for the wind had worked round into the east, the clouds were gathering, and the air was damp and dismal. What few men there were on the track wore sweaters, and one or two had pulled long trousers over their trunks to keep their legs warm. The elms had got their heads together, as if conspiring mischief, and we had talked ourselves pretty well out, with no good results. We had that day given the team a serious "try out," and were fairly contented with its showing in all the events but the "half." There was no question about it, Bates could not call the trick; that is, not with his present showing. We all agreed that he was good enough, but he had no head at all. He ran his second quarter to the "queen's taste," and finished strong and well; but on his first lap he sogered like a Turk, and came in at least five seconds slow. He had no idea whatever of pace, was not a sprinter, and was easy for any opponent with a turn of speed, who would trail him round and pass him in the stretch. We had told Sherman (who had no chance to win, and knew it) to run the first lap in fifty-nine, instructing Bates to stay with him. Bates stayed all right, but Sherman was as far off as the man he paced,--in the first trial running in sixty-three, which was as bad as ever; and in the second pulling him out to fifty-six, so that neither finished. The question was, who should make pace for Bates. There were, sprawling on the steps that night, beside myself, Griffith, Smith, "Doc," and of course Tom Furness, for Tom had missed few such conclaves in the last half-dozen years. Now, the public knows pretty well who wins the events, but mighty little about the planning and contriving by which the athletic material of a college is developed and made the most of. Upon us five rested much of the responsibility for making winners of the team of 188-. With me it was a matter of business and professional standing; to the others, the glory of their college, and the personal satisfaction of having added to it. All of them were practical men, who had in days gone by carried their college colors, and Tom Furness had been a mighty good athlete, who had put a record where it stood untouched for a good five years. Tom was tall, fair, and sanguine. An optimist by nature, he never dreamed of anything but success, was a favorite with the graduates, while the college worshipped him. I never saw the man who could put heart into a losing team like Tom Furness. Just below him sat "Doc" Peckham, dark and silent. He was short and brown bearded, the very opposite of Tom, and had a rather embarrassing way of puncturing Tom's pretty bubbles. He was not so well liked as Furness, but was after all fully as valuable an adviser. He had a good practice in the city, but managed, in some way, to leave it whenever he was needed. Griffith and Smith were men who, as a rule, agreed with the majority, and myself in particular; so they were quite as useful as if they had been perpetually inventing foolish plans. We had been silent a full minute, which is not long for a crowd of college "gray-beards," when Tom Furness jumped to his feet with the air of a man who has made up his mind, expects opposition, but is still confident of the integrity of his position, and said, "Teddy Atherton's our man." "Teddy Atherton be blowed," said "Doc," who sat on the bottom step, his knees under his chin, drawing inspiration from his pipe. "He's run nothing but the 'quarter' for the last three years, and while he shows a fraction slower than Allen and Waite in practice, has a better head, and I would not give a toss-up for the difference between them." "That's it," said Furness; "it's Teddy's good head that we want. Now listen to me. We have three 'quarter milers' who finish under a blanket, and any one of them is about good enough to win. Allen has shown a shade the best time, and we certainly cannot pull him out, while Waite would sulk like a bear with a sore head if asked to make pace, and probably be worse than useless. Atherton, beside having better judgment, is a particularly unselfish chap, and if handled right will consent, and fill the bill exactly." "Deuced hard on Atherton," said Smith; "he's trained faithfully, has a chance to win in the 'quarter,' and yet we ask him to sacrifice himself in the 'half' because Bates is a duffer and will not use his head." We discussed the matter a while longer, and had barely arrived at an agreement, when who should come briskly from the gymnasium but Teddy himself. He jumped down the steps, and was hurrying away, with a joke at our serious faces, when I spoke up and said (for such uncomfortable commissions were usually assigned to me), "Wait a minute, Atherton, we want a word with you." "All right, old man," he said, "but be quick about it, for I've a dinner waiting for me that will be cold after seven o'clock." He was fresh from his shower-bath and rub-down, and looked as if he had stepped out of a bandbox. We could guess where the dinner was, for Atherton was very serious about Mollie Kittredge; and whether Mollie smiled or not, Mollie's mamma was complacent enough, and did her best to give Teddy a clear track and no contestants. Mollie was a howling favorite, "blonde, bland, and beautiful," who, it was rumored, did not care to be won by a "walk-over," and would have liked Teddy better if he had been a bit more difficult. Now, I believe it is best to go at once to the point with a disagreeable matter, so I said bluntly, "I'm sorry, Atherton, but we have decided to ask you to run in the 'half'; it is a late day to make the change, and it will, of course, give you no chance to win; but it seems to us the only thing to do under the circumstances." The boy winced, looked at us keenly to see if we were serious, then grew grave and said, rather sarcastically, "Your reasons for selecting me in particular as the scape-goat are of course good and sufficient, and you will pardon me for asking what they are?" I went over the matter with him in detail, assisted by Furness, giving all our reasons, doing my best to make the project as inviting as possible; and Atherton finally consented, as we expected. It was, however, a very serious face he carried off, and one very different from that which smiled upon us at the beginning. We were all mighty sorry for the boy, and I felt as if I had committed a petty theft, and deserved the penitentiary, or worse. I had only been the spokesman for the rest, and had racked my brains to think of some way to save Atherton from the sacrifice; but Tom was really unassailable in his position, and even "Doc" did not oppose him. I watched the lithe figure as it disappeared around the corner of the fence, realizing how full of disappointment my message must have been, and was sorry enough about it. Atherton had arrived at college without either athletic training or ambition. A student of the first rank, so that he was known at once where muscular ability is much more likely to obtain recognition than mental strength, it was not until his second year that I saw much of him. He then took up running, not so much with a view of contesting, as to fill out his lungs and increase his strength. It was not long, however, before he began to show decided improvement, and steadily gaining, had run unplaced, but close up, in his junior year. He had brought himself out in this way without in the least losing rank as a scholar, and I knew it was his one remaining ambition to get a place in athletics, and win a point for the old college on this last competition to which he would be eligible. If he had been a musty bookworm I should not have cared so much, but he was a splendid fellow, of good family, and a great favorite of mine, because of his pluck and good nature. He appeared next day on the track, as agreed, a little serious, but not at all disagreeable; which made me feel more guilty than ever. In fact, I tried to apologize, and for this received, as I deserved, a sharp answer, that the decision was doubtless correct, and there was no necessity for further talk. He listened to my instructions carefully, took Bates along within a half second of the fifty-nine, and left him in the stretch to finish four seconds better than ever before. Teddy was badly used up, of course, for he was not at all accustomed to the distance, and when I gave him a shoulder to the gymnasium, he was as limp as possible. He took our congratulations with a half smile, and would not confess that he was much the worse for the effort. Tom Furness was much elated, insisting there was no question but that we had made a change to the advantage of all but Teddy, and it was right that he should suffer for the good of the cause. It is wonderful with what complacency we look upon the sacrifice of others. As I thought it over that night, I had serious doubts about Atherton's condition, and the next morning I told Furness just how badly he was used up; but I did not take a decided stand, as I should have done, and the reason was purely selfish and unworthy. I was, of course, anxious to win the cup; it meant much to me, and I decided to take the risk. The day came round, particularly sultry and close. The sky was brassy, the sun a ball of fire, and what little wind there was felt like the breath of a furnace. It was a day to break records, and to break a trainer's heart as well; for often a man who is right "on edge" will show up limp and lifeless under such conditions, going stale in a night. I had changed rooms at the hotel so that the men might sleep with all the air possible, given them an early breakfast, and got them over to the grounds before the sun was very hot. We settled ourselves in the dressing-rooms, and the men stripped at once for the sake of comfort and coolness. A beautiful sight it was. An athlete looks much like a city clerk with his clothes on, but stripped to the buff there is a mighty difference. No weak, skinny legs, no fat disfigured bodies, no bunched and rounded shoulders. You may boast of your fine horses and beautiful women, but give me an athlete in perfect training, particularly if I have had the handling of him, and have seen the fat disappear and the strong, clean muscle take its place. The boys are seated on the long benches or standing in front of the lockers. Here is the slender figure of a sprinter, not an ounce of superfluous flesh or unused muscle, the cords of his shapely legs standing out clear and firm through the satin skin. There is a shot-putter, stopping a moment to chaff with a friend, stripped to the waist, his shirt in his hand. See how the mighty muscles stretch across his breast and back! See the big, square neck, and that right arm and shoulder, round and firm and hard! It is not men like the last that I worry about, for the heat will do nothing but good to an anatomy like this; but the thin and slender chaps, with not too much vitality at best, and trained close to the limit--these I look over closely and carefully. I was more anxious about Atherton than any other, and found him off in a corner by himself, near the window. Perhaps the most popular man on the team, he was not over jolly this morning, and the boys saw it, and left him alone. His clothes were already hung in his locker, in that particularly neat way that some of the boys might have copied to advantage. He had on his trunks and jersey, and was lacing his running-shoes. I asked him how he felt. "All right," he said; but I knew better. The hot night had told on him, and he was a bit pale and tired-looking. I told him to get into his wrap, find a cool and comfortable place, and take it easy until he was wanted. He followed instructions, as usual, and I saw almost nothing of him until the "half" was called, late in the afternoon. As usual, we had pulled off some unexpected wins, and lost several "lead-pipe cinches." The latter, however, were far more numerous, and I was decidedly on the anxious seat. Indeed, as near as I could figure, unless Bates won the "half" we were out of it. Of Sherman we expected nothing; he was put in to fill out the string, and because a man will sometimes surprise those best informed of his incapacity. Bates we hoped would win, and Atherton was expected to run his first lap in fifty-nine cutting wind and setting pace, to keep on in the second lap at the same speed until he reached the stretch, where he was to drop out (probably dead beat), leaving Bates to run in and break the tape. There was little glory in this programme for Atherton, and I had seen his face lengthen out when Allen and Waite romped in, first and second in the "quarter." It was "dollars to doughnuts" he would have made a strong third or better, and I saw he thought so himself, although he said nothing. We had just won a first and third in the high jump, and I was feeling a little better when the men were called for the "half." I met Teddy in the middle of the field, and walked along with him to the start. He was looking very white and serious; but I said nothing at all to hearten him, for I knew he was clear grit and did not want it. I did tell him that the race was more in his hands than Bates', and that from those who knew he would receive all the credit of a win, if he brought Bates in first. He said not a word in answer, only nodded his head, threw me his wrap, and went to the mark. As the numbers were being called, I had a chance to look around me. There was the usual crowd inside the ring, the officials, the reporters, and those infernal nuisances the men with a pull, who do nothing, and interfere with all who have duties to perform. The grand stand was right in front of me, spread like the tail of a huge peacock, and a perfect riot of color, for every second person was a lady, and what better opportunity than this to wear what was loud and bright? As my eye wandered over the crowd, I began to pick out familiar faces, for I have a keen sight for a friend. There was Jack Hart and Tom Finlay, two of my old boys, sitting together, one of them from Denver, and the other professor in a Maine college; there was Dr. Gorden a bit lower, and Fred Tillotson with his pretty wife; there was Charlie Thomas with a little fellow in a sweater, evidently a dead game sport already, and a chip of the old block, for his face is red with excitement, and his eyes like saucers with enthusiasm. I was taking my eyes away to look at the men, when they fastened on a figure a few rows from the top. It was that of one of the most striking girls I have ever seen, as perfect a blonde as even Old England could show, and with a very British air of reserve, despite the excitement around her. She was a marvel,--tall and well-developed, groomed and gowned to the dot. I could see she was looking straight at Teddy in the calmest style imaginable, but still rather surprised that he did not return her glance. But Teddy had for the moment quite forgotten her. He was bent over his mark, his eyes straight ahead, ready for the first sound of the pistol, for his instructions were to take the lead from the beginning. There was a strapping field of a dozen or more, but most of the others were prepared to take the customary start for a "half"--easy away, and fast work when heart and lungs had worked up to it. "Marks! Set!" the crack of the pistol, and Teddy shot out as if for a sprint, slowing immediately, however, when he had taken his place. Bates pulled out of the ruck at the turn, and fell in behind him, following orders. Round the track they swung, stringing out, one and another coming up and going back as if on wires, but Teddy and Bates holding the lead. My watch showed fifty-eight and three-quarters as they finished the first lap, a beautiful performance on Teddy's part, though I had expected it, for he was a connoisseur on time, if I ever saw one. There followed them over, and close up, a cadaverous-looking man from one of the minor colleges, whose style I did not like, but who was going very strong, and whom I might have thought dangerous had I not been told he never finished. Sherman was twenty-five yards back, in the rear of the lot, and running in a very hopeless fashion. I was relieved to see how well Teddy did his work, and noticed the slight flush on his cheeks as he passed. I could see that Mollie Kittredge too had a little added color in her cheeks, but in no other way did she show any particular interest in the race. For the first half of the second lap our programme was followed out all right, Atherton still leading at a lively clip, Bates right at his heels, and the tall outsider barely holding his own. Then the unexpected happened. Bates began to show signs of tiring, fell back inch by inch, and the tall outsider came up at the same rate. Just before the lower turn they got together, and there was a short struggle; but Bates was as arrant a cur as ever wore a shoe, and he yielded the place, though he had strength enough to run another lap, had he the heart to go with it. Teddy was, perhaps, five yards to the good when he swung into the stretch, and looked over his shoulder, expecting to see his college mate close up and ready to take up the running. Instead, he saw an unexpected contestant, coming fast, and Bates was full five yards behind, slowing, and evidently out of it. Now Atherton was, of course, well-nigh spent; he had followed instructions to the dot, and was not expected to finish. There was a half-second's hesitation and a look of fear; but as quick as he realized the conditions, the little fellow swung his face to the front and set his teeth with the evident determination of making a fight for the race. A mighty cheer went up from the spectators, for Teddy had many friends, and the whole college knew under what circumstances he was running; but I doubt if he heard anything but the crunch, crunch, crunch of the swift feet behind him. I knew it was a hopeless task, for his opponent was fresh as paint, and full of running. Gradually his longer stride drew him up, but when he tried to pass, Teddy still had a word to say, and met him with the most stubborn resistance. He was almost gone, his face white as death, his eyes glazed, and he kept his speed only by sheer force of will. Somehow, I know not how, for I could hardly have taken my eyes from the runners, I knew that Mollie Kittredge was on her feet with a look of horror in her face. Down the stretch they came, the little fellow with the drawn cheeks, and his opponent tall and strong and confident. Side by side they came, neither gaining, until perhaps fifteen yards from the finish, when the big fellow shot by. Teddy staggered on, but lurched forward, and fell, a few feet short of the line, just as the winner broke the tape. He fell without an effort to save himself, plowing through the cinders with his white face. There was a convulsive struggle to crawl over, and then he lay still, dead to the world, with one hand stretched out toward the line. The half-dozen who finished ran by the motionless figure, and I was over it a second after. Tom Furness was almost as soon as myself, and together we lifted and placed it on the soft turf inside the track. We were surrounded by a crowd of contestants and track officials, but a cry, followed by a commotion in the grand stand, drew their attention, and we were left alone. So full of agony was the cry, that I looked up myself, and was just in time to see the statuesque Mollie throw up her hands and fall back in a dead faint. Yes, blondes have hearts, after all. We were not much troubled by the crowd, for they thought it was only a man "run out," and that he would be all right in a minute or two, and walk off as well as ever. Alas! I knew better; it was a bad case, and I could find little sign of life in the limp body. We made an effort to revive him, but Tom could not get a drop from his flask through the clenched teeth, and one side of the face was bleeding, where it had slid over the cinders. The crowd was coming back, the spectators were beginning to notice us, so I told Tom to take the legs, and I took the head and shoulders, and we started for the dressing-rooms. A pathetically light weight was it, and I was heart-sick, for, though one hand was over the heart, I could feel no motion through the thin jersey. "Doc" joined us at the door, and I was never so pleased to see any one in my life, for I knew that he would do all that could be done, and we need not experiment with some one we did not know. When we got into a quiet room we placed Teddy on a rubbing-couch, and "Doc" immediately applied the most powerful remedies to revive him. They were at first unsuccessful, but by hypodermic injections of strychnine and brandy, the wearied heart and lungs were at last induced to start feebly on their accustomed tasks. We were standing by the couch, watching the hint of color grow in the boy's cheeks, when suddenly the limp figure made a convulsive effort (consciousness taking up the thread where it had been broken, a few feet short of the tape), and he almost lifted himself to his feet before we could catch him. As he fell back in our arms, there came to his lips the bright-red blood-spots, precursors of a fearful hemorrhage. It was almost impossible for us to check it, for the boy was delirious, would not lie still, and kept saying in a determined way, "I will win! I must win!" He would turn his head, and call, "Bates! Bates!" in a frenzy of fear and disappointment. "Bates, where are you? My God, where are you? I'm sure I followed orders, and did not come too fast." Then he would find Bates, and say contentedly, "There you are, old man, close up; I'll drop out now, I'm almost gone; push out and win." Suddenly he would discover it was the outsider, and would cry out with fevered lips, and try to break away from us and run. Then he would lie still, but in his mind was going over the agony of the finish again and again. He would turn to me and say excitedly, "You told me I need not finish. I can't run the 'half,' and you know it. It's dark, and they have run off with the tape. I finished long ago, and still you make me run." Sometimes he would drop his hands and say despairingly, "I cannot do it, I cannot reach the worsted; O God, I cannot!" Then he would discover Tom, who was almost as crazy as Teddy himself, and had been utterly useless from the time the hemorrhage set in. He would say to Tom, "Don't look at me like that, old man; I know I lost the race, but I did my best, my very best, and ran clear out. Look at my cheek, where I fell; you must see I was dead beat." He would try to argue with Tom, who had not a word to say, except of sorrow and self-reproach. He would look at Tom, and say, "Perhaps you're right, and I'll not complain, but why did you tell me to set pace, if you meant to make me finish?" Or he would say over and over again, "I was not strong enough; I did the best I could; I did the best I could." Indeed, he did not cease talking all the time we were with him, until he was given opiates and taken to the hospital. Here he spent many weary weeks, and was only pulled through after the most persistent care. But though he got on his feet again, he did not fully recover, and even a long trip to the Bermudas did not get his lungs in shape. He spent some months in Southern California, and settled finally among the Carolina hills, the nearest point to his old New England home, where he could expect to prolong his days. I have seen many gallant winners, many whose courage and determination made them such; but when I tell the story that comes closest to my heart, I tell of one a notch above them all. I tell of Teddy Atherton, of his last "half" which he _lost_. [Illustration: The Charge of the Heavy Brigade] There were three of us in my office at the gymnasium. It was late afternoon of a February day. The hail was beating against my windows, and a punching-bag was drumming the "devil's tattoo" in the next room. There were all sorts of sounds outside, from the clatter of pulley weights dropped on the floor to the steady tramp of the runner's feet on the track overhead, but in my room a Sabbath stillness reigned. Fred Seever was perched on a chair in one corner ready dressed for departure, and N. P. Sawyer, familiarly known as "Shack," sat on the weighing scales clad only in trunks, jersey, and an air of melancholy. It would not have been a comfortable seat for most anatomies, and the metal work must have felt chilly; but Shack had eccentric tastes, and never occupied a chair if he could find anything else to hold him. I had just remarked in the quietest manner possible, "It is pretty well settled that Seever does not run this year." This was the cause of Shack's melancholy and Seever's silence. "Well, if that's the verdict," said Seever, with considerable heat for one so quiet, "it's mighty hard lines, and a blooming hothouse plant it makes of me. I've been planning the whole year to get back at the Dutchman, and now at the last moment you say I don't start." "Yes," spoke up Shack, "you should get a glass case for the dear boy, and put him in it, labelled 'Rare Specimen,' 'A Runner too Good to Run.'" He followed up this ingenious suggestion by untangling his long legs, rising slowly to his feet, and suddenly throwing a stray boxing-glove which he had picked up from the floor, hitting the "Rare Specimen" a blow in the short ribs that brought forth an involuntary grunt. "By the way, Professor," he continued, "do you think it quite safe for a little chap like me to toy with a sixteen-pound shot? Mightn't I drop it on my precious toes some day?" "I've told you my reasons plainly enough," I answered, looking up from my desk and laughing at big Shack in spite of myself. "You remember last year. Seever went into this same 'mile handicap,' running from scratch. There were thirty-odd entries, and he was blocked, elbowed, and pocketed all the way through, getting a toss from Kitson in the last lap that sent him rolling into a corner with skin enough off his knees to make parchment for his diploma." "I wasn't hurt, though," argued Seever, "only sore for a few days." "'Twas luck that saved you then," I answered; "suppose you'd broken a leg, as you might easily have done on that hardwood floor, where would we have been at Mott Haven, with not a man jack of you good for four-thirty?" "Give it up," said Shack. "Did you notice that the same field, too, let the Dutchman through like a greased pig? Hartman had half a dozen club mates in the lot, and as many more were quite willing to do all within the law to keep a college man out of it." "Well," continued I, "Fred Seever is neither a wrestler nor a football player. These indoor games are all right, and for the average man there is no better place to learn quickness than in a mob of runners swinging round the raised corners of a slippery board track. But Fred has had experience enough, and is sure to appear on the cinder-path with the warm spring days in good condition if left entirely to himself. In the second place, he is too slender to take any chances." "Yes," interrupted Shack, "those pipe-stem legs are marked 'breakable.'" I concluded with, "The verdict is that, unless I have some good reason to change my mind, Seever's name will certainly be scratched." At this there was a dead silence. Shack looked at Seever questioningly, then shook his head, and began to whistle "Ben Bolt" in a particularly dismal manner. When I found they had nothing more to say, I resumed my examination of the list of entries to the first big "Indoor Athletic Games" of the season. I had just received it from the "official handicapper," and was considerably interested to find what my men had been given. They figured in every handicap, and in the "forty-yard novice" there were no less than fourteen of them, nearly all Freshmen, with two or three who would show a turn of speed. There were a few I did not intend should run, among them Seever, for the reasons I had already given. These games are a perfect godsend to a trainer, coming as they do at a time when it is very hard to keep the men up to their work. The gymnasium is indispensable in a country where from December to April the cinder-path is either hard with frost or white with snow. But when a man has done his fifteen minutes at the pulley weights for the hundredth consecutive afternoon, he finds the excitement of "One, two, three, four, five, six," begins to pall on him, and by the last of February even "practising starts" loses its charms. It is then the circuit of a billiard-table becomes the favorite track work, and the digestion of a good dinner the principal muscular exercise. I had checked off about half the names, finding few surprises, when the quiet of my room was broken by the entrance of a dozen fellows who had just learned of the arrival of the list. Did you ever hear the work of that very conscientious gentleman the "official handicapper" discussed by a crowd of contestants? Of half a dozen men perhaps one is pleased and says so, two or three have no fault to find but do nevertheless grumble out of principle, and the remainder "kick like veteran mules," and blackguard in shameful fashion the man whose only sin has been to overrate their abilities. "What's this?" cried Ferris, a high jumper, looking over my shoulder. "I get only four inches, and Bob here gets six. That's highway robbery, and I don't care who knows it. He did five-eight to my five-seven only yesterday." "Here's little Larry with five yards in the 'forty,'" spoke up Shack, who had monopolized the view from my right side, his broad shoulders shutting off all the rest; "the infant won't do a thing to them, will he?" "What do you get yourself?" inquired Turner, who was bigger than Shack, but not quite quick enough to get a place of vantage. "That's what I ought to be looking for," answered Shack, "but I always think of others first. They'll put something of that kind on my tombstone. Where's the 'shot'?" He ran his big finger down the page, remarking meanwhile, "I gave Jones [the handicapper] a good cigar only last week, and told him that I had not been myself the whole winter." Shack said this with a deep sigh, as if he well knew he was threatened with an early decline. "I expect to find nothing less than the same old eight feet for yours truly." His finger suddenly stopped, as he said this, and then straightening himself with an energy that sent two or three men flying backward, he exclaimed: "Great Jupiter! Look at that! Only look at that! And 'twas a good cigar too. He gives me just four feet, the least of any of you, and Turner here, who tied me this afternoon, gets the eight instead." At this there was a big laugh at Shack, whose woes were a joke to all. Down the list they went until all were informed, and then they gradually sifted out, leaving Seever and Shack still with me. I could not understand why they stayed, for they knew well enough that further argument would be useless; but I paid no attention to them, going on with my checking. The "mile handicap" was almost the last event. I crossed out Seever's name, which figured alone at "scratch," saw that Hartman had his twenty-five yards, the same as last year, marked off Root at fifty and Murphy at seventy yards, and then suddenly discovered, just below, the names of G. Turner and N. P. Sawyer with the same allowances. To say I was surprised would but faintly express my feeling, as Turner was a shot and hammer man who had played football, weighed nearly one hundred and ninety pounds, and had never to my knowledge run a yard on a track in his life. N. P. Sawyer was the seldom used patronymic of Shack, who had resumed his seat on the scales in the corner, and was evidently by his air of expectancy waiting for an explosion. I had sent in neither name, and was utterly at sea regarding the whole affair. "Well, Sawyer," said I, turning rather abruptly toward him, "what does this mean?" "Simply this," replied Shack, very frankly, as if he had expected the question and had his answer ready,--"simply this, that I thought we would pay the devil in his own coin, and give Hartman and his fellow-pirates of the 'Rowing Club' a taste of their medicine; let the Dutchman carom against Turner and myself a few times, permit Kitson to enjoy the experience of a tumble like that he gave Fred last year, and carry the latter bit of 'rare porcelain' through the mob without getting chipped." "A very pretty plan," I remarked sarcastically, "but why was I not consulted in the matter?" "Simply because we were doubtful of your consent, and wished to get as far along as possible before we had our little talk with you." "Of course," remarked Seever, "we knew you would have the final word to say, but we thought you would prefer not to have the plan yours, and to be able to say that you did not even send in the entries." "That was certainly very thoughtful of you." "Yes," interposed Shack, "there is a remote chance of a little 'shindy' when the 'Heavy Brigade' gets well started." "If you and Turner are mixed up in it, I should think the chances considerably more than even," I remarked; "but why in the world did two ice-wagons like you and Turner go into it? You can neither of you run a mile in ten minutes." "Ten minutes," cried Shack. "We'll let you hold a watch over us and see. You said just now that Seever was neither a wrestler nor a football player. Well, this is, you admit, something of a football game, and we have a football aggregation for it. Root is in it too. He played 'left half,' Turner 'right,' and I 'full back' on the team all last fall. Root has been doing the mile for a couple of years, and is a fair performer. Turner is a mighty fast man for his weight, and can go the distance. As for myself, although my well-known modesty shrinks at the assertion, I am a 'crack-a-Jack' at any distance from one hundred yards to ten miles. I am indeed. With a seventy-yard handicap Seever has no show with me. I thought we three could do the trick nicely with a little of the interference we worked up together and found mighty useful on the 'gridiron.'" "That's your plan, is it?" I asked. "Well, 'tis as crazy as its maker, which is saying a great deal." At this there was silence again, Seever twirling his thumbs, and Shack running his fingers through his mop of hair in a hopeless fashion. "I am not sure, however, but that with some modification I shall let you try it." At this Seever looked a shade less discouraged, and Shack gave a broad smile of triumph, and then listened with much seriousness as I said, "In the first place, there must be no interference with Hartman; do you promise this?" "We do," answered Shack, who was quite willing to make any condition if Seever could be allowed to run. "In the second place, you must make pace for Seever as decently as possible, and not one of you catch a judge's eye." "We swear it," replied Shack, raising his big hand solemnly above his head. "All right; if you will look out for these things I will let you try. It is time something was done, and even an extreme step like this may be the means of straightening matters out." We talked the affair over for some time together, and when we parted our plans were well matured. I found that Root, Turner, and Shack had been training carefully for several weeks with this in view. They had all done the "mile" in fair time, although the last "quarter" was something of a task for big Turner. Shack, however, very much to my surprise, showed me a performance on the short gymnasium track that proved with seventy yards' start no one on earth could catch him, and the event was simply at his mercy. Seever begged him to go in for himself and pull the thing off, and I advised the same; but this did not tempt Shack at all. "I had rather see Fred beat out the Dutchman than to win a dozen races," he declared, rubbing his hands. So the affair was settled. I gave him a careful trial a few nights before the "games," and decided that Hartman with his first mate Kitson and his "fellow pirates," as Shack called them, were likely to find rough sailing on Saturday night. * * * * * There is an almost endless variety in outdoor games. The weather conditions alone are enough to make each day stand out by itself. Cloud and sunshine, heat and cold, wind and calm, not to speak of the occasional smart shower at about five o'clock when interest is at its height, make an almost limitless combination. There is none of this diversity to indoor games. The track is neither fast nor heavy, and the boards are no softer on one evening than another. The temperature is always a bit too high for comfort, the air too close for laboring lungs, and the same bright light glares on all. There may of course be something in the games themselves to make them noteworthy, and those of February, 189-, I shall always remember through the charge of the "Heavy Brigade," so called by Shack, who claimed it quite outclassed the performance of the "Light Brigade," because the danger was greater and there were no dead nor wounded. When I arrived at the "hall" at a little after seven o'clock, they were preparing to start the preliminary heats of the "forty-yard novice," a weeding-out process quite necessary, but not particularly exciting. The "clerk of the course" was calling off the names of the contestants, and nearly a hundred young fellows were gathered around him, answering one after the other, as he checked off the list. Some were hidden from shoulder to toe by voluminous wraps, some wore sweaters of various shapes and colors, and some were clad only in jersey, trunks, and running shoes. The officials, who wore their badges and an air of _blasé_ indifference to distinguish them from common mortals, were much in evidence, and a good-sized squad of carpenters and helpers were busying themselves around the track. The men on the floor far outnumbered the spectators, who as a rule were content to wait for the semi-finals at eight o'clock and enjoy an unhurried dinner meanwhile. There were a few boys in the gallery, here and there a little bunch of a half-dozen or so in the seats surrounding the track, and on the platform only two pretty girls occupied seats on the very back row, who were anxious to see somebody win his heat,--a brother perhaps. In a far corner of the gallery the musicians were arriving. They would not begin to play for some time, however, and meanwhile the high walls echoed to every sound, and the long strips of bunting hanging from the ceiling waved slowly with the wind from the open windows. I could see among the crowd of contestants who gathered around the white lines at the start several boys in whom I was interested; but I had nothing to say to them, and went over to the opposite corner, where the judges clustered around the finish posts. The red worsted was waiting for its first break, and beyond, hung against the walls, were the mattresses to catch the sprinter unable to check his speed. On one side were the hurdles in a long row ready to be pushed into place. In a third corner was the seven-foot circle with its raised cleat for the "shot put," and the last triangle was occupied by the standards and cross bar for the "high jump." The movable platforms for the raised corners were in two sections, and pulled apart so as not to interfere with the "dash." I had only time for a word or two, a nod here and a handshake there, when, at a sign from the starter, the judges took their places, and the timekeepers stood with watch in hand ready to record the flying fifth seconds. I could look along the smooth floor and see the men take their places. There was Downer, a little Freshman, white with the excitement of his first public performance. He was a nervous chap, and one of my most promising men. Up goes the starter's hand, "Marks," "Set," the report of the pistol, and out of the circling crowd break the five struggling forms. There is the beat of eager feet, one, two, three, four, and between the posts they dash, little Downer coming away in the last few strides. "Thud" he goes against the mattress; "thud," "thud," "thud," "thud," go the other four, and the first heat is over. As they come back, the judges check off the "37" from Downer's back, his nervousness all gone, and in its place a confidence for which there is as little excuse. There were a score of heats varying little from this, as many more in the "forty-yard handicap," and when they were finished nearly every seat in the building was taken, and the platform had blossomed out like a bank of flowers with the bright colors which the ladies wore. Now the band starts up with a swinging "March," and everything takes on a new life. In the next two hours there was nothing particularly worth recording. Shack won the "shot put" in spite of the four feet about which he had complained so loudly, thus proving the astuteness of the much maligned "handicapper." Sawyer came to me with Root and Turner just before the "mile" was called, his long wrap dangling loose around his heels, and a broad grin on his face. He answered my inquiry as to whether everything was all right with an expressive nod, and then quoted a line or two from some pathetic ballad in which the horrors of a death on the battle-field were vividly depicted. He called off the roll very solemnly. Root and Turner answering to their names, he told them to look to their accoutrements, to tighten their horses' girths, and when the starter sent them to their places, he gave the order to "saddle" with great seriousness, leaving me with a step or two in imitation of a particularly clumsy charger. He was fixed with Turner at the seventy-yard mark, among a crowd of a score of limit men. When they took their places, Shack was well outside in the first row, and Turner well inside on the second. Root was twenty yards back with another smaller knot of men at the fifty-yard mark, and there were half a dozen at the thirty-five. Fritz Hartman was alone on the twenty-five-yard line, and Seever stood by himself at "scratch." Fritz was a well put together little chap, with curly yellow hair, round face, and a great favorite with the gallery and the "Rowing Club." There were a half dozen of the latter among the contestants, all of them showing the crossed oars on the breasts of their jerseys. Seever was almost as fair as the Dutchman, but he was a bit browner, his hair was darker without the curl, and he stood at least three inches taller. He kept his wrap on until the last moment, taking no chances with a draft of cool air which blew from an open window behind him. I knew there was nothing to be said to him, for he knew his business perfectly, but took my position near the limit men, who were having considerable fun with Shack and Turner. One little fellow told Shack he would be quite a sprinter when he "got his growth." And Shack confessed he did not feel quite strong enough for the distance. When Turner pulled off his sweater, revealing his enormous shoulders and chest, he did appear a bit out of place among the lighter men around him. One of them said Turner was in good shape, but a "bit fine," and asked if he had not done a "trifle too much work." Another declared that Shack was so wide, he blocked the whole track. There seemed to be an impression that the two big fellows had gone in for a lark, or with the idea of settling who was the best at the distance, and with no idea of winning. Of the real plan of the "Heavy Brigade" there was no sign that any one had the least suspicion. There was some cheering from the galleries for Hartman when he took his place, and when Seever threw off his wrap there came a little burst of applause from the spectators on the platform, and from the seats which circled the track. Many remembered Seever's nasty fall of the previous year, and it was pretty well surmised that he meant to make a mighty hard try to win where he had failed before. Indeed, by that peculiar telegraphy which runs through a large crowd, almost every one knew that the "mile" was to be the event of the evening. Seever was a fine sight in his spotless running suit, his arms a bit slender, not an ounce of useless weight above the belt, and his legs long and lithe as a greyhound's. He might not be a "hothouse plant," but he was certainly not qualified to join the ranks of the "Heavy Brigade." The band stops in the middle of a bar at a signal from the "announcer," while he calls out the winners of the "high jump" in stentorian tones. Then comes almost perfect silence as the thirty-odd men bend over their marks, and are off with the sound of the pistol. They make a noise like a heavy freight-train, and when the limit men strike the first corner it was a case of the "ready shoulder" and "useful elbow," sure enough. Three or four went down, sliding along the smooth boards. A couple were up almost without loss, but one of them has enough and goes limping off the track. Big Turner, despite his football experience, almost comes to grief, for he had a man right under his feet; he staggers through, however, with a plunge that sends another man to the edge of the track, and is by Shack's side a moment later. Of course anything with a pair of legs can run a single lap at the speed with which the best of them start out who mean to finish in good time. The first lap showed few changes, except that the whole lot had strung out in a long procession, first one and then another coming up or going back, but with no very radical changes. There were a couple of fellows with no idea of pace who started from limit as if they had a hundred yards only before them, and who came up close to Seever, who was in no hurry yet. In the second lap Hartman began to draw away, and at the end of the third passed a man or two and came up to a little bunch of nine or ten close together. Root was among them, and made a little spurt as Fritz went by; but the rest opened a gap like a barn door, through which the Dutchman slipped with ease, and set out for those ahead. "That was very pretty," said I to myself; "now we will see if Seever gets the same chance." Fred, who had now struck his gait, and got his heart and lungs in good working order, quickening his stride, passed a few stragglers almost before they saw him, and came up to the same bunch through which Hartman had gone so easily. He trailed after them a little, and then swung wide to go by on the outside; but a stout fellow with the crossed oars on his breast went with him, his right arm well out, and his elbows up, taking Seever almost to the rail. The latter was forced back again, and in the straight tried to slip through a promising gap, but they put the bars up as he came along, and he found himself, despite his best efforts, nicely pocketed at this early stage of the game. There was considerable indication of disapproval from the audience, and some hisses; but there was Seever, sure enough, "in Coventry" and no mistake. All this time Shack and Turner were running easily, and they now began to slip back faster still among the tail-enders, being joined by Root on the way. When Seever found himself blocked, he slowed a little, according to instructions, and a second or two later the three men came back, and led him with Shack first, Root second, and Turner just ahead. Then, as if a trumpet had been blown, the "Heavy Brigade" swung into position something like the letter "V," with Shack at the apex, Root a little back and outside, and Turner in the same relative position on the inside. There was nothing at all conspicuous about all this, and I doubt if any one noticed it but myself. Seever now came up a little, and took his place behind the "troop." They ran in this way for a few strides, and then, as if the order to charge had been given, the "Heavy Brigade" started at speed. I held my breath a bit as they came up to the bunch which had blocked Seever a moment before. Shack tried to swing wide, but again the stout fellow with the crossed oars came out, and with him a couple of others. Then Shack came in a little, chose a place where there was a small gap, the trio "hit her up," and went through the crowd like a particularly powerful snow-plough. The stout fellow tried to swing in, but he could make no more impression against Shack than a stone-wall, and when he bumped back against Root the latter worthy sent him to the rear. Turner took care of his corner without a stagger. It was a mighty neat performance, for no one was taken off his feet, though several had been thrown out of their strides when the "Brigade" cut through. The audience cheered as Seever swung by, and set out behind his body-guard at a pace that meant mischief to some one. They had all been running easily, and now they passed one contestant after another until they came to a second bunch a bit more solid than the first. Shack trailed them for a half lap; looking in vain for an opening, he swung wide, he made a try for the inside, he stepped this way and that, and then suddenly, as if at the touch of the spur, the "Heavies" cut into the line in front where it was weakest. There was no opening; so Shack selected a little fellow in the middle, and ran right over him, taking pains to send him wide out of Seever's way. Root had little trouble, but Turner found himself in an awful hole. I could see his huge shoulder as he forced through, and at one time I thought he was surely down, but he came through a little behind the rest, puffing like a grampus. He was strong and game, however, and a moment later was in his place again, although far from comfortable. The audience was now on its feet, for there were but a couple of laps left, and the real race was now to come. Half of the starters had dropped out, half of the remainder were hopelessly trailed, and the leaders were close together. Hartman had perhaps ten yards over Kitson, and about the same distance back were the "Heavies," with Seever close up. This latter "piece of rare porcelain," as Shack called him, had been taken through without a touch and was running as if on eggs. They pulled Kitson back fast, and caught him at the last corner. He was a tall fellow with a closely shaven head, who was a runner, sure enough, and used his arms almost as much as his legs. It was almost impossible for a light man to get by him on a narrow board track. Just what he tried to do I never discovered, for the crowd of contestants inside the track were all huddled together and partly hid my view. All I am sure of is that the man with the "useful elbow" suddenly performed a parabola of surpassing splendor, and landed in a very dazed condition between the knees of a fat man in the front row of spectators. Kitson had no sooner been put out of danger than Root and Shack swung wide, and Turner also stepped out of the way, falling among the crowd inside the track pretty well run out, and Seever came through and set out for Hartman like the "Headless Horseman." The Dutchman ran as if the famous spectre of Sleepy Hollow was indeed after him, but Seever was as fresh as paint and would not be denied. Foot by foot he gained, and passing him at the last corner broke the tape a comfortable winner by a couple of yards. Of course he received plenty of acknowledgment for his plucky race, but not half the applause that came to Shack, the doughty leader of the "Heavy Brigade," who came romping in third, with a grin on his face like the first quarter of a harvest moon. [Illustration: A Virginia Jumper] I remember it was on a Monday morning that I sat in my office at the gymnasium, opening a three-days' mail. I had been out of town, and found quite a formidable accumulation of letters on my desk. It was early, not later than eight o'clock. The November sun was shining, and the woodbine that framed the eastern window was blazing almost as brightly as the fire in the grate. It was all very cheerful. I was glad to get back again, and with an old cricket jacket around my shoulders I set myself to clean up the arrears of work. I always handle my mail on the principle of elimination; that is, I first open the unsealed envelopes containing circulars, then those of apparently little consequence, and so on down to the most interesting and important. Of course I sometimes make mistakes, but not very often. I distinctly remember that on that day an envelope with a black border was saved for the very last. The postmark was illegible, and it was addressed to me in a particularly old-fashioned and graceful hand. When at last I broke the seal, I found its contents as follows: THE OAKS, FAIRFAX CO., VA. DEAR SIR: I am desirous that my son may win distinction in some form of athletic sport. I understand that you have charge of the instruction in this department. It is my wish that he be given especial training in that exercise to which he is best adapted. I have already advised him concerning my plan. I write you also, because he has unfortunately little ambition in this direction, and I must ask that he be given particular care and attention. I shall be pleased to have you send me the customary bill for such extra work. My son comes of a family renowned for strength and vigor, and should be able to surpass all competitors. I should consider a second place no better than absolute failure. Asking your serious consideration of the above, I am, Sincerely yours, MARGARET LEE FAIRFAX. TO MR. WALTER BROWN. Now, I have received a great many letters concerning athletic matters in my time, but few more interesting than this. Concealed under a very matter-of-fact speech and manner, there is in me a vein of the imaginative which I occasionally indulge. Sometimes a very small matter will be enough to send me on a very wild flight. I remember that I read the letter with the black border again and again, trying to picture to myself the one who wrote it. There were nine sentences, and six of them beginning with the "I,"--evidently a woman of strong personality. "I am desirous," "It is my wish," certainly indicated one accustomed to have her inclinations respected. "He comes of a family renowned for strength and vigor, and should be able to surpass all competitors," plainly showed a woman proud of her birth, and ambitious for success. A Virginian, a Fairfax. I made a mind picture of her as she wrote the letter, sitting in a cool and shaded room in one of those white-pillared, wide-halled mansions, built a century ago among the oaks. She was dressed in black, her figure tall and slender, her back straight and her head well poised. Her hair had a few threads of white in it, but a hint of color still showed in her cheeks, and the light had not yet gone out of her dark eyes. Her mouth I pictured a trifle thin-lipped and positive. At an old mahogany desk with big brass escutcheons she sat, the magnolias' heavy fragrance in the air, the song of the darkies sounding faintly from the distant fields. This is the picture I made on that November morning, and how long I should have dreamed I cannot say, had not Paddy's voice from under my window waked me from my trance, with "Jerry, ye Kildare divil, luk at the rake ye lift out the night; it's half a mind I hev to comb yer thick hid wid it." Jerry protested his innocence in tones only less strident than Paddy's own, and the remarkably fluent and aggressive tirade of the latter was only lost to me when they had walked down the track and out of ear-shot. Now, I defy any one to make mind pictures under such conditions, and I became my practical self at once. I shut off the romantic stop with a thud, and turning on the business pipe, proceeded to answer my mail. Most of the circulars went into the waste basket; receipted bills into one compartment, unpaid into another. I answered a few of the routine letters, and then oddly enough I broke my rule, and took up the black-bordered letter again. Who was this candidate for athletic fame? His name was not even mentioned in the letter. Evidently the son of Margaret Lee Fairfax was supposed to be too well known to need any further title. A reference to my list gave me among the freshmen, "Richard Spotswood Fairfax, The Oaks, Fairfax Co., Va.," but this did not help me at all. He had certainly not appeared on track or field, or I should have remembered him, and he had even neglected a physical examination. He was probably bandy-legged, big-waisted, round-shouldered, and hollow-chested. He might be a sufferer from dyspepsia and heart disease; there were chances that he had a fancy for Greek roots, and thought football brutal. I have been asked by doting parents to make champion sprinters and weight putters out of just such timber,--although the age of miracles is past. I had a conventional way of answering such letters, and prepared to go through the usual forms. A modest request it was indeed! "I should consider a second place no better than absolute failure." Little did she realize what a combination of excellences go to make up a winner, nor how many good men train faithfully for four years without getting a place. Give him "especial care and attention"? Well, hardly, if he does not care enough about himself even to have his chart made out. I had taken the sheet of paper and written the "Dear Madam," when there came a knock at the door, and at my "Come in," it swung leisurely open. Just how I came to the conclusion I cannot tell, but I knew the first moment I set eyes on my visitor that it was Richard Spotswood Fairfax himself. He was not at all the monstrosity I had painted him; in fact, he was a mighty good-looking fellow. He was a little above average height, with a dark oval face, brown hair, and a wide smile that "wud timpt a man to borry a dollar," as Paddy once said. His tailor knew his business, though his suit of brown tweed fitted a trifle more loosely than our Northern style would have permitted. He also wore a low roll-collar, that showed a firm, round neck to advantage. He smiled when he entered, and sank into a chair by the side of my desk with a sigh of content and another smile. He was in no hurry to speak, and as I learned after was never in a hurry to do anything. He looked me over a moment with his handsome sleepy blue eyes, and then spoke in that melodious drawl which is taught nowhere else but in "ole Virginny." I do not remember how he introduced the subject, for I was too much taken with his voice to notice. I cannot begin to describe it, or the easy way in which the words followed each other, divorced from all such aggressive letters as _r_, _g_, and _t_. He told me he wished to be examined, and assigned some branch of sport to which he could give his attention; in effect, just what his mother had written, except that he omitted to say anything about winning or a first place. I asked him if he had ever done anything in athletics, and he said that barring a little gunning, a moderate amount of riding, and considerable fishing, he had done nothing at all in sports. He expressed a decided preference for the fishing, which I thought was characteristic. To my question as to whether he had any choice whatever concerning work on track or cinder-path, he answered, none at all, except that which called for the least exertion would best suit his book. I decided that his mother had written truly when she said he "lacked ambition in this direction," and might have said that he lacked ambition in any other. It was surprising that I did not take a dislike to one who professed such a decided aversion to manly sports, but the boy was so open and frank about it that the impression was not at all disagreeable. After Fairfax had told his story and answered a few questions, I ordered him in a short, Yankee fashion (that seemed almost brutal compared with his easy tones) to strip and I would take his measurements. At my direction he rose slowly, went over to the corner, leisurely took off coat and vest, and when he got down to the buff, and I looked up from my writing, as I live, I had answered three letters, and the clock had ticked off a full five minutes. (Two is usually enough to transform a shackled slave of Fashion to the freedom of a state of nature.) I laid my pen aside, and taking tape in hand began to look him over. I confess I could hardly restrain an exclamation of surprise. His languid ways and slow movements had not prepared me for any such development as he showed. The conventional costume of the nineteenth century is a wonderful disguise, designed by some man-milliner to hide the imperfections of a degenerate race. The trained athlete and the flabby dude look much alike in loose trousers and padded coats. Now, Dick was neither athlete nor dude, though if I ever saw a man cut out for the former, he was the one. His skin was dark, but clear and velvety. He stood easily, with every muscle relaxed, and was as symmetrical as a demi-god. There was nothing out of proportion, no fat, no unused muscle, and no over-development. Indeed, I surmised, what afterward proved true, that he was the best specimen of an embryo athlete that it had ever been my good fortune to see. I took him to the standard and found his height five feet ten and one-half inches. He lifted the scales at one hundred and fifty-eight, and then I put my tape on him and began my measurements. As I marked down one after another my admiration grew, and when I had finished and he had dressed and left me, I could not deny myself the pleasure of making out his chart, even before I finished the mail. A wonderful chart it was, too. The average percentage was not as high as that of one or two fellows who had the advantages of intelligent handling by good men at first-class preparatory schools, but when it came to symmetrical development, there was not one in the same class with him. The line was almost straight, a slight advantage only showing in measurements below the waist. After the chart was finished I put it in a conspicuous place on the mantel, went back to my letters, and finally wrote Mrs. Fairfax as follows: "I shall be pleased to give your son the attention you ask. Although it is impossible to guarantee any degree of success, he has the advantage of an unusually good development, and may make something of himself if he is willing to work faithfully and follow orders. It rests more with him than myself. There will be no extra charge." It may seem rather a curt letter, but compared with what I usually write in answer to like requests it was remarkably "Chesterfieldian." Not that I am ever likely to so far forget myself as to neglect the common courtesies, but it is often necessary to be very positive in order to protect against further annoyance. I received an acknowledgment from "The Oaks" a few days after, which was not quite as dictatorial as the first, and in which the "I" was not nearly so much in evidence. It also asked me to report occasionally, and hinted that maternal authority might be invoked in case of difficulty, and that Richard Spotswood Fairfax had been taught to respect it thoroughly. Dick appeared on the cinder-path the second day after his call on me, clad in irreproachable track costume, and I gave him a little trial with some of the other freshmen who had been out several weeks. He had never worn a running-shoe before that day, nor entered a contest, and yet he ran the "hundred" in eleven and three-fifths, and the "quarter" a little under the minute, coming in as fresh as paint, and without turning a hair. It was odd to see him standing with a half-dozen other fellows, who were drenched with perspiration, and wheezing like blacksmiths' bellows, while he was not even tired. The next day he cleared four feet eleven in the "running high," and nearly seventeen in the "running broad." Now, these were wonderful performances for a novice, particularly as Dick seemed not to exert himself in the least. That night, as I sat in my room smoking a comforting pipe, I thought the matter over very thoroughly. I am a shy bird for "wonders," and doubtful concerning "phenoms," but I made up my mind in cold blood that almost anything was possible for Richard Spotswood Fairfax, of "The Oaks." With the advantages of my handling, he ought to be a world beater, and no mistake. As Tom Furness expresses a good thing, "There was frosting on top, and jelly between the layers." Of course I said nothing of this to Dick, but ordered him regular all-round work in the gymnasium for the winter, and told him if he took good care of himself, we might make something of him in the spring. In those days we had no big indoor meets, and the men were allowed to do very much as they pleased until near the end of the winter. I am of the opinion that such rest is better in the end than a continuous course of training, particularly for men under twenty-one. I saw considerable of Dick, and was well satisfied to have him keep to easy exercise. He filled out a bit, and the muscles on his shapely body grew large and firm as the days went by. I was a bit troubled by the boy's extreme popularity, for it brought continual temptation to shirk work. Some one or another was perpetually asking him away, when if he had possessed fewer friends, he would have been less troubled. He was a mighty fine-looking fellow, and with an unlimited fund of good nature and good cash (two most essential passports to college popularity), spring found him the best known and best liked man of his class, a favorite with man, woman, and beast. He had stuck to his work most faithfully, and barring a little fling or so, such as all boys of his age are likely to take, I had little fault to find with him. I remember I expressed one day my surprise that he had not missed his hour in the gymnasium more than once or twice since he started in, and was told, as if the answer was conclusive, that he had given his promise. He also added later that a Fairfax never broke his word, even in the least degree. One common difficulty I escaped with Dick, that of keeping him from the football field, the grave for the hopes of so many a promising athlete. Dick pronounced the game altogether too much like work to suit him, and no entreaty would move him in the least; not even the plea that he was "needed," or the threat that he would be considered disloyal to his class, had any effect whatever on him. Now, it must not be thought for a moment that I object to football in its proper place. It is the king of sports, and stands by itself, unrivalled in its attractions for all of Anglo-Saxon blood. It is the best successor to the knightly tourney that this prosaic century has left us. Neither an occasional accident, nor the foolishness of some of its supporters, with excuses for defeat, nor demands for apologies, will ever succeed in killing it. The game is made, however, only for strong, stocky men. To see one with a turn of speed, long, shapely legs, and slender body mixed up in a scrimmage, and sure to end in the hospital at last, is more than I can stand. It should not take those unfitted for its fierce struggles, but qualified by nature for other forms of sport. After considerable thought I decided to have Dick try for the running broad jump, and for these reasons: First, the team was weak in this department. Second, this was a trifle his best performance. Third, Dick chose it, as calling for the least labor. Indeed, he absolutely declined distant running, unless he was bound to it by his promise to his mother. So Dick settled down to regular work and practice at the "running broad," and appeared each day as surely as the clock struck the hour; not even Frost, a veteran of four years, was as much to be depended on. Now, there is no more practical school than that of the cinder-path; with given athletic material, a certain amount of work should bring exact results. We look for them just as confidently as the farmer looks for his crops in the autumn, after the planting of the spring and the cultivation of the summer. There may be accidents, just as the farmer has a hail-storm, or like fruit under an untimely frost a man may go stale at the last moment. But, barring accidents, we expect a gradual growth and development in just proportion to the natural ability of the man. Now, strange to say, Dick Fairfax contradicted all known laws; his style improved, and his physical condition as well, but his jump was the same old jump after several weeks of practice. He worked up to an average of nineteen-six, but there he stuck, and no handling, instruction, or care could pull him on to the even twenty feet. Encouragement, blame, the incentives of trial contests, and even ridicule were all the same to Dick. I did all I knew,--and a bit well-informed I claimed to be,--giving him more attention than any three other men. This was partly because I liked the boy, and partly because I received a letter from "The Oaks" once every week asking how Richard was getting on. I have a decided aversion to lying, and I disliked to tell the truth to the lonely woman who looked forward so confidently to her son's success. But most of all I stuck to Dick because of the possibilities I saw in him. His legs were marvels; from toe to thigh, muscle, sinew, and bone were perfect. And yet Seever, with his crooked joints and spindle shanks, could best Dick's best effort by a good foot. I racked my brain for reasons of the failure, but with no result. I tried all possible changes, even to a take-off with the left, but all in vain. Nineteen-six he could do before or after breakfast, and probably at midnight, if tried at that unusual hour. He was the most consistent performer I have ever seen. The trouble was that it was consistency to a distance of no use at all to us. Little Jack Bennett, who had started in with something like a thirteen-foot jump, had plugged away day after day, until he was "hoss and hoss" with Dick, and the latter was quite content. Approval or disapproval were all the same to him, and he answered both with a smile, or a careless glance from his sleepy blue eyes. Beside Dick and Jack there were Frost and Seever, two veterans who had reached their limit, and were good for a scant twenty-one. We had not one first-class man. Now, while I am telling this tale more particularly for the initiated, I mean to make it plain to others less well informed, and will for their sakes say that the honor of the broad jump championship is to-day divided between Reber in America and Fry in the Old Country, both of whom have negotiated twenty-three feet six and one-half inches. No one jumping less than twenty-one feet has any chance in a first-class competition, and it would have done us as much good if Dick had done nine feet as nineteen; that is, no good at all. Mrs. Fairfax reminded me in her first letter, after I had informed her that Dick had chosen the "running broad" as his special event, that this was a traditional Virginia sport, and she was pleased with the selection. She called my attention to the fact that Thackeray in his story of the "Virginians" makes Harry Warrington cover twenty-one feet three inches against his English rivals, and says that Col. George Washington could better this by a foot. Now, if this is history, and the truthful George did the distance with a short run on grass, and no take-off but a line on the turf, he was a wonder, and better than any we can show to-day. If Reber and Fry had lived in his time they would not have been in his class, and should George Washington return to earth, and enter a contest to-day (I hope there is nothing sacrilegious in the thought), he would distance their best efforts. A mighty fine pair of legs he must have had, and what he could have done with modern improvements, such as spiked shoes, a five-inch joist, on a nice cinder-path, and with prepared ground to land in, we can only guess; I should say he could have bettered his record by a good yard. It is easy to understand how such a man could succeed in the great game of war. Our Virginian jumper, despite all his advantages, was content with a performance of nearly three feet less than that of the father of his country, who had hailed from the same State. So matters went on, until one morning late in April I arranged with Dick to give him an early morning trial alone. He demurred at this most decidedly, being very fond of his morning nap, but consented finally, if I would agree to call him. I cannot tell how I allowed him to wheedle me as he did; but it was a way he had with all, and few could resist him. It was a little after seven when I left my door and started for Dick's room. Now, I am no spring poet; in fact, thirty years' connection with the cinder-path has knocked most of the romance out of me, but I remember that morning still. It had been a late winter, and this was really the first dawn with no chill on the air; the trees were blossoming, the birds singing, the sun shining, the air like a tonic, and there was an indescribable something which told that winter was gone at last. After some delay at Dick's door,--for he was a wonderful sleeper, particularly in the early morning,--I succeeded in waking him, and sat in the window-seat while he took his tub. I helped him a little in the rub-down, and a man more fit I never saw. This over, Dick pulled on his trunks, jersey, and sweater, and taking his shoes in his hands he followed me leisurely down-stairs. We waited a moment on the steps, while he pulled his shoes on, and then jogged over to the track. So fresh was the air, that just before we reached the ground I found myself quickening strides with Dick, until we finished at a very pretty sprint, something I had not done for a long time. It does not help a trainer to compete under any conditions with his man. Perhaps it was partly because I felt that I had unbent too much with him that I made my lecture, already planned, more severe than intended; at any rate, it was a mighty stiff talk the boy got. I knew it was useless to mince matters, and was resolved to cut through his armor of good nature and indifference, if there was a vulnerable point, and a straight thrust could reach him. A couple of weeks before, the captain of the team, disgusted with Dick's unsatisfactory work, had quite lost his temper with him and told him in so many words that he was not worth the salt of the training-table, and must make a brace or he would not make the team at all. Almost any other man would have either got hot and given a sharp answer, or more likely still gone into his boots with disappointment. Dick, however, did neither. He gave one of his wide smiles, maddening enough to an earnest man, took the matter very calmly, and volunteered to get his feed at his own expense whenever we tired of furnishing it. He remarked that a table with a little more variety would suit his palate fully as well, and after the talk went on with his tiresome jump of nineteen-six just as if nothing at all had been said. Now, while this was provoking enough, and under usual conditions would have resulted in a summary drop from the team, we did not take the boy at his word. We were in desperate need of a broad jumper, and hoped that he might get out of the rut, and pick up that extra foot or two before the games. We thought it possible, also, that in a big contest the boy might be stirred up a bit, very much to his benefit. On this April morning I talked about as plainly as I knew, using good old Anglo-Saxon phrases, and not many French idioms. I would not care to see my exact words in print, and I am afraid some of the bright eyes that I hope to please with this book would open wide with surprise. A trainer is given a certain license, like the driver of a yoke of oxen and the captain of a football team. I knew one of the latter who was seriously blamed because his puritanical training forbade the use of any stronger language than "board of health" when a signal was lost or the ball was dropped. Out in the open air, and among strong men, it is very easy to form the habit of using strong words on occasions like this. I told Dick, in effect, that I had given him time and attention that rightfully belonged to other men on the team, and had nothing to show for it; that he could do better, and must do better; that his lack of improvement was a reflection on me as well as himself; and finally, if he was not an arrant cur, without courage and without honor, he would have tired of a child's jump long ago. "Why, man," said I, "if you had sand enough for an ant-hill, with a pair of legs like yours, you would be making a jump of twenty-three feet this morning." Now, Dick was a great pet of mine and had never heard a hot word from me; he was very much surprised, and when I called him an "arrant cur, without courage and without honor," he flushed to the roots of his hair. The question of his honor was what touched him most deeply, for his Virginia atmosphere had made him especially sensitive, if not over careful. I was pleased to see his face grow dark, and the smile fade from the corners of his mouth. He was first indignant, and then in a towering passion. He stepped toward me, with clinched hands, and opened his mouth a couple of times to speak, but not a word did he say. Then he turned suddenly on his heel, walked away from me down the cinder-path, pulled his sweater over his head, dropped it on the grass, faced toward me again, and set himself for his sprint. I was standing with him close to the joist when I delivered my lecture, and I remained where I was, wondering what the boy was up to. He came down the path for his jump, with his jaw set, his eyes aflame, his brows black, and with two bright red spots in his cheeks. One of Dick's faults was that he would not force himself to full speed, an absolute essential for a good broad jump. In fact, a man who will not or cannot sprint should not be allowed to waste his energies on this event. This morning was an exception to the rule with Dick, for he came toward me like a whirlwind, apparently paying no attention to either stride or distance. He fortunately reached the mark all right, caught the joist firm and strong, and launched into the air with his knees high. I cannot describe my sensations as he shot by me, better than to say he seemed to fly. I knew before he landed that the old mark of nineteen-six was gone forever, but when he broke ground close to the end of the box, and fell forward, I could not gather my senses for a moment. Dick picked himself up like a flash, his brows still threatening, and coming up to me said hoarsely, "Measure that, you English blackguard!" and strode off to his room without even stopping to pick up his sweater. I said nothing at all in answer, for I was not in the least offended at the uncomplimentary language. Not that I am accustomed to being addressed in other than a respectful manner, but in this case I had really brought the anger on myself intentionally, and I had been successful beyond my fondest hopes. As Dick disappeared behind the fence, Tom Furness swung round the corner, out for an early spin round the track. "What do you call that?" said he, looking at the marks. "It is the biggest jump ever made by man," I answered solemnly. "A jump from the hard ground, either sidewise or backward," said Tom; "nothing but wings could carry a man from the joist to those marks." "Look them over," I said, "before you question them." Well, to make a long story short, the marks told their own tale; the ground was unbroken except by his feet, for there had been a shower the night before. There were proofs enough to convince Tom that Dick's shoes with Dick in them had run down that cinder-path, and from the joist had jumped the distance. Tom saw readily that the heel prints were too deep for a short jump backward, and too even for one sidewise. There was the broken ground, showing that the impetus was from the joist and the jumper was at a high rate of speed, and had lifted high in the air. When we had argued it all out satisfactorily, Tom suggested that we had better measure it before we talked any longer, for it might not show up to what I thought. He took the end of the tape and held it to the joist, while I walked ahead, with the reel rattling as I pulled it out. By the well-worn figures up to twenty-one I went; twenty-two and twenty-three were slightly blurred, but the twenty-four was fresh and bright, and at twenty-four two and one-quarter I stopped, and looked back to see if the tape was all right. I lifted my hand again, examined the ground very carefully, pulled the tape tight, and made the mark twenty-four feet one and three-quarter inches, back of which there was not the hint of a break. Then Tom and I changed ends and he found it just the same. There was no mistake about it. Given a competition and witnesses on that April morning, and the record would not stand to-day at twenty-three six and one-half, but a good seven and one-quarter inches better, and the name of Richard Spotswood Fairfax would be fastened to it. Now, I expected that Dick would be all right with me the next time we met. I thought he would be pleased that my words, however severe, had forced him to the big jump, and even anticipated an apology for his offensive words. In this, however, I was mistaken. I did not realize the extreme sensitiveness of a Virginian and a Fairfax to any reflection upon his honor. Dick met me courteously enough, but distantly, and indeed was never the same to me again. I found, too, that my lecture had only a temporary effect, for he took up the old jump of nineteen-six the same as before, apparently as contented as ever. Tom Furness was foolish enough to tell the story of Dick's big jump, and was jollied therefore by everybody, receiving credit for a most Munchausen imagination. Tom let them rough him all right, for nothing pleased him better, but came to me at last with Sam Hitchcock asking me to settle a bet, whether or no Dick Fairfax had broken the record of the running broad jump in practice. Of course I could but tell the truth under such circumstances, although I knew I was putting my reputation for veracity to a severe test. I declared very seriously that Dick had certainly bested the twenty-four-foot mark under record conditions. Sam was incredulous, and went so far as to remind me that it was not at all a joking matter, for a good ten-dollar note must change hands on my decision. At this, I repeated my statement positively as before, and Sam paid over the money without any further remark. It was altogether too good a story for him to keep, and it soon became an interesting subject of discussion. Those who knew me best (and Sam among them, despite his loss) believed the tale, but there were many "doubting Thomases." Some made it a subject for senseless jokes and witless questions, such as, "Was the tape elastic?" "Did he jump from the roof?" or "Did he do it very, very early in the morning?" Other "smart Alecs" declared the twenty-four feet was all right, but the extra one and three-quarters inches they could not go. Now, I am not at all averse to a draw on the long bow when swapping lies with a sporting friend and both know the game we play, but when I speak seriously I wish to be taken in the same way. Beside, I had allowed money to pass on it, and that should have settled the matter. It was partly due to my resentment at this banter that Dick finally made the team and little Jack Bennett did not. The latter certainly became better in practice, but I claimed that neither were of any use at their regular jumps, and that Dick's extraordinary performance, for which I vouched again, while not likely to be repeated, was possible, and made Dick the better man for the choice. When the decision was finally made, about a week before the games, I wrote Mrs. Fairfax a long letter, telling her the whole truth, giving special emphasis to the early morning trial. I declared my only hope for Dick's success (and that a faint one) was that the heat of a contest with men of other colleges, and before a crowd, might wake him up and get him a place. I did not see how he could win except by a miracle. I declared that I had kept my promise to her most faithfully, and that my disappointment was, if possible, greater than her own. I received an answer promptly, which read as follows: THE OAKS, FAIRFAX CO., VA. DEAR SIR: I understand the conditions perfectly, but am still confident that Richard will win. He must win. Give him the enclosed note just before his last trial. On no account allow him to see it before, nor permit any considerable interval between the reading and Richard's last jump. Sincerely yours, MARGARET LEE FAIRFAX. TO MR. WALTER BROWN. Now, I confess that when I finished the reading I really questioned the sanity of the "châtelaine" of "The Oaks." What effect could a note have, no matter how worded, upon easy-going Dick Fairfax? What appeal could she make that would add the necessary feet to his jump? It made me think of boyish stories of the age of chivalry, when talismanic words were efficacious. I read this short note over as carefully and even more wonderingly than the first black-bordered letter written by the same hand. Then I put it away in my pocket, resolved to follow instructions implicitly, no matter how foolish they might seem. I should have nothing with which to reproach myself, and would give Mrs. Fairfax no occasion for fault-finding. So the matter was left, and Dick went on with the rest of the team, perfectly contented with himself and all around him. The games that year were not particularly interesting, except the one event for which we were so poorly prepared, and in which even Tom Furness did not have the courage to claim a single point. It was a clear day after a three-days' rain, and the track was heavy, which happened to suit us. We had a couple of "mud larks" who scooped the sprints, though a dry-track would not have given them a place. Dick spent most of the day watching the contests, as disinterestedly as if he was a native of the Isle of Java. He was clothed in a big gray blanket wrap and an omnipresent smile. The wrap had crimson cords and tassels, was extremely becoming, and more than one pair of bright eyes looked at him approvingly from the grand stand. Our Virginia jumper was certainly the handsomest and most distinguished-looking of all the contestants, and the girls always wish such a man to win, and are surprised and disappointed when some raw-boned chap with carroty hair, freckled face, and not a regular feature beats out their favorite. It was a glorious day, the sun bright, the sky cloudless, the seats crowded, and the college cheers like volleys of infantry at short range. When the "running broad" was on, and the numbers were called, Dick did not answer to his, and we were forced to look him up, the clerk meanwhile fussing and fuming, and using language more forceable than polite. At last I found him looking dreamily across the track at a pretty girl in the grand stand, as if this was his only business. He followed me with a bored look, and several backward glances delayed his sufficiently leisurely footsteps. There was another delay on account of the ground; for, as frequently happens, the soil in the box where the men landed was so soft that it broke back several inches. Seever was the first man, and I did not want him to throw away a single chance. A spade was sent for and the loose earth flattened down a bit, but it took considerable time. The clerk, measurer, and almost every one else were put out but Dick, who had thrown himself full length on the soft turf by the side of the path, and bore the delay with extreme fortitude. Most of the other contestants had taken a trial jump or two to get their strides and make their marks, but Dick waited contentedly for his number to be called, and would have been just as well satisfied if he had been skipped altogether. Seever was the first of a large field, and when his number was announced he threw off his wrap and walked down the path. He was one of the most awkward men I ever saw, but as honest as he was homely. All his opponents wished him well, and several of them, as they sprawled around on the grass, had a joke or a bit of chaff for him as he left them. I always like to see the first trial of the "running broad." There is the narrow cinder-path, the whitewashed joist, and the soft earth, smoothed by repeated rakings ready to receive the prints of the spiked shoes. After that it is tedious until the weeding-out process is completed, and the three best men fight it out for the places. I could have told within three inches of what Seever would do before he made his jump, for he was extremely steady, and had been at it for four years, and reached his limit. He came down the track awkwardly, but at a good speed, caught the joist firmly with his big foot, rose in the air with a grunt, and landed with a thud. The measurer announced twenty feet one-quarter inch without hesitation, for Seever always jumped high, and kept his heels together. Two or three others tried, and then came Frost, our second man, a little fellow with curly black hair. He was a bit better or worse than Seever, but inclined to be careless, and to-day it cost him dear. He overstepped the joist so far that he wrenched his ankle badly and was forced to retire, limping off to the dressing-room on a couple of the boys' shoulders. Dick was almost last, and when he was called, he rose slowly, with a yawn, threw the gray wrap over Seever's head, and walked down the path as if he cared not where it led. When he turned, he looked up to the grand stand and gave the little blonde in the blue dress a glance and smile, for which he was most liberally applauded. At first only a few pairs of little gloved hands clapped, but they were persistent; others, who supposed for some reason or other applause was the proper thing at this time, joined in, and Dick received quite an ovation, although he had done nothing and was expected to do nothing. I can see him to-day as he looked then. His arm out for his sprint; his bare legs, brown and sinewy, but smooth and graceful as a girl's; his whole figure a model for an artist. He was much surprised at the applause, for he was not used to it, and did not expect it. The color rose in his dark cheeks as he started down the path, quickening speed with every step, until just as his college cheer sounded its first sharp note he caught the joist, and bounded into the air. It was a perfect jump, barring a little lack of determination, but with much more fire than usual. I watched as the measurer pulled out his tape, and was pleased enough when he gave the distance as twenty-one two. I had been thinking all the day of the mother down in the old home, whose heart was so bound up in the success of her boy. I would have given a month's salary to have been able to send her the telegram she hoped for. One after another, tall and short, stout and slender, good and bad, had their three trials, and Dick was in the finals by an inch and a half. Poor old Seever was out of it, and Dick was the only string we had left. All of our people were perfectly satisfied at this, and Tom was smiling as a Cheshire cat. I had absolutely no hope that Dick would do better than third, for after his first attempt, although the applause had been louder than ever, he had taken no notice of it, and had apparently lost all interest in the sport. Being accustomed to his surroundings, he went through his performances in a perfunctory fashion, showing a fraction over twenty feet, and then a fraction under. Indeed, he had become his old listless, careless self again. In the finals he did first nineteen-nine, and then, despite the desperate effort I made to stir him up with sharp words, he fell back to his old maddening distance of nineteen-six and one-half. The other two competitors, a little fellow with light hair, and a big chap with not much hair of any color, had respectively twenty-two one and one-half, and twenty-one and three-quarters inch to their credit. All seemed over but the shouting when Dick walked slowly down the cinder-path for his last trial. No applause did he get either, except from the gloved hands, for men do not like to see an athlete without determination, no matter how well they may like him in society. As he walked down the path, I followed along a little behind him on the turf. I waited until he put his hand out, in exact accordance with instructions, and then I handed him his mother's message. He looked at me a moment with surprise, then took the black-bordered note and broke the seal. He read it hastily, and the color left his face as if a mortal fear had stricken him. Into his eyes there came first a far-away look, then one of the fiercest determination. He crumpled the note in his left hand, faced around for his sprint, and was off like a flash. I watched the lithe figure and followed it, but Dick had landed long before I reached the joist. He had caught the timber much as he had done on the April morning, and had thrown his knees high as before. I saw him cut the air, and my heart came into my mouth as I thought of a win and a broken record both. But it was not to be. I saw him land in the end of the box, far beyond any other jump; but, to my horror, he had reached too far with his feet, and though he made a desperate effort, he balanced a moment, and then threw himself on his back and side. He picked himself up without a word, and throwing his gray wrap over his shoulder pushed his way through the little crowd of contestants and officials, and strode off toward the dressing-rooms without even waiting for the measurer. I had eyes now only for the tape. The footmarks were plain as possible, and on the right and several inches back were the prints of Dick's thigh and elbow in the brown earth. The measurer pulled the tape out carefully, and I saw his finger slide by the twenty-two mark, where they hesitated a moment. He examined the broken ground with eager eyes, and at last his thumb stopped at the three and one-quarter inch. The little fellow who had made the twenty-two one and one-half was close by my side, and I heard him sigh at the sight. He had another trial; but the first place had seemed his already, and now he must fight for it with only one more chance. I was quite sure that Dick's jump was good enough, and so it proved. Richard Spotswood Fairfax was a winner. I was delayed a little, and when I reached the dressing-room I learned that the boy had dressed hurriedly, and driven off in a carriage by himself, without a word for any one. When I reached the hotel, he had taken his departure, waiting neither for congratulations nor farewells. The first telegram I sent that night was to Virginia, and the first letter I read, on my return, was one with a black border. THE OAKS, FAIRFAX CO., VA. DEAR SIR: I am in receipt of your telegram. I must thank you for the faithfulness with which you have fulfilled my request. It is not probable that Richard will continue in athletics. I enclose herewith a compensation which is certainly due you. I shall be greatly disappointed if denied the pleasure of its acceptance. Wishing you the success you deserve in your profession, I am, Sincerely yours, MARGARET LEE FAIRFAX. TO MR. WALTER BROWN. So closed my correspondence with the "châtelaine" of "The Oaks," whom I never saw, but about whom I have often thought. What did she write in that black-sealed, black-bordered note? I have puzzled my brain over it many and many an hour. I think I have guessed the riddle; but true or false, it must be kept a secret still. Dick himself is certainly not an enigma. He is only the most pronounced case of a description I have met before and since. He had ability, but not the inclination nor the will. A temporary anger on that April morning had given him the necessary determination to force his muscles to their extreme exercise of power. His mother's note had furnished a motive which had brought him in a winner. Without incentives, his muscular powers were not exercised, and his performances were ordinary. Sometimes, as I sit by the fireside, smoking my pipe over old memories, I think of Dick, and wonder what he would have done had he Teddy Atherton's head on his shoulders, or his heart inside his ribs. Of all my athletic disappointments Dick furnished me with the most disheartening, and among all the surprises of field and track none has equalled the Virginia jumper. [Illustration: And Every One A Winner] We are winners. The lobby of the hotel is crowded. Athletes, college men, travellers, and a curious public are well shuffled together. It is the same old pack of cards that I have seen for years, though the faces change. That "know-it-all" by the post is a new man, yet he is telling just how and why we won, like the wiseacres who preceded him, and the others who will follow; for this line of succession never runs out. He is telling how he has foreseen the result for weeks, and can call witnesses to prove his faultless prediction of six months ago. Yes, he can, though we only pulled out by the skin of our teeth, after sitting on the anxious seat all the afternoon; and had not Jim Harding thrown the hammer ten feet farther than ever before, we never should have won at all. But this only makes the "know-it-all's" wisdom more remarkable, and my ignorance as well, for I had thought the team a losing one, though I had, of course, held my tongue. Bah! Thirty years have not reconciled me to this gentry, with the addled brains and brazen throats. Most of the college men are gathered in little groups, around which the crowds ebb and flow in a surging tide. That its strongest current is through the swinging door of the bar-room cannot be denied, nor that it shows signs of the source from which it sprang. There are at least three grains of talk to one of listen, which is the regular dose, though the athletes pull the proportion down. They are, as usual, quietest of all. They have developed other muscles than those of the tongue; and yet even they are a bit talkative to-night, and have an unmistakably festive air about them. After months of preparation and weeks of strict training, when rigid rules prohibit, and all the pleasant things of life seem labelled "Keep off the grass," there is a maddening pleasure in being free again,--free to taste that favorite dish, palatable but indigestible; free to inhale the fragrance of a good cigar; free to watch the hands of the clock swing into the small hours; free, as Harry Gardner expresses it, "to do as you darn please once more." For those who have lost there is the necessity of drowning sorrow, and it is certainly the duty of a good winner to give his victory a fitting celebration. There is not as much difference in the two ceremonies as might be imagined. Our team has broken training, and some of them are breaking it badly. There are the long summer months before them, with the leisure hours at seashore or mountains, and no more work until the cool winds of autumn begin to blow. Even those of the most regular habits are kicking over the traces, and some of the wilder spirits, that make a trainer's hair gray before its time, to whom the six months' restraint has been a galling yoke, are giving themselves very loose rein. I am sorry to say that this particular team has not a large percentage of either deacons or clergymen, though Jim Harding afterward took holy orders, became an honor to the cloth, and will some day be a bishop. I occasionally attend his church; and when I see his huge form at the desk, and hear his voice, powerful and earnest, as it echoes to the farthest corner, I wonder if he has forgotten the night when we looked for "Paddy's cousin, the copper," when "every one was a winner." As I enter the hotel lobby, after dinner, on this evening of the games of 188-, I discover Jim standing near the street entrance with Harry Gardner, and a little knot of college friends and admirers. They are smoking like bad chimneys, and between puffs are giving a green reporter some most surprising bits of information, much to their own enjoyment and the delectation of their friends. The little reporter is taking copious notes, which will create a sensation in the morning, if the sporting editor does not discover them before they get into print. Jim is big and blond, and Harry slender and dark; the former has made a first in the "hammer-throw;" the latter, after winning his trial heat in the "hundred" with ease, got away badly in the finals, and had to content himself with adding a single point to our score. Now, Jim and Harry are particular friends of mine; I shall never handle them again, and I want a last word or two of farewell. They have developed under my care from awkward boys to the finished athletes they are to-night. I have seen the firm, round muscles becoming more and more perfect; the heart and lungs grow equal to more and more severe tests, and the increasing courage and self-reliance (without which there can be no success on the cinder-path) which will help them through many a struggle with the world they are about to enter. It is one of the sad parts of a trainer's life that he must lose such friends. I force my way through the crowd, getting numberless nods and greetings of a warmer nature, for I am a well-known man in such a gathering. I strike the strong current flowing to and from the bar; but a little patience, and a liberal use of the elbow, brings me to the boys at last. I give them each a hand, and we exchange a word or two of congratulation. Harry is, I see, a bit sore at his misfortune, for he had been picked as a sure winner. I give him a word of praise for his gallant effort to make up a three-yard loss at the start. There are many sprinters who would not have tried at all, let alone have pulled off the much-needed point. I tell Harding, with assumed resentment, that he has been sogering all the time, abusing my confidence by playing the sleeper, and that he has always been good for the extra ten feet. At this Jim gives one of his basso profundo laughs, and in answer to my question as to what mischief he is plotting, replies that Harry and himself are waiting for Paddy, who has gone with Tom Furness for a little something "to kape the night out," and that they have promised the Irishman to help him look up his cousin "Dinny Sullivan, a copper." I find that all they know about this cousin is that he is a policeman, on duty somewhere in the Bowery district. The boys admit the scent is not strong, but anticipate good sport in the hunt, whether they bag the game or not. There is always fun with Paddy, for though he has become a mighty knowing man on cinder-path and track, and is not as green as when he tackled the "ghostly hurdler," he is a delicious bit still. He appears a moment after, the "Knight of the Rake and Roller," accompanied by Tom; and judging from the aroma that clings to them, the necessary precautions have been taken against the baleful influences of the night air. Tom is as happy and sanguine as ever, shakes me by the hand as if my arm was a pump-handle in midsummer, and immediately protests that not a step will he take out of the house unless I go with him. At this they all insist that the party will be incomplete without me. I must go, or I shall break up the party and spoil sport. After considerable resistance, which I admit now was assumed, I consented at last. The truth was that, while I had not trained as had the boys, I had given many months of care and anxiety to them, and really wanted a bit of a fling myself. I knew very well what the little walk would lead up to, but reasoned that the boys were bound to get into trouble, and that it would be a charity to look after them. In fact, I played the hypocrite in a way for which I should have been ashamed. Although Tom and the boys gave unmistakable signs of "having dined," and Paddy of his heroic remedies against the night, we all meander to the bar for a last measure of precaution, light fresh cigars, and sally forth. The clocks are striking eight as the door swings behind us, the stars are beginning to show, and the street lights to shine. The air is mild, and the pavements seem like a country road after the awful crowd of the lobby. The rattle of the pavements is silence compared with the rattle of tongues which we have left behind us. We pile into a carriage which Paddy selects from a number drawn up to the curb,--because the driver is a Connemara man. We are not particularly comfortable with three on one seat, and five pairs of long legs interlaced; but our ride is enlivened by Paddy's conversation, no less brilliant than fluent, which is a magnificent compliment. Occasionally Tom succeeds in getting in a word, but the rest of us are out of it. He is about to give us some reminiscences of "Dinny's" boyhood when the carriage stops, much to our surprise, for we do not realize the lapse of time. We alight before a corner drug-store, and Paddy calls the "Connemara man" an "Irish thief" when Tom pays him an exorbitant charge. He is easily placated, however, and goes into the store to inquire after Dinny, while we wait outside. We look through the window, between the red bottle on the right and the blue bottle on the left, and see him go up to the clerk at the soda fountain. The latter, a tall, pale-faced youth, answers shortly, and points to a big directory on a little shelf in the corner. Paddy walks over, upsetting a rack of sponges on the way, opens the directory doubtfully, turns over its leaves, runs his finger down a page or two, looks more and more puzzled, and at last beckons us in. We enter, and find him looking blankly at an almost unending list of Dennis Sullivans, engaged in many occupations, and several of them "on the force." After a careful examination, befitting the seriousness of the occasion, we pronounce the task hopeless, and file out again. Our departure is apparently greatly to the relief of the pale young man, for we had laughed until the bottles rattled when Paddy described his cousin as a "big chunk av a man, wid a taste for gin, an' a bad habit av snorin'." We halt in the lee of the mortar and pestle, while the crowd surges past, and hold a council of war. Harding suggests that our best plan is to form a rush line, letting none pass until they tell all they know about "Dennis Sullivan, the copper." This proposition is hailed with delight by all but Tom and me, and though we are in the minority our opposition succeeds. To spread a drag-net across a Bowery sidewalk I believe to be a decidedly hazardous proceeding, and likely to result in the catching of fish too big to land. We finally form, with Paddy ahead, then Jim and Harry, Tom and myself bringing up the rear. We had not taken a dozen steps before Paddy halts a tough-looking chap with "Do yes know me cousin, Dinny Sullivan?" The prisoner wears a very short sack-coat, plaid trowsers, and a tall silk hat. He has a "mouse" under one eye, and the other, though lacking the honorable decoration of its companion, is red and angry. His mustache is closely clipped and dyed a deathly black; the cigar in the extreme corner of his mouth is tilted at an acute angle. He blows a cloud of smoke over Paddy's shoulder, and looks us all over suspiciously, each in turn. Now, we are rather a formidable party: Paddy and Jim as big as houses, Tom tall and angular, myself a rugged specimen, and Harry, though not adding much to our physical strength, evidently spoiling for trouble. As a rule, the little men are the aggressors, and most dangerous of all if they have a crowd with them. Paddy's first captive, in deference to our superior force, decides to act the civil, and asks gruffly, "What's his biz?" "He's a cop," answered Paddy, "a big chunk av a man, wid a scar over the lift eye, under the hair." Identifying a man by a concealed scar is too much for Tom, who breaks into a hearty laugh, and the prisoner himself gives a half smile, when after denying all knowledge of "Dinny" he is allowed to pass on. We next halt a couple of young fellows, evidently gentlemen, out on a lark. They recognize in Paddy a character worth cultivating, and keep him talking several minutes, asking fool questions; but they finally admit that "me cousin Dinny Sullivan" is not on their list of acquaintances. We spent some time in this way, Paddy doing picket duty, the main army close up in support. After questioning a dozen or more we make up our minds that Dinny is certainly not as well known on the Bowery as John L. or Tony Pastor, and that the success of our mission is doubtful. We had enjoyed the dialogues immensely, particularly that with a good-natured German. The latter understood hardly a word of English, but spoke his own language like a cuckoo clock. Paddy, of course, knew not a single word he said, but stuck to him for several minutes, giving up English at last, and treating us to the classic accents of old Ireland. Nearly all we met had taken the matter good-naturedly, but one or two did not see the joke, and turned ugly. One big fellow talked fight, but the proposition was received by Paddy with such extreme joy, and preparations were made with such alacrity, that he thought better of the plan and withdrew his challenge. This was greatly to Paddy's disappointment, and Harry's as well, the latter offering to take the Irishman's place, though he would have been fifty pounds short weight. We had been stopping frequently for Paddy to take further precautions to "kape the night out," and the rest of us doctored with the same medicine in smaller doses. Paddy was now perfectly happy, and he had his reasons. The "byes" had won; he was drinking, under Tom's most learned and experienced tuition, a different new drink every time, and in his heart of hearts was sure of a fight before the sun rose. What more could an Irishman ask; and a Connemara Irishman at that? His face was growing redder and more smiling every minute, and his feet, although they performed their duties after a fashion, would certainly not have been equal to the "crack in the floor test," as on the night when he encountered the "ghostly hurdler." But although Pat would have been contented to continue in the same blissful state until the crack of doom, the rest of us began to tire of the quest, and to look around in search of other things beside "Dinny, the copper." The streets were crowded, the stores open, the bar-rooms doing a rushing business, and the places of amusement in full blast. Suddenly Jim stopped before the bulletin board of a little variety theatre, and began to examine it critically. There was a long list of names in black letters,--singers, dancers, acrobats, boxers, and I know not what else; but Jim's eyes were fixed with great seriousness at the tall red letters at the bottom. They declared, in extremely mixed metaphor, "A Galaxy of Stars, and Every One a Winner." "I'm going in," said Jim, with much gravity, throwing his cigar away. "How about Paddy's cousin, the copper?" asked Harry. "He's as likely here as anywhere," Jim answered; "beside, it says that 'every one's a winner,' and that's the only kind for us to-night." We were all of us quite ready for a change, so we stepped into the little lobby, Paddy first going up to the ticket office to ask, "Is me cousin, Dinny Sullivan, the copper, inside?" The ticket-seller, a big, fat fellow, with weak eyes and a Roman nose, thought Paddy was trying to jolly him, and answered "No," quite tartly. Paddy, of course, resented the incivility, and declared himself to be a gentleman, and he cared not who knew it. He further ventured to doubt whether the man behind the window was in the same class with himself, and, gradually abandoning the reproachful accents with which he had begun, became first unparliamentary, and then abusive. The ticket-seller stood it for a while, and then told Paddy to pass along, that "Dinny Sullivan" was not inside, but that they had two other policemen who were no relation of Pat's, but would take care of him just the same. This last threat raised Paddy's anger to the boiling point, so that he first tried unsuccessfully to enter through the locked door, and then reaching his huge fist through the little open place in the window, shook it as near the Roman nose as the length of his arm would permit. We finally persuaded him to subside, and Harry took his place with a roll of bills to purchase the tickets. He had hardly begun to speak, however, before Harding caught him, and lifted him, despite his struggles, on to the shoulder of a big statue of Terpsichore, in the corner, reminding him, gently but firmly, that the invitation was his, and he must be permitted to pay the bills. He obtained five seats in the front row of the orchestra, and parted therefor with two dollars and fifty cents. We were inspected a trifle suspiciously by the door-keeper, but filed in, and found the little theatre filled with a numerous and enthusiastic audience. The gallery was packed, the cheap seats on the rear of the floor well taken, and only a few of the more expensive ones in the front of the house unoccupied. The air was hot, and full enough of the fumes of alcohol to burn. Before we had adjusted our lungs to the new conditions, a little fellow in a dirty zouave suit took the checks from Jim, and ushered us down the centre aisle to our seats in the front row. We made considerable noise, for the steps were of uneven depths, and at unequal distances, and Paddy stumbled all over himself at every opportunity. Harry went in first, followed by Pat, Tom, myself, and Jim, in the order named. We were obliged to squeeze by an old lady and her daughter who occupied the end seats, and the former, sitting next to Jim, resented the necessary crowding by sundry sniffs and looks of disgust. Her displeasure was so evident that Jim felt called upon to apologize, which he did in his most grandisonian manner, and in tones not less loud than those of the singer on the stage, "I beg your pardon, madam; I assure you it was unintentional; I have tender feet myself, and can sympathize with you." At this there was a burst of applause and laughter. I looked around and could see a number of college men scattered through the orchestra, evidently ready to encourage any exploit to which such "dare-devils" as Jim and Harry might treat them. There were a few of the gentler sex in the audience, but the great majority were men, the flotsam and jetsam of the Bowery. Some of these joined in the laughter at Jim's elaborate apology, and others scowled their resentment at the disturbance. From the abode of the gallery gods (filled mostly with boys, big and little) came a shrill "Put 'em out!" and a big wad of paper composed of an entire "World," and thrown by a skilful hand, which landed on the top of Jim's head. But Jim, apparently not at all noticing the attention which he was attracting, unfolded his play-bill, and began to study it with the air of a connoisseur, or a provincial manager in search of talent. The document was headed with "BILLY JAYNE'S REFINED VAUDEVILLE CO.," and near the bottom of the first page was bracketed, "Robert Loring, Basso Profundo, Nautical Songs, Without a Rival." It was evidently Robert who was "doing his turn" when we entered, for his song told of "wild waves, brave ships, oak timbers, fearful storms, wrecks, and watery graves," in tones deep enough to make the heart quake. He ended, just as we were well settled in our seats, with a row of descending notes, the last several feet below the lowest brick of the cellar, and bowed himself off the stage, amid a burst of applause, which was followed by another demonstration, well mingled with laughter, when Jim remarked very audibly to the old lady by his side, "I really wonder how he does it," and "Shouldn't you think it would hurt him?" Loring had already occupied the full time for "his turn" (we discovered later that the performer came out and filled up his ten minutes just the same, whether applauded and encored, or greeted with stony silence), so, notwithstanding vigorous clapping, assisted by the more demonstrative boot-heel, Robert only made his bow from the wings, and departed. As he disappeared on one side, a diminutive little darky hurried on from the other, and changed the cards, announcing as the next star, "Sam Walker." An examination of the play-bill rewarded us also with the information that Sam was the "World's Champion Clog Dancer, Lancashire Style." Two attendants in ragged costumes brought out a big square of white marble, which they deposited with considerable labor on one side of the stage, and after a little delay, to make the audience impatient, the distinguished Walker appeared, clad in well-chalked white tights, and with the champion's belt buckled round his waist. It was at least six inches wide, and so heavy with gold, silver, and precious stones that the redoubtable Sam was obliged to remove it before he could dance at all. Sam's brother Alfred, in a rusty dress suit, took his seat in a chair on the other side of the stage, and with an enormous accordeon furnished the music for the champion, who treated us to a continuation of festive taps, stopping with wonderful precision whenever the music broke off, even if in the middle of a note. Next came "Annette Toineau," the "Queen of French Song, Fresh from Her Parisian Triumphs;" and the big man at the piano began to execute a lively tune, which set all the feet in the house in motion, until Annette herself appeared. This she did with a nod, a wink, and a kick that won instant applause, even before she opened her mouth to sing. An enthusiastic admirer in the gallery called out, "You're all right, Liz, old girl," from which remark, and the accent (much more Celtic than French) with which she afterward treated us, I argued that Annette was but a stage name, and the "Parisian Triumphs" probably a fiction of the manager. Annette was a very pretty little girl, with a trim figure in abbreviated skirts, and she sang rather naughty songs in a manner that made them worse than they were written. I could hear Jim, after she was through, remark to the old lady by his side, that such songs were likely to lead to the perversion of youth, and should not be sung except to those who had reached the age of discretion; by which I suppose he meant himself and the old lady, though she was old enough to be his grandmother. Jim's censorious remarks were, however, more than offset by Harry, who, at the other end of our line, applauded so vociferously that Annette rewarded him with a direct and beaming smile when she made her last bow. Then followed "Leslie and Manning, Knock-about Grotesques," "Cora, the Queen of the Slack Wire," and "Sam Berne, the Dutch Monarch;" the last of whom first convulsed us by asking Tom, in a sepulchral whisper, to "Please wake your friend," pointing to Paddy, who was indeed asleep; and then had a very funny dialogue with the piano-pounder, in which they both pretended to get in a towering passion over the question as to whether the singing or the accompaniment was the worse. The delights of the play-bill were now well-nigh exhausted, the next to the last on the list being "Alice Wentworth, America's Most Dashing Soubrette." She appeared to the tune of some gay waltz notes from the long-suffering piano. Alice was a slender girl, with brown hair and large, dark eyes. I doubt she could ever have been "dashing," though pretty she certainly had been. There were also signs that "once she had seen better days," as the old song goes. But now, despite the assistance of paint and padding, it was evident that sickness or dissipation had robbed her of most of the attractions she had once possessed. Her face was too thin for the bright color on her cheeks, her steps were too listless for the generously filled stockings, and she coughed several times before she began her song. It was a jolly little thing, sung in good time and tune, and with those touches which indicate unmistakably the rudiments, at least, of a musical education. The song was well received, but at the end of the verse she had a dance, which called for considerable exertion, and was very trying for her. She got through the first two verses all right, but when she started the third her strength was gone; she broke down, and gasped for breath. The piano continued for a few notes, then stopped, and there was a dead silence. It was a pitiful sight enough: the poor girl trying to get strength enough to continue, coughing and gasping painfully; but some one in the orchestra back of us hissed, there was a cry from the gallery of "Take her off," and then a chorus of yells and cat-calls. It was the same old wolf instinct which makes the pack tear to pieces the wounded straggler,--the wolf instinct in some way transmitted to man. I was indignant enough, and looked around at the audience after the chap that made the first hiss, but should probably have done nothing had not Tom Furness, who has the biggest heart in the world, made an effort to stem the tide. He jumped on his feet, rising to his full height, and began to applaud with all his might. Of course we all joined in, Paddy's big feet and hands making a prodigious noise; and the better nature of the audience being given a lead, the hisses were drowned by a great storm of applause that fairly shook the old theatre. Poor Alice succeeded in getting enough breath to finish her song, and, dancing no more, gave as an encore "Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonny Doon," in a way that reached the hearts of the toughest in the house. It is wonderful how such an audience is affected by the pathetic. An allusion to an "old mother," an "old home," or suffering from sin and wrong will catch them quicker than the most doubtful verse. The last word of the old Scotch song ended, Alice made her bow amid applause as hearty if not as noisy as when we drowned the hissing, and I hope the poor girl was able to keep her place, or, better still, went back to the old home, among the New Hampshire hills, perhaps, or under the shadow of the Maine pines. There was now a great bustle on the stage, a rush of "supes," and a clamor of orders. The scenery was pushed back and the drop-scenes hoisted out of the way. Padded posts were set in the floor, ropes strung and pulled taut, making a very satisfactory ring, and the chairs placed in the corners. By the demonstration on the stage and the eagerness of the audience, it was evident that we had now come to the great attraction of the evening. The play-bill read "George Johnson, Heavy-Weight Boxer, Will Knock Out Three Opponents in Three Rounds Each, or Forfeit $50 to the Man Who Stays." Now, although I was fairly well informed concerning the boxing world, I was unable to remember "George Johnson's" name, and wondered why he had not been taken on by some of the well-known men who intruded themselves into the papers so frequently. The play-bill said clearly that he had challenged the world, and Tom suggested that Johnson was probably too good for them to take him on, or perhaps he had not a diligent backer who could wield a vigorous pen. Harry, who stripped at one hundred and thirty, declared his willingness to put on the gloves with Mr. Johnson if they would let him stand on a chair. Paddy, to whom the performance had become a dreadful bore, endured only through respect for the high society in which he was travelling, had now become wide awake, and at Harry's remark pricked up his ears and asked with much interest if they gave any one in the audience a chance to put on the gloves. Jim told him that there were probably three "stiffs" already engaged to go through the motions of a knock-out, and Paddy remarked that it was a pity, and subsided for the time. When everything was arranged, the pails of water, sponges, and towels handy, and the gloves thrown into the middle of the ring, the manager introduced Mr. Richard Foley as the referee of the bouts, ending his remarks with some very florid compliments to Mr. Foley's well-known fairness in such matters. What was our surprise to discover in the gentlemanly referee the identical man we had first stopped on the street to inquire for "Dinny Sullivan, the copper." He wore the same short coat and plaid trousers, but had discarded the tall hat and the cigar, without which he looked lonely. The mouse under his eye had also disappeared, the artist having succeeded in disguising its mournful hue by a skilful application of flesh paint. After the enthusiasm which greeted his appearance had a little subsided, Mr. Foley raised his hand in a Napoleonic fashion to command silence, stepped to the front of the stage, and hanging on the ropes in an attitude of extreme ease and freedom from restraint, made the usual little speech without which a boxing contest would seem out of joint. He declared the bout to be one of "a friendly nature" for "scientific points only," and ended with the warning that any disturbance from the audience would stop the contest immediately. At the close of his remarks appeared the celebrated George Johnson, a tall mulatto, who took his seat in the chair facing the audience, followed by his handlers. He was stripped to the waist, and wore a blue sash, white trunks, and tan shoes. He was a powerful fellow, well trained, and looked like a bronze statue when he rose, bowing and smiling at a little group of colored friends who called to him from the front of the gallery. A moment later "Jack Costigan, the Jersey blacksmith," made his début, and was greeted with even more enthusiasm than Johnson, probably because of the predominating nationality of the audience, for he was certainly not a beauty, or even a well-built man. Indeed, he was a mighty tough-looking customer, his black hair clipped close enough to reveal a number of white scars, his face pockmarked, his shoulders stooping, and he was at least ten pounds lighter than Johnson, with much less height and reach. He looked sheepish enough to prepare us for the "lie down" that was to follow, and seemed pleased that his chair gave him the opportunity to turn his back to the spectators. After the very labored introductions by Mr. Foley, in which a slight allusion was made to their previous records, the men took their corners, and at the call of "time" they shook hands and got to business. Now, I shall have hardly a word to say concerning this bout, for there was a much more stirring one to follow. It was evident from the beginning, although Johnson was the better man, and could have won anyway, that Costigan was not sent to do his best. He was an old war-horse, performed his part well, kept up the mill until the middle of the third round, and then at a comparatively light blow went down. He pretended to make a desperate effort to rise while the ten seconds were counted, then picked himself up, and Johnson was declared the winner. After Costigan disappeared there was a long wait, the house growing more and more impatient. At last the manager appeared and announced his great regret that the two other boxers had disappointed him. He announced that one of them had a broken arm, and read a physician's certificate to that effect. The other, as far as we could learn, was suffering from a broken heart; that is, he had, after looking the redoubtable Johnson over, declined to face him for any consideration. The manager, again expressing his sorrow at the unavoidable disappointment, handed our friend, Mr. Foley, a fifty-dollar bill, making a great splurge about it, and asked if there were not some gentlemen in the house who would take the places of the delinquents. At this there was a dead silence, except the noise made by Paddy and Harry whispering together, but what they said I did not understand. Again the manager repeated the request, evidently not expecting its acceptance, and ended with a challenge reflecting delicately upon the courage of his audience. He had hardly spoken the words when suddenly, to my surprise and dismay, Paddy rose slowly to his feet, and clearing his throat said, in husky tones, "Faith, thin, 'tis a pity it is not to hev the foight, and lackin' a better I'll give him a bit av a go meself." There had been many murmurs of disappointment when it looked as if there would be but one bout, instead of three as advertised, and at Paddy's speech there was deafening applause. I did my best to dissuade him, as did Tom Furness as well; but Jim took up the plan with enthusiasm, and despite our protests the three "devil-may-cares" crowded along the aisle, and disappeared through a little door under the gallery, which led to the stage. A few moments later they filed on, all three with their coats off, stepped through the ropes, and Paddy took his seat in the chair facing Johnson, his red face wreathed in smiles, and his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, Jim and Harry going to work in a very business-like manner to prepare for the contest. Now, all this was great fun for the audience, the manager, and even Johnson himself, who grinned back at Paddy, showing a long row of white teeth. It took no expert to see that the Irishman was dead easy, and there were the anticipated windmill swings, and abortive efforts to hit on his part, and a scientific exhibition from Johnson, with a knock-out to follow. Tom and I expected nothing better, unless Johnson should be careless enough to let Paddy hit him once, in which case he might be treated to a surprise party, for Pat had an arm like a gorilla, and a fist as big as a small ham. Indeed, when Jim tried to push the gloves on which Costigan had discarded, after his lie down, he found it a job requiring the exercise of patience and considerable strength as well. At last Paddy was all right, Harry fanning him with the towel, Jim kneeling behind him, whispering sage advice into his ear, to which Paddy nodded his head with a confident grin. We were close enough to hear his husky, "'Tis right you are," and "Sure that wud phase 'im." The boys looked striking enough on the stage, with their refined faces, fashionable clothes, and spotless linen. Not one in the building but knew they were gentlemen, and nearly all wished them success with their man. Paddy himself had caught the crowd also, the gallery becoming his at first sight of his wide smile and the sound of his "illigant brogue." Mr. Foley called "time," and at the word Harry gave a last flap, Jim a final word of advice, and as Paddy rose to his feet they pulled the chair through the ropes, and left their man in the ring, to do his "_devoir_" as best he might. He certainly was not anxious, nor did he lack confidence in himself. He advanced cheerfully, shook his opponent by the hand, and got in position. Now, where Paddy learned to "shape himself" I never heard, but I doubt if there is anything like it in the long history of "Fistiana." I have seen many queer things in old sporting prints, where the fancy of the artist, I am sure, has maligned the science of good men with their "fives," but nothing like Paddy's pose has ever appeared to me before or since. His left foot was well forward, his left arm high, as if he feared the rap of a "shillalah" instead of the straight blow of a fist. His right hand he held low behind him, ready to hit, as if he held a flail or a "bit av a scythe," and he swung his fist round and round in a little circle. Even Tom and I could not refrain from laughter, the crowd yelled themselves hoarse, and Johnson could hardly restrain himself. The latter shaped beautifully. After his first surprise was over he grew serious, stepped in, led lightly, landing on Pat's nose, and when Paddy, after a belated duck, swung a terrific blow at his opponent, he found him well out of reach. It was just as I expected: Johnson could hit Paddy when and where he pleased. He played with him as a cat would with a mouse. He made a punching-bag of him, hit and got away. He ducked, he countered, he dodged, he swung on Pat's jaw. He side-stepped, and tapped him lightly; he uppercut him when he made a bull rush, so that his head lifted as if on a hinge. He hooked him with right and left, and played the "devil's tattoo" all over his body, ending with a rib-roaster that made even Paddy sigh. In short, when Patrick O'Malley, our "Knight of the Rake and Roller," took his seat at the end of the first round his smile was gone, and he looked like a man in a trance. Johnson had hit hard enough to have put most men to sleep, but on Paddy's tough anatomy had made no serious impression, after all. Pat's right eye was in a fair way to close, and his face looked puffy and his neck sore, but he was as strong as ever, and his courage as good, though he probably would have been willing to admit that over the picnic aspect of the occasion there had come a cloud. Harry and Jim got at work at him with sponge and towel the minute he took his seat. A very artistic exhibition they gave, and no doubt Jim's advice which he whispered was very good, but there was nothing before Paddy but a "knock-out" unless the unexpected happened. Johnson was without a mark, and I question whether he had been hit at all. He took his drink, smiled up at his handlers as they worked the cool sponge over his hot chest and arms, and leaned back on the ropes with an air of extreme contentment. When the bell rang for the second round Paddy came up in good condition, but with a somewhat dubious expression on his countenance, and he kept his left a little lower, ready to stop some of the straight punches he had accepted so generously in the first round. He did not swing quite as wildly as before, and although hit harder, the blows did not land quite as often. In the last half-minute, however, Johnson cut loose, and Paddy's broad face and thick neck were visited in a savage manner. The bell barely saved him, for the poor fellow was fairly smothered with blows, and yet he stood up to his punishment without flinching, and fought back as best he could. Tom had lost patience when he saw Paddy staggering like a bullock under an axe, and though I told him we could do nothing to help, he insisted we should at least be with the rest of the party. So the minute the bell rang for the end of the round, we crowded along the seats, and hurrying through the door, I was just in time to reach Paddy's corner before he started in for the third and last round. Now, of all men on earth Paddy believed in me; Jim and Harry were all right, and doing all possible for him, but when he felt my hand on his arm, and heard my whisper in his ears, his heart, almost gone, came back to him. He turned his swollen face up to me, and with a new light in his eyes he said, "Tell me what I'll do, Misther Brown; tell me, darlin', an' I'll lick the nager yet." There was something wonderfully pathetic in his blind confidence, and I never cared so much for the big-hearted Irishman as I did that minute. To tell the truth, I had been half willing to see him knocked out after his foolish persistence against my advice. Then again I knew it was not at all a serious matter to one with his strength and vitality, and a dash of cold water would leave him no worse memories than a sore head and a few bruises. But after his appeal I felt very different. I racked my brain, but though I had been studying his opponent from the beginning, trying to find his weak point, he was so very shifty on his feet, and Paddy was so deathly slow, I could think of nothing. Pat had been swinging at his opponent's head, from the very start, the same old blow, landing never. He had not tried for the body once, and I made up my mind just before the bell rang, and whispered, "Never mind his top-knot, Paddy; wait until he leads, then step in, and hit him in the ribs; and hit him hard." The third round started much like the others, but now on Paddy's face was not the foolish smile of the first, nor the dubious look of the second. "Misther Brown" had told him what to do, he was supremely confident in my wisdom, and had no doubt of the result. His mouth was firm and his eyes clear as he faced his opponent and waited for his opportunity. I could see that Johnson did not half like the change. He was altered too, his face had grown cruel, his eyes fierce, and he came in like a tiger crouching for a spring. The joke was all gone out of the game now; he must knock Paddy out in the next three minutes or the fifty dollars would be forfeited. Nothing but a blow in the right spot would be of any use, and it must have the full swing of the body behind it. I could see plainly by his high guard that he feared nothing from Paddy but a swing on the head, and I doubt if he thought of much else beside how he could land on the point of Paddy's jaw just the right blow. As I knelt between Jim and Harry, peering through the ropes, I made up my mind that Paddy had good enough advice if he knew how to use it. As usual, Johnson stepped in, leading with his left a light tap, meant only to open up Paddy's guard, so he could swing on him. As usual, he landed on Paddy's nose, the blood starting freely; but instead of answering with a blind swing as before, this time Paddy took the blow coming on; indeed, he started in before he was hit, and the blow did not stop him at all. The result was, he found himself, for the first time, almost, since he had put his hands up, at a good striking distance. With a fierce grunt he smashed his huge fist full on the mark where the ribs branch, just above the belt. It was a terrible blow, unexpected, given with all the good intentions that a sense of debt could foster, and with the impetus of their two weights, for Johnson was coming in himself. It doubled his antagonist up like a frog, and Paddy was kind enough to undouble him with a straight push in the face that straightened him up again. Harry could not refrain from calling, "Now's your time, Pat!" for which he was very properly warned by the referee; but Paddy really did not hear him, and needed no advice. Science was forgotten, and in the mix-up that followed, Paddy showed a ready hand, cultivated by many a boyish fight and youthful set-to. Johnson was now not so much interested in putting Paddy out, as in saving himself; he was fighting blindly, hugging and clinching when he could; keeping away as much as possible, and growing more and more groggy under the shower of blows that were rained on him. Time was nearly up when, after a break away, Paddy stepped back, gathered himself, rushed in, and swung his huge right hand with all the strength of his powerful body. It was a half hook, and it landed on Mr. Johnson's jaw, and he went down like a felled tree, falling with stiff knees, and striking nothing until his face reached the floor with a thud. He made no effort to rise, and Paddy was so wild that, had I not called to him, I think he would have gone into Johnson's corner for a fresh antagonist among his handlers. Johnson lay on the floor while the ten seconds were ticked off, and then Mr. Foley stepped to the footlights, and, announcing that Mr. O'Malley had won the bout, handed him the fifty-dollar bill. Paddy hesitated a moment, for he had not thought once of the money; then he drew from his hip pocket an old-fashioned leather folding wallet, much worn and discolored, and with a chuckle put the big bill safely away. The audience had risen as one man to cheer Paddy when the decision was given, and now the tumult broke out again, and he was forced to bow his acknowledgments from over the footlights. Even this was not enough, and he finally cleared his throat, and made a short speech, of which I could distinguish nothing but the last words, as he gave a comprehensive sweep of his gloved hand, including our whole company, and yelled, "An' ivery wan a winner." He would have spoken longer had not the manager, with rare presence of mind, dropped the curtain in front of him. Johnson had come to himself very quickly with the assistance of his handlers, and now stepped up to Paddy with very honest congratulations, and the contestants shook hands with mutual respect and no ill will. We were delayed a few minutes by our inability to get the boxing-glove off of Paddy's big right hand; the left he had removed himself on receipt of the bill. We finally cut it off him, formed in line of march, and threading our way through the wings, joined the last stragglers of the audience as they filed out. I tried hard to subdue the spirits of my companions, but with little success. Jim and Harry were greatly elated, and Tom (who of all men enjoys winning) was now as bad as the others, and deserting me, left the conservative vote in a very decided minority. There was certainly nothing lacking in the perfect success of the evening but the fact that "Dinny, the copper," the great object of our search, had evaded us. I voted to give him up and go back to the hotel; the others hesitated, but Tom, who never despairs,--Tom still declared that Dinny would yet appear. Tom is a man who has faith that a ball team will win with the score five to one against in the ninth inning, two out, and a weak hitter at the bat. Jim and Harry were too much elated by their success with Paddy in the "squared circle" to ask for much else. In fact, they were slightly hilarious. The intoxication of victory, on top of their efforts to "kape the night out," was a bit too much for them. In passing along they tipped over a table by the door, sending a shower of play-bills on the floor, and when a stout fellow remonstrated, Jim promptly "crowned" his derby hat with a blow that sent it down to his chin. In the lobby the big wooden statue of Terpsichore, standing in scant attire, with one foot lifted for the dance, caught Harry's eye. He whispered to Jim and Paddy, and before I could interfere, they had torn her from her fastenings, and "stood the old girl on her head." As the muse was being balanced in this undignified position in the corner, there suddenly arose a cry of "Police!" "Police!" in high-pitched and nasal tones from the ticket office. It was Paddy's "ancient enemy" who had discovered us, with his face close to the aperture, secure in the protection of the window. He called lustily, until a huge fist swung through the hole, and landed on the Roman nose with a dull, sickening thud. Silence followed Paddy's skilful blow, but the mischief was done, for there suddenly appeared through the door behind us a knock-kneed bobby, club in hand. Tom called "'Ware the cop!" and by giving the promptest kind of leg bail they just escaped him, bolting out the door, and across the Bowery, the crooked-legged copper close after. Harry, who was leading, swung down a dimly lighted alley, Jim and Paddy following in order. The policeman, who apparently had little confidence in his ability to catch such nimble-footed gentry, stopped at the corner, and commenced a devil's tattoo with his night club on the pavement as a signal for some compatriot to head off the fugitives. Tom and I, who were close up, dashed by him without a word, resolved to stick to our friends, no matter what the cost. Tom was chuckling with delight, gave me a look over his shoulder, and set a killing pace, with the laudable ambition of running me off my feet, as well as distancing our pursuers. Chasing and being chased is one of the primitive pleasures of man, and I doubt if we ever quite outgrow it. We cut through the darkness, with the cool night air in our faces, sprinting over the slippery cobble-stones of the pavement as if in the finals of a "hundred." There was a mad pleasure in it all, and the listening for sounds of pursuit and the looking sharply ahead for threatening danger added a double zest. It reminded me of a night in old Lancashire, when with some schoolmates I had raided a farmer's orchard, and with the spoils under our jackets we had led him a cross-country run of a couple of miles, knowing that a good thrashing was close behind as the punishment for a stumble or a temporary shortness of breath. We were gaining on the three dark forms ahead, for we could see them more and more plainly as they bobbed against the lights at the end of the street. Occasionally some one would yell at us from a window or doorway, but the pounding of the knock-kneed bobby was growing more and more faint, and we heard no footsteps at all behind us. We had almost reached Paddy, whose boxing efforts had told on his endurance, and I was just about to call to Jim and Harry, when suddenly there emerged from the darkness a herculean figure in brass buttons. It floated into the middle of the alley, like the ghost of Hamlet's father, silent, huge, portentous. A long arm reached for Harry as he dodged to one side of the alley, and gathered the little fellow in, while Jim slid by on the other side. Paddy sprang to Harry's assistance, and got a blow with the flat of the hand that sent him in a heap on the pavement. Jim was about to mix in the fracas, but Tom and I, who knew better than to assail the majesty of the law, caught and held him. For a moment neither of us spoke, watching Harry's futile struggles. He was being held firmly, but gently, like a fractious child, and a voice of a richness that cast Paddy's brogue quite in the shade said soothingly, "Arrah there, be aisy. It's hurtin' yesel' ye are. Be aisy, or I'll pull ye in." I was glad to hear the figure speak, for the silence was quite uncanny. Tom advanced in that conciliatory way of his when he feels that he has a delicate task before him, and was about to make his little appeal, with one hand on the roll of bills in his pocket, when Paddy, who had sat up at the sound of the voice, and was looking fixedly at Harry's captor, gave a howl of mingled surprise and joy, and exclaimed, "Begorry, Dinny, ye Connemara divil, let the lad go, or I'll break yer face." At these words Harry stopped his struggles and Jim abandoned his efforts to break away from me. Tom stood with his mouth wide open, uncertain what to do, and I waited as if I was watching a play, and the dramatic climax was about to be sprung on me. Paddy rose slowly and unsteadily to his feet; and the big policeman took him by the collar with his unoccupied hand, and led him to the light of a little window, where he studied his face a moment in silence. Gradually over the big copper's face there spread a grin of recognition, his brown mustache drawing up at the corners, despite his efforts to look severe. "Sure, 'tis yesilf, Patrick, ye blaguard," he said at last, shaking his head; "but frind or no frind, divil a wan o' me cares, if wrong ye've done." "It's only a bit av a lark, an' no harm at all, at all," answered Paddy; and then he told the story of the evening, the search, the boxing contest, and the mischief in the lobby, making as little as possible of the latter, and expatiating at length on our efforts to find "Dinny, the copper," with our extreme pleasure at final success. He ended by introducing us all with much pride and satisfaction. Dinny listened at first with suspicion, afterward with a flash in his blue eyes as Paddy described his victory over Johnson, and finally with a slow smile, expanding into a grin, as the adventure in the lobby was described. When Paddy finished, the "arm-of-the-law" turned without a word, letting Harry and Paddy go free again, tapped on the little window, through whose brown curtain enough light had streamed to make recognition possible, and waited in silence until there came a sound of moving bolts. He then pushed a door open, led us through a dark entry, and into a little back room, where was a long table, plenty of chairs, and a kettle singing on the stove in the corner. I have a suspicion that it was from this very same snug retreat that Dinny emerged when the sound of the rattling night club disturbed him. I learned that the little room was the sanctum sanctorum of the widow Rafferty, whose bar-room in front was too public to suit the refined taste of Mr. Dennis Sullivan, and was also perhaps more exposed to the gaze of an inquisitive inspector. Dinny went to a corner cupboard, with the air of a man who knew the way, took from it a brown jug, and placed it carefully on the table with a half-dozen tumblers. He pointed to the chairs with a wave of his hand, and when we were seated he broke the silence with, "Gintlemen, 'tis proud I am to meet ye all, though in bad company ye come" (the last with a smile at Paddy). "I've a little something here" (looking fondly at the jug) "will kape the night out; 'tis the rale old stuff, such as we used to drink in old Connemara. 'Tis aisy I've been with yes, but, faith, I swear to pull in ivery mother's son that will not drink with me." We all filled our glasses, though Tom called us to witness that he drank under protest, and only through fear of arrest. Just how long we lingered in the widow Rafferty's back room I cannot tell, but we discovered Dinny to be the very prince of coppers, able to tell a good story and sing a better song. He was a broth of a boy, and would have gladdened the eyes of the manager of a football team. He stood six feet three in his stockings, and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, all good stuff, and as hard as nails. His uniform was fresh, and fitted him like a glove, while every button was bright as a West Point cadet's. When we came to part with him it was with mutual expressions of good will, which were increased when we discovered he had sent for a carriage, and the same awaited us in the dark alley. If he has his dues he is chief of police by this time. We were a bit quiet on the way home, a little weary, and very contented and happy. There was a hint of the morning in the east as we alighted at the hotel, and the lobby was silent and deserted. We were much pleased to find that the elevator was still running, and we climbed aboard, at peace with all the world, and just ready for bed. As Tom said, a five minutes earlier or later would have spoiled it. When we reached the third floor, Paddy insisted that we must go with him to the fifth, so we kept on, and Harry unlocked the door and Jim lit the gas. When we bade him "good-night" and the elevator began to drop, he stood in his doorway, a smile of perfect bliss shining on his honest face. He waved his big hand at us with a gesture that was half farewell, half a benediction, and murmured huskily "An' ivery wan a winner." 
39582	----	[Illustration: THE GAME WON--PHIL, AMID A RIOT OF CHEERS, KEPT ON TO SECOND] THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball BY LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF "A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK," ETC. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES 12mo. Illustrated THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK A Story of College Football (Other volumes in preparation) CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY NEW YORK Copyright, 1910, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY THE RIVAL PITCHERS Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I THE OLD BELL CLAPPER 1 II A GOOD THROW 19 III A BASEBALL MEETING 27 IV THE HAZING 42 V A SCRUB GAME 51 VI THE POLE RUSH 62 VII TOM HOLDS HIS OWN 69 VIII AT PRACTICE 77 IX A GAME WITH BOXER HALL 86 X A COIL OF WIRE 93 XI AN ELECTRIC SHOCK 104 XII TOM DOESN'T TELL 112 XIII A GIRL AND A GAME 120 XIV TOM'S CURVES 132 XV A SOPHOMORE TRICK 139 XVI TOM MAKES A DISCOVERY 147 XVII AN EXPOSTULATION 152 XVIII SOME "OLD GRADS" 160 XIX TOM IN COLD WATER 168 XX A GAME OF ANOTHER SORT 176 XXI ON THE GRILL 185 XXII DARK DAYS 192 XXIII AT THE DANCE 200 XXIV DRESS SUITS COME HIGH 208 XXV TOM IN A GAME 216 XXVI THE FRESHMAN DINNER 227 XXVII TOM IS KIDNAPPED 234 XXVIII THE ESCAPE 240 XXIX ANTICIPATIONS 247 XXX A GREAT GAME 255 XXXI LANGRIDGE APPEALS 272 XXXII THE FINAL CONTEST 281 XXXIII VICTORY 293 THE RIVAL PITCHERS CHAPTER I THE OLD BELL CLAPPER Down the green campus they strolled, a motley group of sturdy freshmen, talking excitedly. In their midst was a tall, good-looking lad, who seemed to be the center of discussion. Yet, in spite of the fact that the others appeared to be deferring something to him, he regarded them with rather an amused and cynical smile on his face. He paused to brush an invisible bit of dust from his well-fitting clothes. "Well, aren't we going to make a try for it to-night?" asked one youth, whose hat was decorated with a silk band, yellow and maroon in color. "My uncle, who used to be a football coach here, says the freshmen always used to get it the first week of the term. My uncle----" "Oh, let up about your uncle, Fenton!" exclaimed the lad on whose word the others seemed to depend a great deal. "I've heard nothing but your uncle, your uncle, ever since you came here. Give us something new." "That's all right, Fred Langridge, but my uncle----" "There you go again!" interrupted Fred. "I guess I know what the custom is, as well as your uncle. He hasn't been here in fifteen years." "I know that, but he says----" "Say, if you speak uncle again, I'll land you one on the jaw, and that'll keep you quiet for a while." The words, in spite of their aggressiveness, were good-natured enough, and were spoken with a smile. Ford Fenton, who seldom took part in any conversation about college sports or frolics without mentioning his relative, who had been a well-known coach at Randall, looked first surprised, then hurt, but as he saw that the sympathies of his companion freshmen were with Langridge, he concluded to make the best of it. "I guess I know what the customs are here," repeated the well-dressed lad. "Didn't I get turned down at the exams, and ain't I putting in my second year as freshman? I helped get the clapper last year, and I'll help again this term. But I know one thing, Fenton, and that's not two." "What's that?" eagerly asked the youth who had boasted of his uncle. "That's this: You may not get the clapper, but you'll get something else." "Why, what's the matter?" For answer Langridge silently pointed to the gay hatband of the other. "Take it off--take it off," he said. "Don't you know it's against the sacred customs of Randall College for a freshman to wear the colors on his hat until after the flagpole rush? Don't you know it, I ask?" "Yes, I heard something about it." "Better strip it off, then," went on Langridge. "Here come Morse and Denfield, a couple of scrappy sophs. They'll have it off you before you can say 'all Gaul is divided into three parts,' which you slumped on in Latin to-day." Fenton looked up, and saw approaching the group of freshmen which included himself, two tall lads, who walked along with the swagger that betokened their second year at college. The hand of Fenton went to his hat, to take off the offending band, but he was too late. The sophomores had seen it. They turned quickly and strode over to the group of first years. "Would you look at that, Morse!" called Denfield in simulated wrath. "I should say so," came the answer. "The nerve of him! Hi, fresh, what are you doing with that hatband?" Then Fenton did something totally opposed to the spirit of Randall College. He, a freshman, dared to talk back to a sophomore. "I'm wearing it," replied he pertly. "Does it look as if I was playing ping-pong with it?" The sophomores could hardly believe their ears. There was no imitation in the surprise that showed on their faces. "For the love of Mike! Listen to him!" gasped Morse. "Grab him, Denfield! Wow! But things are coming to a pretty pass when a fresh talks like that the first week. Look out now, youngster, you're going to get a little lesson in how to behave to your betters." The two sophomores reached out their hands to grab Fenton. He made a spring to get behind a protecting wall of his comrades, and for a moment it looked as if the second year lads would be bested, for there were at least fifteen freshmen. But Langridge knew better than to let his friends get into trouble that way. "Let 'em have him," he advised in a low voice. "It's the custom, and he knew it. He deserves it all." Thereupon the freshmen divided, and offered no opposition to the twain, who gathered in their man. Morse snatched off the hat with the offending band, and, while Denfield held the struggling Fenton, ripped off the ribbon. Then with his knife Morse began cutting the hat to pieces. "Here, quit that!" yelled Fenton. "That's a new hat!" "Softly, softly, little one," counseled Denfield. "I pray thee speak softly." Though Fenton struggled to escape, the other easily held him, and the freshman was forced to witness the destruction of his nice, new soft hat. Having thus, as he believed, wiped out the insult offered, Morse carefully folded the ribbon and placed it in his pocket. "Maybe you'll get a chance to wear it--after the pole rush," he said calmly. "I don't believe you will, for we're going to wipe up the ground with you freshmen this term. But if you do, I'll give you back your ribbon--er--what's your name, freshman?" "Fenton," answered the humiliated one. "Fenton what?" "Ford Fenton." "Say 'Fenton, sir,'" counseled Langridge in the other's ear. "Don't you know how to reply to a gentleman?" asked Denfield fiercely, shaking Fenton from a neckhold he had. "Say sir, when you speak to a soph." "Sir!" cried Fenton, for the grip hurt him. "That's better. Now remember, no more ribbons until after the pole rush, and maybe not then. This to all you freshies," added Morse. "Oh, we know that," put in Langridge. "But we'll all be wearing them after next week, and we'll be wearing something else, too." "Nixy on the clapper, old chap!" called Denfield. "We won't stand for that." "We'll see," responded Langridge. "All is not gold that doesn't come out in the wash." "Ha! He speaks in parables!" cried Morse. "Well done, old chap! But come on, Denfield. I've got a date." The youth holding Fenton gave him a sudden turn and twist that sent him spinning to the ground, and as he picked himself up the two sophomores walked off, as dignified as senators. "Confound them!" muttered Fenton as he brushed the dust off his clothes. "I've a good mind to----" "Easy, now," advised Langridge. "They're sophs, you know. Go easy!" "But that's no reason why we should let them walk all over us!" exclaimed a sturdy lad, who had watched, with rising anger, the attack on Fenton. "I don't see why a crowd of us fellows should take whatever mean things they want to inflict." "That's all right, Clinton," declared Langridge. "It's college custom, just the same as it is for us to take the clapper out of the chapel bell, have it melted up, and cast into watch charms. It's college custom, that's all." "That's all right, it may be; but I like to see a fair fight!" went on Phil Clinton. "I could have tackled Morse alone, and he's bigger than I am." "Maybe you could, but you'd have the whole sophomore class down on us if you did, and you know what that means. No, let it go. Fenton brought it on himself by wearing the band." "I wish they'd tackled me," murmured the sturdy Clinton. "I wish they had," echoed Fenton. "Look at my hat." "That's all right, my uncle says I can have a new one!" piped up a shrill voice, in imitation of Fenton's usual tones. "Holly Cross, or I'm a Dutchman!" exclaimed Langridge, turning quickly to glance at a newcomer, who had joined the ranks of the freshmen. "Where've you been, Holly?" "Down by the boathouse, watching the crew practice. I'll give you an imitation of Billy Housenlager pulling," and Holly, or Holman, Cross, began a pretense of rowing in grotesque style. "That's Dutch all over," admitted Langridge. "He goes at it like a house and lot." "What's up?" demanded Holly, for he had seen from afar the little rumpus. "Has 'my uncle' been cutting up?" and he winked at Fenton. "That's all right," began the aggrieved one, who did not seem to know when he was being made fun of. "Look at my hat," and he held up the felt article, which was in tatters. "New style," commented Holly casually. "Good for hot weather. Fine for a souvenir. Hand it around and we'll all put our initials on it, and you can hang it in your room. But say, is there anything doing?" "There may be, to-night," answered Langridge. "So--so?" asked Holly with a wink, the while he pretended to ring an imaginary bell. "Keep it mum," was Langridge's answer. "You fellows want to meet at the boathouse to-night," he went on, as if giving orders. "Don't forget what I told you, and don't walk as if you had new shoes on. Take it easy. Be there at eight o'clock. Come along, Holly. I want to talk to you." Langridge linked his arm in that of the newcomer, and the two strolled off to one side of the college campus, while the group of freshmen made their way toward one of the two large dormitory buildings. "He orders us around as if we were working for him," objected Phil Clinton. "Langridge takes too much for granted." "Well, he's been here a year, and I s'pose he feels like a soph," remarked Sid Henderson. "Maybe, but that doesn't make him one. He thinks because he's got plenty of money, and comes from Chicago, that he can run things here, but he's not going to run me," and Phil stuck out his square, well-formed jaw in a manner that betokened trouble. "Aren't you going to help get----" began Ed Kerr, who was quite a chum of Langridge. "Easy!" cautioned Sid. "Here are some sophs." A group of second-year students passed the freshmen with suspicious glances, but, seeing no offending colors, nor any other evidences of anything that could be taken to mean that their traditional prey had violated any rules, they saw nothing objectionable. "Don't mention clapper," went on Sid. "That's right," agreed Ed Kerr. "But I was going to say that Fred knows the ropes better than we do. If we stick to him we'll come out all right. It's no fun to try for--for it, and have the sophs give us the merry ha-ha." "Oh, we'll try to get it," assented Phil Clinton, "but I don't like being ordered around." "Langridge doesn't mean anything by it," spoke his friend. "Well, I don't like it." And with that the lads passed into the dormitory, for it was nearly time for supper, and the rule was that they must come to the tables neatly dressed. A little later Langridge and Holly strolled up to the buildings where the three hundred students of Randall College were housed. "Then you'll be on hand, eh?" asked Langridge. "Oh, yes, I reckon so. But it seems like a lot of work for what we get out of it." "Get out of it! You old anthropoid!" exclaimed Langridge. "What's the matter with you? Going back on the college customs?" "What's an anthropoid?" asked Holly Cross, as he deftly juggled three stones with one hand. "How's that for good work?" he asked irrelevantly. "An anthropoid is a second cousin to a cynic," answered Langridge, "and a cynic is a fellow whose liver is out of order, which makes him have a bad taste in his mouth and get out of the wrong side of bed." "Get out, you camel-backed asteroid!" cried Holly. "There's nothing the matter with my mouth, and I can get out of either side of my cot without knowing which side it is." "Are you coming to-night?" "Sure, I'll be there." "All right; that's what I want to know." Holly and Langridge passed into the east dormitory, where they had been preceded by the other group of freshmen. This building was given over to rooms for the first year and senior students, while in the west dormitory the sophomores and juniors, as being the least likely to indulge in hazing and horse-play, did their studying and sleeping. There are few institutions of learning better known throughout the Middle West than Randall College. It had been established several decades before, and though small at first, and unimportant, the thorough methods used soon attracted attention from parents who had sons to educate. Many a well-known man of to-day, who has made his mark in the world, owes part of his success, at least, to Randall College, and he is proud to acknowledge it. In time, because of liberal endowments, and because the institution became better known, its influence spread, until, from a small seat of learning, it became a large one, and now students from many States attend there. Randall College was most fortunately situated. It was on the outskirts of the town of Haddonfield, and thus was connected by railroad with the outside world. It was far enough away from town to be rid of the distractions of a semi-city life, yet near enough so that the advantages of it could be had. The buildings composing the college consisted of several in addition to the main one, containing the classrooms, lecture halls, laboratories, study rooms and the like. There was Biology Hall, a magnificent gift from an alumnus, and Booker Memorial Chapel, a place of worship, containing some wonderful stained-glass windows. The chapel was the gift of a lady, whose only son had died while attending the school. Back of the main college building, and somewhat to the left, was a modest structure, where the faculty, including Dr. Albertus Churchill, the venerable president, had their living apartments. Farther to the rear of the main structure were two buildings that contained dormitories and rooms for the three hundred or more students. There were two dormitory buildings, the east and the west, and, for obvious reasons, one, the eastern, was inhabited by the freshmen and seniors, while the juniors and sophomores lived, moved and had their being in the other. The gymnasium, which was well equipped, was located a little to the left of the west dormitory, and it adjoined the baseball diamond and the football gridiron. Skirting the edges of this big, level field were the grandstands and bleachers, for sports had a proper and important part in life at Randall. Standing on the knoll in front of the main building, one looked down a gentle, grassy slope to Sunny River, which twisted in and out, lazily enough, around a hill that contained the college and the grounds. The campus swept down, in a sort of oval, to the very edge of the stream. And there is no finer sight in all this country than to stand on the steps of the main building some fine summer day (or, for that matter, a wintry one) and look off to the river. If you are patriotic, and of course you are, you will take off your hat to the colors that fly from a tall flagpole in the center of the campus. Sunny River was a beautiful stream, not as broad as some rivers, but sufficiently so to provide boating facilities for the Randall students. On it, every year, was held the annual regatta, Randall and some other institutions participating. There was a large boathouse on the edge of the river, located on your left as you stood on the campus, facing the water. Sunny River flowed into Lake Tonoka, which was about a mile below the college, and in the midst of the lake was Crest Island. What exciting times that lake and river have seen during the summer season! What rowing races! What swimming races! What jolly picnics! And, let us whisper, what mysterious scenes on nights when some luckless candidate was initiated into a secret society! On the farther side of the river from the village, and near the junction with the lake, was a sort of park, or summer resort. A trolley line ran from it to the town of Haddonfield, but the students more often preferred to walk to the village, rather than wait for the cars, which ran on uncertain schedules. At the lower end of Lake Tonoka, just over the line in another State, was Boxer Hall, a college somewhat smaller than Randall, while to the west, fifteen miles away, was Fairview Institute, a co-educational school that was well patronized. The three institutions had a common interest in sports, and there was a tri-collegiate league of debating clubs that often furnished milder, if more substantial, excitement. It was an evening in early April, of the new term after the Easter vacation, that a number of freshmen, who had taken part in the lively scene of the afternoon, and some students who had not, met silently and stealthily back of the boathouse on the back of Sunny River. The night was cloudy, and thus it was darker than usual at that hour. "Have you fellows got the rope?" asked Langridge in a whisper, as he took his place at the head of the little force. "Of course," answered Phil Clinton. "There's no 'of course' about it," retorted Langridge arrogantly. "I've seen the time it's been forgotten." "What are we going to do with it?" asked Sid Henderson. "Use it to hang a soph with," spoke Holly Cross. "Prepare to meet thy doom!" he added in a sepulchral voice. "Cut it out, Holly," advised Langridge. "I'm afraid the sophs are on to us as it is." "Then we'll rush 'em!" exclaimed Phil Clinton aggressively. "No, that won't do any good. We'd never get the clapper, then." "I know a good way," spoke Fenton. "My uncle says----" "Say, you and your uncle ought to be in a glass case and in the museum," called Holly. "Dry up, Fenton!" "Where's the Snail?" asked Langridge. "Here," replied Sam Looper, who, from his slow movements, and from the fact that he loved to prowl about in the dark, for he could see well after nightfall, had gained that nickname. "What do you want?" "Will you climb up the rope after I get it in place?" "Sure." "Then come on," whispered Langridge. "I guess it's safe now. There don't appear to be any one stirring." The mysterious body of freshmen moved off in the darkness toward the Booker Memorial Chapel. Their object, as you have probably guessed, was to climb to the steeple and remove the clapper from the bell, a prank that was sanctioned by years of custom at Randall College. Once the big tongue of iron was secured, it would be taken to a village jeweler, who would have it melted up and cast into scores of miniature clappers. These, when nickel-plated, made appropriate watch charms for the freshmen class, and suitably, they thought, demonstrated their superiority over their long-time rivals, the sophomores. For it was the duty of the second-year students, if possible, to prevent the taking away of the clapper. The purloining of it must always be done the first week after the Easter vacation, and if this passed by without the freshmen being successful, the clapper was safe, immune and inviolate. Hence the need of haste, as but two more nights were left. Once the clapper was taken the class had to contribute money enough to buy another for the voiceless bell. Silently, as befitted the occasion, the lads made their way from the rendezvous at the boathouse toward the chapel. Their plan was simple. On top of the cupola which held the bell was a large cross. It was the custom to tie a stone, or some weight, to a light cord, throw the weight over the cross, and by means of the thin string haul up a heavy rope. Up this rope some freshman would climb, remove the clapper, and slide down again, while his comrades stood guard against any attack of sophomores. "Who's going to throw the stone?" asked Ed Kerr, as he walked along beside Langridge. "I am, of course." "Oh, of course," repeated Clinton in a low voice. "You want to run everything." "Well, Fred Langridge is a good pitcher," spoke Sid Henderson. "He's likely to make the 'varsity this year." "Um!" was all Phil said. The boys reached the chapel, and, under the direction of Langridge, the cord and rope were made ready. "Got a good stone?" asked the leader. "Here's a hunk of lead," replied Ed. "I made it on purpose. It's not so likely to slip out as a stone." "That's good. Hand it over." The lead was soon fastened to the cord. "Look out, now, here goes!" called Langridge. "I'm going to pitch it over. Be all ready, Snail." He stepped back, and tossed the lead, intending to make the cord fall across one arm of the cross. But either his aim was poor, or he could not discern well enough in the darkness the outlines of the cross. "Missed it!" exclaimed Clinton. "Well, so would you," growled Langridge. "Some one stepped on the cord." "Let Snail try," suggested Henderson. "I'm doing this throwing," declared Langridge curtly. "It doesn't look so," murmured Phil. Langridge tried again, but with no success. "Hurry," spoke Kerr. "The sophs will be out soon." Langridge made a third attempt, and failed. Then Snail Looper called out in an excited whisper: "Here come the sophs! Cut it!" "No!" cried Langridge. "Hold on! I'll get it over now. Fight 'em back, boys!" CHAPTER II A GOOD THROW There was excitement in the ranks of the freshmen. They formed in a ring about Langridge, who once more prepared to throw the weight over the cross. "Hold 'em back, boys!" he pleaded. "We can do it. It won't take five minutes to get the clapper after the rope's up." "But first you've got to get it up," replied Clinton. "And I will. Cut out your knocking. Here goes!" Off to the right could be seen a confused mass of shadows moving toward the chapel. They were the sophomores, who in some mysterious manner had heard of the attempt to take the clapper, and who now determined to prevent it. "They're coming," said Kerr ominously. "I know it," answered Langridge desperately. "Keep still about it, can't you?" he asked fretfully. "You make me nervous, and I can't throw well." "Humph! He must be a fine pitcher if he gets nervous," declared Clinton. Langridge glanced at the circle of freshmen about him. There were enough of them to stand off the rush of the sophomores, who, as they came nearer, were observed to be rather few in number. "Here it goes!" exclaimed the rich youth, and he threw the lead weight with all his force. It struck the cross, but did not carry the cord over the arm. "At 'em, fellows! At 'em!" yelled the leading sophomores. "Tear 'em apart! Don't let 'em get the clapper!" There was a struggle on the outer fringe of freshmen, who crumpled up under the attack of the second-year lads. "Hold 'em back!" yelled Langridge. There was no longer any need of caution. The sophomores were hurled back by the weight of superior numbers. Seeing this their leader hastily sent for reinforcements. Meanwhile the others renewed their attack on the freshmen. Langridge prepared to make another cast. "He'll never do that in a week!" exclaimed Clinton in disgust. "Why doesn't some one who can throw try it?" "I'll throw, all right!" cried Langridge, as he untangled the cord, which was in a mass at his feet. He was about to make another attempt, when a lad stepped to his side--a lad who was a stranger to the others. Where he had come from they did not know. "Let me try," he said pleasantly. "I used to be pretty fair at throwing stones. Your arm is tired, I guess." "Who are you?" demanded Langridge suspiciously. "Are you a soph? How'd you get here?" "I'm not a soph," replied the other good-naturedly, in a pause that followed a second hurling back of the attackers, who withdrew to wait for reinforcements. "I'm a freshman. My name is Parsons--Tom Parsons. I'm a little late getting here this term. In fact, I just arrived to-night. I was on my way from the depot to the college, when, as I crossed the campus, I heard what was up. As I'm a freshman, I decided to join in. Hope it's all right." "I don't know you," said Langridge hesitatingly, fearing this was a trick of the enemy. "You may be a soph----" "No, I assure you I'm not," said Tom Parsons. "Wait a minute. Is there any one here named Sidney Henderson?" "That's my name," replied Sid. "Then you ought to know me. I'm to room with you, I believe. At least, I have a letter from Dr. Albertus Churchill to that effect. He's quartered me on you." "Oh, that's all right!" cried Henderson. "Parsons is a freshman, all right. I didn't remember about it. Sure, he's all right. It's a queer time to arrive, though." "Isn't it?" agreed Tom good-naturedly. "Couldn't help it, though. Train was late." "Here come some more sophs!" called Kerr. "Get that line over, for cats' sake!" demanded Clinton. "I will!" exclaimed Langridge. "Shall I throw it?" asked Tom. "I guess----" "I'll do my own throwing," replied the other coldly. "If he knows how to throw, let him try," suggested Clinton. "We want to get that clapper some time to-night." "Go ahead, Fred," urged Kerr. "I guess your arm ain't in shape yet." Langridge murmured something, but as there arose a general demand that he let some one else try, and as a new body of sophomores were rushing down to the attack, he handed over the lead weight. "Can you pitch?" he asked of Tom. "A little," was the quiet reply. The two faced each other in the darkness, as if trying to see of what stuff each was made. It was the first time Tom Parsons and Fred Langridge met, and it was rather prophetic that this first meeting should presage others which were to follow, and in which the rivalry thus early established was to be fought out to the bitter end. "Hurry!" urged Kerr. "We're going to have our hands full now. They're going to rush us." Tom Parsons grasped the lead weight, and shook the cord to free it of kinks. He stepped back a few feet, looked up in the darkness to where the cross was dimly visible, and then, drawing back his arm, sent the lead with great force and straight aim up into the air. "A good throw!" cried Sid Henderson, as the moon, just then coming out from behind a bank of clouds, showed that the cord had fallen squarely over one arm of the cross, the weight coming down to the ground on the other side of the chapel. "A good throw!" echoed Clinton. "Humph!" growled Langridge. "I could have done as well on the next try." "Haul up the rope!" ordered Kerr. "Lively, now!" Several lads ran around to where the end of the cord, still attached to the weight, was on the ground. All around a struggle was going on, the freshmen endeavoring to hold back the attacking sophomores. Now and then a second-year lad would break through the protecting fringe, only to be hurled or pushed back again by the defenders. Quick hands hauled on the cord, and the heavier rope rose in the air and slipped over the cross. It was held down on one side by several turns taken around a post. Then it was made taut at the opposite end. "Shin up now, Snail!" cried Langridge, who had again assumed command of things. "Quick! We'll hold the rope! Get the clapper!" The night-loving youth moved slowly forward. But, in spite of his lack of speed, he managed to make good time up the rope, which he skilfully ascended hand over hand. "Don't let 'em get the clapper!" "Break through and yank down the rope!" were the cries of the sophomores. Again and again they hurled themselves against the circle of freshmen, who protected the two groups of their comrades holding either end of the rope. "Hold 'em, boys! Hold 'em!" pleaded Langridge. Tom Parsons threw himself into the thick of the fight. He gave blows, and he took them, all in good nature. Once, when a small sophomore broke through, Tom picked him up bodily and deposited him outside the circle of defenders. "Say, he's got muscle, all right," observed Clinton to Kerr. "That's what. There's class there, all right. Shouldn't wonder but what he'd give Langridge a rub for pitcher, if he plays baseball." "Oh, he'll play, all right. A fellow who can throw as he did can't help playing." "Who's that?" asked Sid in a breathing spell, following a temporary repulse of the enemy. "The new lad--Tom Parsons." "Oh, yes, he plays ball," said Sid. "His father knows my father. They used to be chums in Northville, a country town. That's how Tom happened to come here, and he asked if he couldn't room with me. He plays ball, all right." "Pitch?" asked Clinton laconically. "I think so. Look out, here they come again!" The conversation was interrupted to repel another rush. "Look out below!" suddenly called the Snail from his perch near the cupola. "Got the clapper?" yelled Langridge. "Yep! Here it is!" Something fell with a thud in the midst of a group of freshmen. It was the bell clapper, which the Snail had unhooked. Tom Parsons made a dive for it. "I'll take that!" exclaimed Langridge roughly, as he shoved the newcomer to one side and grabbed up the mass of iron. "I was only going to help," replied Tom good-naturedly. "Cut with it!" ordered Kerr. "We can't hold 'em much longer, and we don't want 'em to get it now. Skip, Langridge. Take some interference with you." As if it was a football game, several lads made a sort of flying wedge in front of Langridge, with him inside the apex, and, thus protected, he bored through the mass of sophomores. "After him!" yelled several second-years, who had become aware of the trick. "He's got the clapper!" Most of the lads rushed away from the chapel, only those remaining who were holding the rope taut. Some of these even started away. "Hold on!" yelled the Snail. "I'm up here yet! I want to get down!" "Don't leave Sam up there!" cried Kerr. "Hold the rope, fellows, until he shins down." Several freshmen ran back. "I'll help hold," volunteered Tom, though there was a temptation to join the fighting throng that surrounded Langridge and his defenders. The Snail slid to the ground, the rope was pulled from the cross, and the lads, coiling it up as they ran, hastened to the aid of their freshmen comrades. CHAPTER III A BASEBALL MEETING "Swat 'em, freshmen! Swat 'em!" was the rallying cry of the first-year lads. "Get the clapper! Get the clapper! Don't let them get away with it!" implored the sophomores. There was a confused mass of arms, legs and bodies. The mass swayed, now this way, now that. Tom Parsons, the Snail, Ed Kerr and some others who had remained behind to manage the rope, threw themselves into the fray. Their help turned the tide of battle, and the sophomores, who were outnumbered, turned and fled, leaving the freshmen victors of the fight. "Have you got the clapper, Langridge?" called Kerr anxiously. "Of course," and the lad addressed produced the unwieldy souvenir from underneath his coat. "Then get it to our room and hide it," went on Kerr. "They'll not give up yet. We've got to expect a hunt for it to-night." Kerr and Langridge, who roomed together, started away, the clapper of the bell safe in their possession, while the others brought up the rear, a guard against a possible unexpected attack. But none was made, and presently the long, iron tongue was safely hidden in the rooms of the freshmen. "I say," remarked Tom Parsons to Sidney Henderson, when the excitement had somewhat calmed down, "I wonder if I'd better report to the proctor, or to Dr. Churchill to-night. I've just entered, you know." "What's the use?" asked his companion. "You're to room with me--that's settled. Mr. Zane, the proctor, won't want to be disturbed. Besides, I rather think that Dr. Churchill, our venerable and respected head--by the way, we call him Moses, you know--I say I don't believe he'd thank you for coming." "Why not?" "Well, you see, there's been more or less of doings to-night. Of course, the faculty are not supposed to know that we take the bell clapper, but you can bet they do know. They pretend not to, and take no notice of it. If you were to go and ring Moses up at this hour, he'd have to become aware--take cognizance, he'd call it--of our little racket. That might make trouble. No, on the whole, let the proctor and Moses alone." "Why Moses?" "What's that?" "I say--why Moses?" "Oh, I see. Well, we call him that from his name. Church and hill. Moses went up on a hill to preach about the church, hence--aha! see?" "You needn't draw a map," answered Tom, "even if I am from the country." "That's so, you're from Northville, where dad used to live." "That's right." "Well, I wouldn't boast of it, if I were you--especially when any of the fellows are around." "Why not?" "Well, of course it's all right with me--I understand, but they might make fun of you--rig you, you understand." "Yes, I understand, but I don't mind being 'rigged,' as you call it. I fancy I can do some 'rigging' on my own hook." "All right, it's your funeral. I've warned you." "Thanks. But if you think it's all right for me to go right to your room, and bunk, without telling Dr. Churchill--excuse me, Moses--why, I'm willing." "That's all right. Come on, we'll go to my room. There may be some excitement after a bit." "How?" "Well, the sophs may try to get the clapper back. They generally do. We'll have to help fight 'em in that case." "Of course. By the way, what do you fellows do with the bell tongue, anyhow?" Sid told about the watch charms. "You'll get one," he added. "That was a good throw you made." "Well, maybe. It was hard to see in the dark. I guess What's-his-name could have made it, only he tired himself all out." "Oh, you mean Langridge." "Is that his name?" "Yes. I don't like him very well, but he's got lots of dough, and the fellows hang around him. He's manager of the baseball team." "He is?" "Yes. Got the election because he's willing to spend some of his money to support the team." "Well, that's white of him." "Oh, yes, Fred's all right, only for what ails him. He's got some queer ways, and he thinks some of us ought to bow down to him more than we do. But I won't, and I guess Kerr is getting sick of him. Some fellows think he got to be manager, and keeps the place, because he used some money. There's been talk about it." "Who's Kerr?" "The fellow with the black hair. He's catcher on the nine." "I see." "Are you going to play ball?" asked Henderson as they entered the room Tom was to share. "I'd like to. Is there any chance?" "Guess so. The nine's not all made up yet. They're going to have a meeting to-morrow, or next day, and try out candidates. You'll have as good a chance as any one. Where do you play?" "I've been pitching." Henderson uttered a low, long whistle. "What's the matter?" "That's Langridge's pet place. He thinks he's a regular Christy Mathewson." "Well, I haven't disputed it," replied Tom quietly. "But if you don't mind, I'm going to take off my shoes; my feet are tired. Think any sophs will come?" "It isn't likely now. They'd been here some time ago if they were coming. Guess I'll turn in. I've got to get up early and do some boning on my trigonometry. It's rotten stuff, ain't it?" "Oh, I rather like it." "Um!" was all the answer Sid made, as he prepared for bed, while Tom also undressed. Tom Parsons had come to college, not because he wanted to have "a good time," nor because it was the fashion, nor because his father had the money to send him. Tom came because he wanted to gain knowledge, to fit himself for a place in life, and he earnestly wanted to learn. At the same time he did not belong to the class known as "digs." Tom was a sport-loving lad, and it needed but a look at his well-set head, on broad shoulders, his perfectly rounded neck, his long, lithe limbs, small hips and deep chest, to tell that he was an athlete of no little ability. Tom's hair was inclined to curl, especially when he was warm from running or wrestling, and when it clung about his bronzed forehead in little brown ringlets, he was an attractive figure, as more than one girl had admitted. But Tom, to give him his due, never thought about this. He was tall and straight, and he could do more than the regulation on the bars, or with dumbbells, while on the flying rings, or at boxing, you would want to think twice before you challenged him. But Tom's specialty, if one may call it such, was on the baseball diamond. He had played in all the positions ever since he was a little lad, and he and the other country boys laid out a diamond in a stubble field, with stones for bases, and a hickory club for a bat. But Tom had a natural bent toward pitching, and he gradually developed it, principally by his own unaided efforts, together with what he could pick up out of athletic books, or what was told to him by his companions. In twirling the ball Tom's muscles, hardened by work on the farm, served him in good stead. For Tom Parsons was a farmer lad, though, perhaps, not a typical one. His father was fairly well-to-do, and had a large acreage in the town of Northville. Tom was an only son, though there were two sisters, of whom he thought the world. When Tom had finished his course at the village academy, and had expressed a wish to go to college, his father consented. He furnished part of the money, and the rest Tom supplied himself, for he was an independent sort of lad, and thought it his duty to take part of his savings to gain for himself a better education than was possible in his home town. So Tom, as you have seen, came to Randall, and of the manner of his arrival, due to a combination of circumstances, you have been duly informed. He made two resolutions before coming. One was to stand well in his classes, and the other--well, you shall learn the other presently. Tom slowly undressed. He was not used to change, for he had been a "home boy" for years, though he was no milksop, and did not in the least mind roughing it. But, after the reaction of the night, when he was in the little room with the lad who was to be his chum, he felt a bit lonely. It was new and strange to him, and he thought, not without a bit of regret, of the peaceful farmhouse in Northville, with his mother and father seated in the big, comfortable dining-room, talking, and the girls reading books, or sewing, under the light of a big lamp. Tom looked slowly about the little room that was to be his "home" for some time to come. Randall was not a rich college, and, in consequence, the dormitories and study apartments were not elaborately furnished. There was a sufficiency, and that was all. Of course, there was nothing to prevent the students from adding such articles to their rooms as they wanted, or thought they desired, and some, whose parents were wealthy, had nicely furnished studies. But the one occupied by Sid and Tom was quite plain. There was a worn rug on the floor, so worn, in fact, that the floor showed through it in several places. But Sid remarked that it was a virtue rather than otherwise, for it obviated the necessity of being careful about spilling things on the rug, and also did away with the necessity of a door mat. "They can't harm the rug, no matter how much mud they bring in," Sid had said, when Tom suggested getting a new one. There were two small iron cots or single beds in the apartment, a bureau for each lad, a closet for clothes, but which closet contained balls, gloves, bats, sweaters, old trousers and other sporting "goods," almost to the exclusion of clothes. And then the closet did not contain it all, for many articles overflowed into the room, and no amount of compression sufficed to get things entirely within the closet. There was always something sticking out. Several old chairs, one a lounging one with a broken set of springs in the seat, a sofa that creaked in every joint, like an old man with rheumatism, a table with a cover spotted with ink, a shelf of books, an alarm clock, some cheap pictures, prints from sporting papers, and water pitchers and bowls completed the furnishings. Tom wondered, as he fell asleep, whether the sophomores would make a further attempt to regain the clapper, but they did not, and the night was undisturbed by further pranks. At chapel next morning Dr. Churchill, after the usual devotions, announced with a twinkle in his deep-set eyes that the reason there was no bell to call the students to worship was because the tocsin was clapperless. "It mysteriously disappeared during the night," went on the president, "and--er--well, ahem! I think matters may take their usual course," he finished quickly, trying hard not to smile. It was always this way. By "usual course" Dr. Churchill and the students understood that the freshmen would meet, make up by contributions enough to buy a new clapper, and the incident would be closed until another year brought new freshmen to the college. This course was followed. Langridge, who was president of the class, called a meeting that afternoon, the amount needed was quickly subscribed, and the money was taken to Dr. Churchill. "Why do you encourage that nonsense?" asked Professor Emerson Tines, the Latin instructor (dubbed "Pitchfork" by the college lads in virtue of his name). "Why do you submit to it?" He happened to be with the president when Langridge brought in the money. "I don't submit to it, Professor Tines." "But you encourage it." "No; I simply ignore it." "But the clapper is taken year after year." "Is it?" asked the doctor innocently. "Well, now, so I have been informed by the janitor, but, you know, of my own knowledge I am not aware of it. It is simply hearsay evidence, and I never like to depend on that." "But, my dear sir, don't you _know_ that the clapper is taken by the first-year pupils?" "Perhaps I do," answered the good doctor with a smile, "but I'm not going to admit it. I was young once myself, Professor Tines." "So was I!" snapped the Latin teacher as he went to his own apartments. "I--I doubt it, and that's not hearsay evidence, either, I'm afraid," murmured Dr. Churchill, as he resumed his study of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics. Tom Parsons, after chapel, introduced himself to Dr. Churchill and the proctor, and was properly enrolled on the college books. He was assigned to his classes, and soon began to feel himself at home among the students. "Well, are you going?" asked Sid of Tom that afternoon, as they came from the last recitation. "Going where?" "To the baseball meeting. Didn't you see the notice?" "No." His roommate showed it to Tom. It was a note on the bulletin board in the gymnasium, stating that all interested in the baseball nine, whether as players or as supporters, were invited to meet in the basket-ball court that afternoon. "Of course I'm going," declared Tom. The size of the throng that gathered in the gymnasium was proof enough of the interest taken in affairs of the diamond by the Randall students. There was talk of nothing save bases, balls, strikes, sacrifices, bunts, home runs, fielding, pitching, catching, and what-not. Langridge called the meeting to order, and in a few words explained that the object of it was to get the team in shape for the spring games. "I understand that there are a number of new men with us this year," he went on in easy tones. There was no use in denying that the well-dressed lad knew how to talk, and that to get up in front of a throng did not embarrass him. "I hope, as manager as well as a player," he went on, "that we shall find some good material. The team needs strengthening in several places, and it is up to us to do it. Now I have a list here of the former players, and the names of some who have already signified a desire to try for places this year. I'll read them." It was quite a long list, and Tom Parsons, listening to it, began to wonder if he would have any chance among so many. "If there are any others who would like to put their names down as candidates, I'll take them," announced Fred. Several stepped forward, and their names were noted, together with the positions they desired to play. "Go on up," urged Sid to Tom. The country lad advanced to where Langridge stood. "I'd like to try for a place," he said. "Oh, you would, eh?" asked the other, and the sneer in his voice was evident. "Well, don't you think you'd better wait until the hayseed is out of your hair?" and he laughed. "Here's a comb," retorted Tom quickly, extending a small pocket one. "Maybe you'll give me a hand. I can't see the back of my head." "That's one on you, Langridge," cried Phil Clinton. "That's the time you got yours good and proper." Tom was smiling good-naturedly, but the other was scowling. Tom looked Langridge straight in the eye, and the other turned aside. The country lad put back the comb into his pocket. "What's your name?" growled Langridge, though he knew it full well. "Tom Parsons." "Where do you want to try for?" "Pitcher." There was some confusion in the room, but it ceased at Tom's reply. "Pitcher!" exclaimed Langridge. "I said pitcher," replied Tom quietly. "Why--er--I'm pitcher on the 'varsity nine!" fairly snarled Langridge. "That is, I was last year and expect to be again. Do you mean pitcher on the scrub?" "On the 'varsity," spoke Tom, smiling the least bit. Langridge shot a look at him from his black eyes. It was a look that boded Tom no good, for the former pitcher had recognized in the new arrival a formidable rival. "Put his name down," called Sid. "You might get a sore arm, and we'd need a substitute." Langridge glanced quickly at the speaker. "His name is down," he answered quietly--more quietly than any one expected him to speak. "Are there any others?" No one answered. "We'll meet for practice to-morrow afternoon," went on Langridge. "Of course, it's understood that no one plays on the team who doesn't contribute his share of expenses," and he looked straight at Tom Parsons. Without a word the country lad drew out a wallet, none too well filled, to judge by the looks of it. "What's the tax?" he asked, still smiling. "The--er--the finance committee attends to that," was the answer Langridge made. "They'll meet to-night." Evidently he had not expected so ready a compliance on Tom's part. "Well, if it's all settled, I move we adjourn," suggested Ed Kerr. "Let's have a scrub game, for luck." At that moment a lad came hurrying into the gymnasium. "Where's Langridge?" he asked excitedly. "Here," replied the baseball manager. "What's up?" "Hazing!" was the somewhat breathless answer. "The sophs are going to try it on to-night, to get square about the bell clapper. I just heard it." "That's the stuff!" cried Phil Clinton. "Now we'll get a chance to have some fun." "And I'll pay 'em back for slashing my hat," added Ford Fenton. "My uncle says----" But what his respected relative had remarked was not learned, as the boys rushed from the room to prepare for the ordeal that they knew awaited them. CHAPTER IV THE HAZING "What sort of hazing do they do?" asked Tom Parsons of Sid Henderson as the two youths followed their companions from the gymnasium. "Oh, all sorts. It's hard to tell. Mostly they come in your room and make a rough house, but not too rough, for the proctor doesn't stand for it. They'll tumble you about, tear down any ornaments you may have up, pour a pitcher of water in the bed, and make things unpleasant generally." "Are we supposed to stand for that?" There was a grim look settling on Tom's face. "Well, what can you do when three or four big sophs are holding you?" "Not much, that's a fact. But I'm going to fight back." "So am I, but that's all the good it'll do. If they don't put enough on you in your room they'll tackle you outside, when you're alone, and maybe chuck you into the river or lake, or make you walk Spanish, or force you to parade through town doing the wheelbarrow act. Oh, you've got to take some hazing in one form or another." "Well, I don't mind getting my share. So they're coming to-night, eh?" "So the twin said." "The twin--who's he?" "The little fellow that brought word. I don't know whether he was Jerry or Joe Jackson. I didn't look closely enough to see." "Why, is it hard to tell?" "Sure. They're two brothers, Jerry and Joe. They come from some town in New Jersey. We call them the 'Jersey Twins,' and they look so much alike it's hard to tell them apart. The only way you can tell is when they're playing ball." "How then?" "Why, Jerry plays right field, and Joe left. Then it's easy to say which is which; but when they come to bat it always happens that some one on the other team makes a kick. They think we're ringing in the same man twice, and we have to explain. That's what I've heard. Of course, I've only been here a week." "Oh, then they've played here some time?" "Yes; they're juniors. It was mighty white of Jerry or Joe, whichever it was, to tip us off. Now we'll be ready for the sophs." "What can you do?" "Well, if you know in time, as we do now, we can take down the best things in our room, so they won't get busted, and we can hide the bed clothes, so they won't get soaked. Then we can put on our old clothes. It's no fun to have a good suit ruined, especially when you don't find new clothes growing on trees." "That's right. Let's go to our room and make ready." "Oh, we've got plenty of time. I fancy it won't be until after dark. The only thing is for all of us freshmen to keep together if we go out. For if they catch two or three of us alone they'll put it all over us. But I guess there won't be any scrub game now. The sophs would break it up." "When do we have any rest from them?" "In about two weeks. After the pole rush." "The pole rush?" "Yes. It's an old college custom, as Fenton's uncle would say. We freshmen form a ring about the big flag-pole on a certain night and the sophs try to pull us away. If they make us leave inside of fifteen minutes it means we can't wear the class college colors until next term. If we win, why, we sport a hat like Fenton had--the one Morse and Denfield slashed up." "I see. But, say, I'd like to know more about the ball team. Does Langridge run it all?" The two lads by this time were in their room, where they proceeded to hide under the beds and bureaus their choicest possessions against the prospective raid. It was close to the supper hour and they did not have much time. "No, Langridge doesn't run everything," answered Sid. "He's manager, that's all." "That seems a lot." "Well, it is in a way, though it's only because he has plenty of cash and isn't afraid to spend it. But he couldn't be elected captain. He tried, but was defeated his first term, though he made the managership." "Who is captain?" "Bricktop Molloy was last year, but this season we're going to have a new one. I guess Dan Woodhouse stands as good a show as any one. He's a senior and a fine player." "Woodhouse--that's an odd name." "Yes, we call him Kindlings for short. I'm going to vote for him." "So will I then; I'll depend on your say-so." "I fancy you threw a scare into Langridge," went on Sid as he carefully slid under a mat at the edge of the bed a picture of a football game. "How so?" "Telling him you wanted to try for pitcher. It was like stepping on his corns. He thinks he's got a cinch on that position. Always has ever since he helped win a game last year." "Has he?" "Well, I don't know. It depends on who is captain. Langridge wants to see Ed Kerr elected captain. If that happens, he and Ed will run things to suit themselves. Ed's quite a chum of Langridge, though Ed's a better fellow all around. The only reason some of the fellows won't vote for Ed is that he's too thick with Langridge. But if old Kindlings is elected he'll not take any orders from Langridge." "Langridge doesn't seem to be very popular with you," observed Tom. "He isn't. I don't like him. Yet he's all right in a way. You see, he's pretty well off in his own right. His father died, leaving him quite a sum, and when his mother died he got more. His uncle is his guardian, but he doesn't look after Fred very closely, and Fred does pretty much as he pleases. Now that isn't good for a lad, though I don't mind admitting I wish I had plenty of money. But Langridge is something of a sport. He has good clothes--better than most of us here--he has all he wants to spend, and he's liberal with it. He has quite a following and lots of fellows like him. He doesn't care what he does with his money, and that's the whole thing in a nutshell. That's why he's manager and for no other reason. But, as I said, Woodhouse won't stand for any of his dictation." "Maybe I'll get a chance then," mused Tom. "I guess you will. I'd like to see another good pitcher on the nine. Maybe we'd win more games if we had a good one." "I don't know whether I'm a good one or not," answered Tom. "I want to try, though. Back home they used to say I had a good delivery." Sid did not answer at once. He was thinking that to pitch on a country nine was vastly different from doing the same thing on a good-sized college team. But he did not want to discourage his roommate. "Well," he said after a pause, in which he surveyed the somewhat dismantled room, "I don't know whether it's pitching, or catching, or fielding, or what it is our team needs, but it's something. We're at the bottom of the league and have been for some years." "What league is that?" "Oh, I forgot you didn't know. Well, it's the Tonoka Lake League. You see, our college, Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute have a triangular league for the championship. But we haven't won it in so long that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary, as the legal documents have it. Last year we had a good chance to be second, but Langridge got a glass arm in the final game and we were dumped. That's why I say we need a new pitcher, and I'm glad you're going to try for it." "Maybe I'll do worse." "Well, Langridge sure does deliver a good ball," said Sid slowly; "the only trouble is that he----" He stopped suddenly and seemed embarrassed. "Well?" asked Tom questioningly. "Maybe you'll find it out for yourself," concluded Sid Henderson. "There's the supper gong. Come on. There'll be hot work after a bit." Puzzling somewhat over the answer his chum had made to the question regarding Langridge and wondering what it was he might find out for himself, Tom followed Sid to the dining hall, where throngs of students were already gathered. There was something in the air that told of mischief to come. The sophomores, who dined together, maintained a very grave and decorous air, utterly out of keeping with their usual mood. There was silence instead of talk and laughter at their table. "They're almost as dignified as the seniors," remarked Phil Clinton to Tom as he took a seat next to him. "It means trouble. Look out." "Oh, we're looking out," replied Tom. Few lingered over the meal, and, going back to their room, Sid and Tom took their best clothes and hid them in a closet at the end of the long corridor. It was a closet used for the storage of odds and ends. "There, I don't believe they'll find them there," spoke Sid. "Now we're ready for them." On their way back to their apartment they heard some one preceding them down the long hall. "Who's that?" asked Sid. "I don't know," replied Tom. "Let's take a look. Maybe it was some one spying on us." They hastened their steps and saw some one hurry around a corner. "Did you see him?" asked Tom. "Yes," answered Sid slowly. "Was it a soph?" "It was Langridge," came the hesitating answer. "I wonder what he was doing up here?" inquired Tom. "I wonder too," added his chum. There was a rush of feet in the hall below and the sound of voices in protest. "Here they come!" cried Sid. "The hazers! Come on!" And he slid into the room, followed by Tom. They slammed the portal shut and bolted it. The noise below increased, and there was the sound of breaking doors. "Do they smash in?" asked Tom, to whom a college life was a new experience. "Sure, if you don't open." "Going to open?" "I am not. Let 'em break in. They'll have to pay for the damage." In spite of lively scenes on the floor below, the noise was kept within a certain range. Neither the freshmen nor the sophomores desired to have their pranks interrupted by the college authorities, which would be sure to be the case if the fun grew too hilarious. The noise seemed to be approaching the room of Sid and Tom. "Here they come," whispered the country youth. Sid nodded and there was a grim smile on his face. An instant later the door was tried. "The beggars have locked it!" some one exclaimed. "Break it in!" another added. "Ask 'em to open first," counseled a third. "We've smashed so many now that we'll have a pretty bill to pay." "Oh, blazes, give it your shoulder, Battersby," exclaimed a loud voice. "Going to open, fresh?" called out a student on the other side of the portal. "Nope!" cried Sid. There was a moment's pause and then some one hurled himself at the door. The bolt held for a few seconds, but on a second rush there was a splintering of wood, the screws pulled out and the portal flew open, giving admittance to a crowd of sophomores. CHAPTER V A SCRUB GAME "Stripped!" exclaimed a tall sophomore with a broken nose. "The beggars have stripped their den!" "I told you some one had been giving us away," added another. "They knew we were coming. Didn't you, fresh?" and he turned to Sid and Tom. "Sure," replied Sid as he looked around the room, which was bare of the articles that usually afforded the second-year men an opportunity for causing annoyance. "Who tipped you off?" asked he of the broken nose. "Yes, tell us," chimed in several others. "We won't do a thing to him but make him sorry." "Oh, we had a dream," put in Tom with a grin. "Ha! Here's a fresh fresh!" exclaimed "Broken-nose." "Well, fellows, let's give 'em a shower bath, anyhow." "Look under the beds," suggested a big sophomore. "Nope; haven't time, Gladdus. Here, some of you hold 'em while the rest of us douse 'em." In an instant Sid and Tom were grasped each by half a dozen hands and pulled to the middle of the room. Then Broken-nose and some others took the two water pitchers and poured the contents over the two freshmen. It was not a pleasant ordeal, but Tom and his chum bore it unflinchingly. It was useless to struggle. "Oh, this is no fun!" exclaimed Gladdus. "They don't fight." "The odds are too heavy," retorted Tom quickly. "I'll take any one of you alone," he added, and he looked as if he meant it. "Let me take him on," pleaded a tall sophomore. "No--none of that," declared Broken-nose, who was addressed as Fenmore. "We've got lots to do yet. I wonder where their good clothes are. They've got on old togs. We'll give 'em a soaking." Tom and Sid were glad that they had hidden their garments in the hall closet. There was a hasty search on the part of the sophomores, but as nothing was disclosed the second-year men prepared to leave. "Come on," ordered Fenmore. "There's no water left in their pitchers, anyhow." "Oh, we could get more H{2}O if we could find their togs," spoke another. Just then another second-year youth came along. "I know where their clothes are," he said. "In the closet at the end of the hall. Langridge----" "Shut up!" cried Gladdus. "Come on, fellows!" called Fenmore. "We'll soak 'em good." Sid groaned as the sophomores released him and Tom and made a run for the closet. "We'd ought to have scattered 'em," he said. "Now we'll have to wear wet duds to chapel to-morrow. We can't go in these," and he looked at his dripping garments--clothes in which he did cross-country running and played tennis--old and somewhat ragged and muddy habiliments. "Did you hear what that soph said?" demanded Tom. "You mean----" "I mean about Langridge. He gave us away. He told them where our clothes were; the mean sneak!" "That's right," chimed in Sid. "That's what he was doing up here--spying on us. Oh, I'll pay him back all right!" "So will I!" declared Tom fervently as a triumphant shout down the corridor announced that their clothes had been discovered. The garments, dripping wet and all out of shape, were thrown into their room a little later. "Well, wouldn't that put your nerves on the gazabo!" exclaimed Sid disgustedly. "Oh, Langridge, I'll have it in for you!" The hazing went on until after midnight and then the dormitory quieted down. Scarcely a freshman escaped and those who absented themselves from their rooms were due to be put on the grill later. Tom and Sid sat up late, wringing as much of the water as they could from their clothes and drying them somewhat by inserting an electric light bulb in the arms of the coats and the legs of the trousers. Fortunately their bedding was not wet or the boys would have passed a miserable night. As it was they did not have a good one, and they arose early to hang their moist clothes out of the window to let the morning sun finish the work of drying. But they were not the only ones in this plight, and it was a bedraggled lot of freshmen who appeared at chapel--that is, all but Langridge. He was spick and span as he always was, dressed in expensive clothes. "Didn't they get at you?" asked Sid as he and Tom caught up to the wealthy youth on the way to class. "Get at me?" "Yes, your clothes don't seem to have suffered." "Oh, this is another suit. They wet one for me, but I had this put away." "And no sneak went and told the sophs where you put it, did they?" asked Tom. "What's that?" asked Langridge quickly, and he turned a bit pale. "I say no sneak gave you away?" "I don't know what you mean," and Langridge turned aside. "Oh, yes, you do," said Sid quickly. "You know all right and we know, and what's more, you'll get what's coming to you all right. That's all from yours truly, but look out--that's all--look out, Fred Langridge!" "I don't know what you're talking about," was the cool retort, and then the students passed into the class room. It was two days later that the miniature clappers, which had been made from the tongue of the big bell, were received, and a proud lot of freshmen they were, including Tom Parsons, who attached them to their watch chains. "Now, if we win the pole rush, we'll be all to the merry," exclaimed Phil Clinton as he walked along the campus toward the gymnasium. "I'm just aching for a chance to pummel some of those sophs. They certainly made a rough house of my room the other night." "Oh, we'll get the chance all right," remarked Sid. "The rush is a week from to-night. But say, how about the baseball election? Isn't Langridge taking his own time calling it?" "He sure is. He's trying to work up votes for Kerr for captain, but he can't do it. The fellows haven't anything against Ed, but he's too thick with Langridge. I'm for old Kindlings." "So are we," put in Tom. "They've got to hold the election to-morrow," said Phil. "That's the last day, according to the rules. Why, we haven't had a bit of practice yet. We don't know who's going on the scrub and who has a chance for the 'varsity. I hope I can get center field." "Had you rather play there?" asked Tom. "I always have. I fancy I know that position better than I do any other. But, to tell you the truth, I like football better than baseball. I'm going to try for the eleven this fall." "I hope you make it. But what's going on?" asked Tom as he saw a little commotion about the gymnasium. "It's a scrub game," exclaimed Sid. "That's the stuff. Come on. Maybe we'll get a chance. Langridge sees that he's got to get things going." They hurried to the gymnasium and found that preparations were under way for a scrub game. There was also a notice on the bulletin board stating that the election for captain would be held the following day. "I wonder if he's got enough votes for Kerr?" mused Sid. "I hope not--for the sake of the team." The crowd, including students from all four classes of the college, moved off toward the diamond. Rivalries were forgotten in the interest in the game. The lads were not in uniform, but had on old clothes. Langridge was issuing orders and two temporary captains were chosen, they selecting their men. Bob, or "Bricktop" Molloy, the captain of last year, had one scrub team, and Pete Backus, who rejoiced in the nickname "Grasshopper" from the fact that he was always trying to see how far and how high he could jump, had another. Langridge assumed the rôle of manager, though there was little to manage. "Now play lively, boys," he urged. "I want to arrange for some other games this season besides those in the league, and we want to win some of 'em." To his delight Tom found himself chosen by Bricktop, together with Sid and Phil Clinton. Langridge held a whispered conversation with Backus, the other captain, and was promptly chosen on that hastily formed nine. "I'll pitch and Ed Kerr'll catch," Langridge announced, as if that settled it. And it was noticeable that Backus did not make a protest, though he was as good a catcher as was Kerr. "Will you pitch for us, Parsons, me lad?" asked Bricktop with just a trace of rich Irish brogue. "Sure and I heard what ye did, me lad, the night of the clapper." "Well, that was mostly luck, I guess," replied Tom modestly, "though I'd like the chance to pitch now." "Sure, then, an' you'll have it," replied the Irish lad with a twinkle in his honest blue eyes. "Come on, fellows. We're last at the bat." "Hold me down, somebody!" exclaimed Dutch Housenlager as he turned a hand spring and came down so close to Molloy that the former captain was nearly sent over. "I'm feeling like a two-year-old." "That's all right, Dutch, me lad," exclaimed Bricktop, relapsing into a broader brogue as his feelings came uppermost. "This isn't a stable, though, and we can dispense with the horse play until after the game if you can accommodate yourself to the exigencies of the occasion," and he spoke much after the manner of Dr. Churchill, for Bricktop, in spite of the fact that he was a senior, "grave and reverend," liked fun and his joke. "If you will kindly resume the upright stature befitting a human being," he went on, "you may try to stop whatever balls come in the direction of shortstop, for there's where ye'll play." "All right," answered Dutch good naturedly. "I'm agreeable, my fair captain. But would you mind keeping your hat on? When the sun strikes your red-gold locks it dazzles my eyes." "Go on wit' your blarney!" exclaimed Molloy, making a punch at Housenlager, who skilfully ducked it. The diamond was in fine shape, for it had been cut and rolled and the base lines marked off in readiness for the opening of the season. The grass was like velvet and the clean, fresh green, contrasted with the brown earth of the diamond proper, the long white lines, the new bases and the level field made a picture that rejoiced the heart of every lad. "Wow! isn't it great?" cried Tom. "And the smell! Do you smell the green grass, Sid, and the earth, and--and the baseball smell? Isn't it great?" "Cheese it!" cried Phil Clinton with a laugh. "You'll be spouting poetry next." "I wish I could," returned Tom a little more soberly. "I never get out on a ball field but I want to orate something like Thermopylæ or Horatius at the Bridge. The fever of the game gets in my blood." "There is something in that," admitted Phil. "Oh, it's a great game. There's none greater except football, and when I see the gridiron marked off and hear the 'ping' of somebody's boot against the pigskin my heart begins to thump and I catch my breath and want to take the ball to batter down a stone fence and make a touchdown." "Bravo!" cried Sid. "You're as bad as Tom." "Quit talking and get to practice!" exclaimed a voice at the rear of the lads, and they turned to see Langridge. "Say, who told you to give orders?" asked Sid quickly. "Bricktop is our captain." "Well, we're going to have a little warm-up practice first," remarked Langridge. Then he turned to Tom and said: "So you're going to pitch against me?" "It seems so." "Humph!" was all Langridge said as he walked away. Two or three good batters on each side began knocking flies for the others to catch and Tom and his chums soon found themselves warming up in earnest. The country lad discovered that he could judge the balls quite accurately and he made some good throws from a long distance. "Play ball!" suddenly called Bricktop Molloy. "Come on, fellows! Out in the field. Parsons, let's see what sort of a twirler you are." Tom went to the box. He was a trifle nervous, but he controlled himself as well as he could. The first man up was Langridge, and there was an unpleasant look on the face of the rich youth as he faced his rival. Tom sent in an out curve and he was pretty sure it was going over the plate. But he heard the umpire cry: "One ball!" and he was much surprised. There was a mocking smile on the face of Langridge. Tom held the next ball rather longer. He threw in a peculiar little drop. Langridge saw it coming and struck savagely at it, but a resounding "thump" told Tom that the horsehide had landed safe in Molloy's mitt. "One strike!" yelled the umpire, and Tom's heart was glad. "That's the way to do it!" cried Phil Clinton, from center field. "Strike him out!" Langridge hit the next ball, though it was only a weak liner, which Tom stopped and threw over to first, but there was no need, for Langridge had seen the uselessness of running. "One out. Go on with the game," sang out Bricktop. CHAPTER VI THE POLE RUSH Tom managed to strike out the next man, but the third batter knocked a two-bagger, and Kerr, who followed, sent a beautiful long fly to right field, where Jerry Jackson muffed it. There was wild delight on the part of Pete Backus and his men when they got in three runs before Tom managed to strike out another player, retiring the side. "Well, that's not so bad," spoke Bricktop, but there was some dubiousness in his tone. "My pitching was bum," acknowledged Tom, "but I'll do better next inning." "Of course you will, me lad," said Captain Molloy kindly. "It's a new ground to you." There was a confident air about Langridge when he took his position in the box and it was somewhat justified when he struck out the first two men in quick succession. "He's doing better than I thought he would," said Sid. "He's a good pitcher," admitted Tom honestly, for he saw that his rival had something that he himself lacked--a better control of the ball, though Tom could pitch a swifter curve. Tom was third at the bat. Now a good pitcher is usually a notoriously bad hitter. Tom proved an exception to the rule, though perhaps he had not developed into such a good pitcher yet that it applied in his case. He faced Langridge confidently and even smiled mockingly as a swift ball came in. Tom was a good judge of it and saw that it was going wild, so he did not attempt to strike it. His judgment was confirmed when the umpire sang out: "Ball one!" Langridge looked annoyed and sent in a swift one. Tom's bat met it squarely and it went well over the center fielder's head. "Go on! go on, me brave lad!" yelled Molloy, his brogue very pronounced. "That's the stuff!" "Take two bases! take two!" cried Phil. "Make it three! make it three!" begged Sid, and three Tom made it, for he was a swift runner, and the ball rolled provokingly away from the fielder who raced after it. "Well, you can bat, anyway, me lad," observed Molloy as Tom came in on a safe hit made by Sid a little later. "Does that mean I can't pitch?" asked Tom with a smile. "Not a bit of it. It only accentuates it, so to speak. You're all right--_facile princeps_ as the old Romans have it--which, being interpreted, means you can come in and sit at our training table." Tom's side only gathered in two runs, however, and from then on up to the eighth inning the team Langridge was on held the lead, the score at the beginning of the ninth inning being 10 to 8 in favor of Backus' men. That inning Tom and his chums rather went to pieces as regarded fielding, nor did Tom shine brilliantly in the box. He struck out two men and then he seemed to lose control of the ball. The bases were filled, two men knocking a one and two bagger respectively and another getting his walking papers. Then Tom got nervous, and just when he should have held himself well in hand to keep the score down, he gave another man a chance to amble easily to first on four balls and forced in a run. There were cries of derision from the opposing players and an ominous silence on the part of Captain Molloy and his men. The next man got a one-bagger and the player who followed him knocked a pop fly, which Molloy, who was on third, missed. The inning ended with three more runs in favor of Langridge and his mates, making the score 13 to 8. "Six runs to win and five to tie," murmured Molloy. "Can we do it, boys?" "Sure," said Phil Clinton confidently. Phil always fought to the last ditch. But it was not to be. Tom made one run and Sid another, but that was all. Langridge struck out his last man with the bases full and the game ended. "I thought you were a pitcher," sneered Langridge as the teams filed off the field, and there were several laughs at Tom's expense, for he had not made a good showing in the box. "Sure he can pitch," cried Molloy, coming to Tom's defense. "The ground was new to him, that's all." "Rats!" retorted Langridge, and Tom was too humiliated to make a reply. "Just the same he'll make a good pitcher," said Mr. James Lighton, the coach of the 'varsity, who had strolled out to watch the practice. "He has a swift ball, but he lacks control. We can make a first-class pitcher of him, Molloy." "I'm sure I hope so," murmured the red-haired youth. "We didn't do very well last year with Langridge, though he seems to have improved to-day." "So will young Parsons," declared the coach. "You watch him. I'll take him in hand as soon as the team is in shape. He'll probably have to go on the scrub first, but he won't stay there long." But Tom did not hear these comforting words, and it was with rather a bitter feeling in his heart that he went to his room to dress for supper. "You'll be better next game," said Sid, trying to console him. "Maybe there won't be any next game for me," was Tom's reply. "I saw Kerr and Langridge talking together, and I'm sure it was about me." "That's all right. Kerr isn't going to be captain of the 'varsity." "Are you sure?" "Sure. I've got a straight tip. We've votes enough to elect old Kindlings Woodhouse." And so it proved the next day, when the election was held. Dan Woodhouse received forty more ballots than did Kerr and his election, after the first test, was made unanimous, a compliment always paid. Then baseball matters began in earnest. Candidates were chosen, Coach Lighton ordered regular practice and established a training table. Tom was much chagrined when he found that he was named for pitcher on the scrub, while Langridge got the coveted place as pitcher on the 'varsity, but Sid told his chum that the scrub was but a stepping stone to the final goal. And when the coach began to take Tom in hand and give him some much-needed instruction about control Tom began to feel that, after all, perhaps he had a chance. It was about a week later, following some rather hard practice on the diamond, that a hurried knock was heard on the door of the room occupied by Sid and Tom. "Come," called Sid, looking up from his Latin book. "Pole rush to-night!" cried Dutch Housenlager, poking his head in and rapidly withdrawing it, as though he feared a book would be hurled at him. "Meet on the campus at eight o'clock. Old clothes--it's going to be a hard fight." "That's the stuff!" exclaimed Sid, throwing his book across the room. "Come on, Tom. We'll have a battle royal with our traditional enemies, the sophs." The pole rush was like the cane or cannon rushes held in other colleges. Half a dozen of the strongest of the freshmen formed a circle, with linked arms about the big flag pole on the campus. About them in concentric circles their chums formed a series of defensive rings. Then the sophomores came at them with a rush, seeking to displace the first-year lads and arrange themselves in a circle about the pole. If they succeeded in doing this inside of fifteen minutes it meant that the freshmen could wear no college colors their first term. It was to this rush that Tom, Sid and their friends hurried when Dutch and some others went about to the various rooms sounding the rallying cry. Out on the campus that soft spring evening was a motley crowd of students. On one side were gathered the sophomores and on the other the freshmen. "My, there are a lot of 'em," remarked Phil Clinton. "I shouldn't wonder but they've rung in some seniors on us." "No, they wouldn't do that," declared Sid. "They're a big class." Langridge and some others were going about selecting the men who were to form the first circle about the pole. Tom and Phil, who were both sturdy lads, were chosen for this honor. "In place! in place!" cried the impatient sophomores. "Line up! line up, fellows!" shouted Langridge. Tom and his chums took their positions. The protectors formed about them. "Hold fast, everybody!" cautioned Phil as he grasped Tom's arm. "Here they come! here they come!" was the warning cry, and with a rush the sophomores hurled themselves against the mass of lads about the pole. CHAPTER VII TOM HOLDS HIS OWN It seemed for a moment as if the first-year boys would be quickly shoved aside and their places taken by the sophomores, for so heavy was the impact that the outer and second lines of defense were broken through and the attackers were in the midst of the defenders. "Throw 'em back! throw 'em back!" yelled Phil Clinton. "Tackle low!" "Think you're playing football?" panted Tom, for some of his mates had been pushed against him and he almost lost his grip on Phil's arm. "It's like a scrimmage," replied Phil. "That's the stuff, boys!" he added as the lines of defense formed again. The freshmen by a fierce effort succeeded in blocking the advance of their enemies, and those who had penetrated part way into the circles were hurled back. But the battle had only just begun. Once more came the rush of sophomores, the members of the class calling to each other encouragingly. There were more of them than there were of freshmen, but the latter had the advantage of a firm base of support, for the lads nearest the pole clung to that and those adjoining them locked their arms or legs about those of their comrades, thus forming a compact mass. "Pick 'em off one by one!" yelled Gladdus, one of the leading sophomores. "Bore a way in there, Fenmore, and some of you fellows. We ought to get them away." "Hold fast! Hold fast, everybody!" cried Tom, for the joy of battle was upon him and his heart exulted in the struggle that was going on about him, in the pressure of bodies against his, the labored breathing, the panting, the fierce grips that were broken only to be made anew. The sophomores now began other tactics. Several of them would grab a freshman in the outer circle. They would pluck him from the restraining grasp of his companions, and then, when a hole was thus made, other sophomores would bore their way in to repeat the process. So quickly was this done and so strong was the peculiar attack that, almost before the freshmen knew it, Gladdus and Fenmore, two of the most aggressive attackers, had reached the circle that was about the pole. The two boldly grabbed at Tom, at the same time calling out: "Sophs this way! Sophs this way! Here's meat for us!" Tom suddenly felt himself being pulled away from the pole. The grips of Phil Clinton on one side and Sid Henderson on the other were slipping from his arms. "Hold fast! Don't let them take you!" cried Phil. "I won't!" gasped Tom. He thought of a trick he had acquired in wrestling. Quickly arching his back like a bow, he suddenly straightened it with a snap, and the holds of Gladdus and Fenmore were broken. They were hurled back and then other freshmen took them up bodily, thrusting them beyond the outer line of defense. Then the whole body of sophomores quickly threw themselves against the freshmen, as if to force them away from the pole by weight of numbers. They nearly succeeded, and Tom and his fellow defenders of the flag staff thought their arms would be pulled out of the sockets. But, as if it was a second down in a fierce football game, the freshmen held their opponents and thrust the wave of sophomores back. So it went on, the attack becoming fiercer until, when the timekeepers announced that there were but two more minutes left in which to hold or gain the pole, the second-year men seemed fairly to overwhelm the others. "Tear 'em up! tear 'em up!" pleaded Gladdus. "Hold, boys, hold!" begged Langridge. And hold they did, for when time was called the defenders were found with their arms still locked about the flag staff. "We win, fellows!" yelled Tom, capering about, with his hands grasping those of Sid and Phil. Then followed an impromptu war dance, while the vanquished sophomores filed away in the darkness, the exultant freshmen sending cheer after cheer out on the air. "Here's where we wear ribbons on our hats!" cried Ford Fenton. "Now, I'd like to see any soph make me take it off." He pulled from his pocket a band and fixed it to a new hat he had bought to replace the slashed one. "You came prepared, didn't you?" asked Holly Cross. "Here, let me give you an imitation of a soph," and he held out the decorated hat, though the gaily decorated band could not be seen in the darkness, and pretending to regard it with horror, minced along like some grotesque dancer on the stage. "Good! good!" cried his fellows. "That's the stuff, Holly, old chap!" remarked Phil. "We'll have you in the next play." "Why don't you fellows run the colors up on the flag pole?" proposed a lad who had stood watching the fun. "That's it, Jerry Jackson!" exclaimed Sid. "Good idea." "I'm not Jerry, I'm Joe," replied the Jersey twin. "I'll have to take your word for it," went on Sid. "Say, you two ought to wear labels. We're always getting you mixed up." Amid much laughter and joking a long streamer of yellow and maroon was fastened to the halyards and run up to the truck. Langridge had the colors with him, anticipating a victory. "We ought to have a parade now," suggested Fenton. "My uncle says----" "If you say uncle again inside of a week, we'll duck you!" cried Sid as he jostled Ford to one side. "We know him by heart by this time." "I don't believe he ever had an uncle," declared Kerr. "But come on, fellows, let's have a parade." The idea took at once, and the victorious freshmen formed in line and marched about the college buildings, singing songs and yelling joyfully, for it had been a good, fair, clean fight, and they had won. "Let's go to Haddonfield and get out hat bands," proposed Langridge. "We'll all be wearing them in the morning." As discipline was rather relaxed during the first two weeks of the term and as it was the custom for the victorious class to celebrate in some way the idea was adopted and the joyous lads made for the town, which at their advent at once awakened from a sort of evening nap. They went to a dealer who made a specialty of college goods and soon all were decked out in the gay hat bands, all save a few who, like Fenton, had already provided themselves with the articles. "I suppose you aren't used to such things as this down on the farm, are you?" asked Langridge of Tom sneeringly as they were about ready to depart for the college. "Corn husking bees and quilting parties are more in your line." "Wa'al, thet's what they be!" retorted Tom quickly, imitating the nasal drawl of the typical farmer. "We folks down Northville way is some pumpkins when it comes t' huskin' corn. Was you ever there, sonny?" His manner was so patronizing and the effect of his words and assumed mannerisms so odd that the lads about him burst out laughing, much to the annoyance of Langridge. "Going to the post-office for the mail and meeting the pretty country girls was about the height of your enjoyment, wasn't it?" persisted the rich youth, who seemed bound to pick a quarrel with Tom. "Wa'al, now you're talkin'," came the quick answer in the same drawl. There was something rather strange about Langridge. His eyes seemed very bright and his cheeks were flushed. He evidently took Tom's acquiescence as an indication that the country lad was willing to have fun poked at him. "I suppose you got lots of letters from the pretty country lasses, enclosing locks of their red hair," sneered Langridge. "You bet I did," exclaimed Tom, still imitating a farmer's peculiarities, "but I want to tell ye suthin', an' when you come out Northville way, mebby you'll remember it." Then, suddenly becoming serious and with a change in his manner, he added: "I also used to get letters from gentlemen, but I don't believe you could write me one!" There was a snap in his words. "What--what's that?" cried Langridge, taking a step toward Tom. "You heard what I said," was the retort. "That's the time you got yours all right, Langridge," exclaimed Phil Clinton. "You can't tell by the looks of a haystack how far a cow can jump, you know." Langridge fairly glared at Tom. He seemed to want to make some reply, but the words stuck in his throat. "I'll--I'll get----" he stammered, and then, turning on his heel, he linked his arm in that of Kerr and the two started off down the street. "You held you own that time, Tom," said Sid as a little later they followed. "Yes, I don't mind a joke, but he went a little too far. My people live in the country, and I'm proud of it, and proud of all my friends in Northville. But come on, let's get back to our room. I've got some studying to do." CHAPTER VIII AT PRACTICE Following the exciting scenes of the pole rush it was rather difficult for any of the lads to settle down to study that night, but for some it was a necessity, and Tom and Sid were in this number. Tom, by reason of missing the first week of the term, was a little behind his class, but he was a fine student, and the instructor saw that there would be no trouble for the lad in covering the lost ground. With Sid it was another matter. Though faithful and earnest, studying did not come easy for him, and, as he expressed it, he had to "bone away like a ground hog" to get facts and dates fixed in his mind. Consequently, because of the evening of fun, ten o'clock saw Sid and Tom busy in their room over their books. For an hour or more nothing was heard but the occasional turning of the pages or the noise of a pencil being rapidly pushed across the paper. At length Tom, with a sigh of relief, closed his chemistry and remarked: "There, I guess that will do for to-night. My eyes are tired." "So are mine," added Sid. "I'm going to kiss this Latin prose good-night and put it to bed," and he threw the book under his cot. "Pleasant dreams," he added sarcastically. "Gee! but I hate Latin," he exclaimed. "Why do you take it?" "Oh, dad thinks I'll need it. I'd a heap sight rather learn to play the banjo." "Not much comparison there, Sid." "No, but don't mention comparison. That reminds me of grammar, and grammar reminds me of verbs, and verbs naturally bring to mind declension, and--there you are. Let's talk about something pleasant." "What do you call pleasant?" "Well, baseball, for instance, though maybe that isn't very pleasant for you, since you didn't make the first team." "No," admitted Tom frankly, "it isn't pleasant to think about. I did want to get on the first team and I may yet. But I've learned one thing since coming here." "That's good. Maybe I'd better call up Moses and tell him. He'll feel encouraged that some of the students are progressing." "No, I wouldn't advise you to do that," spoke Tom with a laugh that showed his white, even teeth. "In fact, what I've learned didn't have much to do with books." "What was it?" "Well, it's been made very clear to me that it's something different from being a big fish in a little puddle than acting the part of a small-sized finny resident in a more extended body of water, to put it scientifically." "Meaning what, if you don't mind translating?" came from Sid as he stretched out on the rather worn and springless sofa. "Meaning that I had an idea that I was about as good as the next one in the pitching line, but I find I'm not." "Proceed," came calmly from Sid, who had his eyes shut. "No, I'm afraid I might disturb your slumbers," said Tom quickly, and there was a curious change in his voice. Sid sat up quickly. "I beg your pardon, old man," he exclaimed. "I was listening all right and I'm interested, honest I am. Only my eyes hurt to-night. But it must be quite different, coming from a small village to a fairly large college. Did you have a good nine at Northville?" "Well," went on Tom, somewhat mollified at his chum's interest, "we cleaned up all the other nines around there. I was considered a crackajack pitcher, but I guess now the reason for that may have been that the others were rotten batsmen." "There's something in that," admitted Sid judicially. "You see, things are peculiar here. Now take Langridge. Nobody, unless it's Kerr and a few others, cares much about him. Yet he's a fairly consistent pitcher, and he's the best they've had in some years, they tell me. Now our college has had rather hard luck on the diamond, especially in the Tonoka Lake League. There was a better chance of winning the championship last year than in any previous one, but we didn't make good. It wasn't altogether Langridge's fault. He didn't have very good support, I'm told. Now they've decided to keep him on, or, rather he's engineered things so that, as manager, he keeps himself on. And there are some hopes of pulling out somewhere in the lead of the league this season. But Langridge is his own best friend." "And he keeps me from pitching on the 'varsity," said Tom somewhat bitterly. "Can you blame him?" "No, I don't know that I can," was the frank answer. "I s'pose I'd do the same thing. But I hope in time to be a better pitcher than he is." "How are you coming on with the coach?" "Fine. Mr. Lighton has given me some good pointers, and I needed them. My curves are all right and so is my speed. It's my control that's weak, and I'm getting rid of some of my faults." "We're going to have a practice game with you scrubs to-morrow or next day," said Sid. "Maybe you'll get a chance to show what you can do then." "I hope so. I want to show Langridge that he isn't the only bean in the pot, to put it poetically." "Very poetically," murmured Sid, who seemed to be dozing off. "Say, Sid," exclaimed Tom suddenly, "do you remember what you started to say about Langridge the other day and stopped?" "Yes." "What was it?" "I'd rather not tell. You'll probably find out for yourself before long. I did, though not many know it." "You mean----" "I'm not going to say what I mean. Only," and Sid suddenly sat up, "it may increase your chances of pitching on the 'varsity." "I think I know," said Tom slowly, and he began to get ready for bed. A practice game between the 'varsity and the scrub was called for the next afternoon. The first team was in rather disorganized shape yet. That is to say, not all the players were in permanent positions and shifts were likely to be made at any time as practice brought out defects or merits. It was even said that some now on the 'varsity might be relegated to the scrub and some from the second team advanced. Tom secretly hoped so in his case, but his common sense told him he stood a slim chance. Langridge, of course, was pitcher on the first team and Kerr was the catcher. Kindlings Woodhouse played on third, where he could direct the efforts of his men. When the scrub and regular teams were out on the diamond ready for the practice game Kindlings looked over his players. "Where's Sid Henderson?" he asked. "He got turned back in Latin at last class," volunteered Jerry Jackson. "Here he comes now," added Joe Jackson, as if he was an echo to his brother. Sid came running up, all out of breath, buttoning his blouse as he advanced. "What's the matter, son?" asked the captain. "That rotten Latin." "Be careful," warned Kindlings. "Don't slump too often or you may put us in a hole. You aren't the only first baseman that ever lived, but you're pretty good, and I don't want to go to work training you in and have you fired off the team by the faculty for not keeping up your studies." "Oh, I'll be careful," promised Sid confidently, and then the game started. The 'varsity played snappy ball and the scrub seemed a bit ragged, naturally perhaps as there was less incentive for them to play hard. "Brace up, fellows," implored Tom toward the close of the game. "They're only four runs ahead of us, and if we can knock out a couple of three-baggers we'll throw a scare into them. They're weak in right and left field. Soak the horsehide toward either of the twins, but don't get it near Phil Clinton. If he gets it within a foot of his mitt, it's a goner." "It's a wonder you wouldn't strike out more men," said Fenton. "My uncle says that when he was a coach----" "Play ball!" yelled the umpire, and the reminiscence was cut short. The scrubs did "take a brace" and began finding the curves of Langridge, much to that pitcher's annoyance. Tom made a neat two-bagger, but died on third, though the score was bettered in favor of the scrub by two more runs. Tom went to his box with a firm step and a more certain feeling about his ability than he had ever experienced before. He was sure he could strike out at least two men, and he did so, including Langridge and Holly Cross. Holly, who was a good batter, was laughed at by his chums. "You'll have to do better than that," warned Langridge. "Do better yourself," retorted Holly. "I didn't want to hit it, anyhow. I was giving you an imitation of how close I could come to it and miss it." "Those imitations don't do on this circuit," added the tall Kindlings. "It's mighty risky in a game." "Oh, yes, in a game," admitted Holly with a laugh. Tom gave one man a chance to walk and the next popped out a fly that Dutch Housenlager neatly gathered in. The game ended with no runs for the 'varsity in the last inning and they had beaten the scrub by only two runs. "It might be worse," said Mr. Lighton grimly as the teams filed off the diamond. "It might be worse, Woodhouse, but I don't like it." "Neither do I," admitted the captain gloomily. "We tackle Boxer Hall in the first of the league series next week, and I think I'll have to make some more shifts. What do you think of Langridge?" "Well, he's all right--yet. If he doesn't----" The coach stopped suddenly, seemed about to say something and then evidently thought better of it. "At any rate," he finished, "if worst comes to worst, we can put Parsons in. He's improving every day, and with a little more coaching so that he isn't quite so awkward and can run better, he'll make a star player. He'll be on the first team next year." "He wants to get on this year." "Perhaps he will," and with that the coach walked off rather abruptly. CHAPTER IX A GAME WITH BOXER HALL The grandstand was filled with cheering students. In one section were the cohorts of Randall College, led in giving their cries by "Bean" Perkins, who had a voice like unto that of some fog horn. There was a mass of glowing colors as flags and streamers were waved in the wind. In another part of the stand a smaller but no less enthusiastic throng sent up exultant cries of rivalry, calling out repeatedly: "Boxer! Boxer! Boxer!" Scattered among the students in each of the two divisions of the stand were girls and more girls, all of them pretty, at least in the eyes of their admirers, and all of them sporting one college colors or the other. The bleachers were filled by ardent supporters of the game who were not so particular about having a roof over their heads and who, for one reason or another, had to look to the difference in cost between a grandstand ticket and one on the side benches. It was the occasion of the first regular game of the season in the Tonoka Lake League between Randall College and Boxer Hall. As the opposing players came out for warm-up practice the yells, cheers and cries were redoubled, and the stands seemed a waving riot of colors, like some great bed of flowers. The sounds of balls impinging on thick mitts, of willow bats cracking out hot liners or lofty flies were heard all over the diamond. Never had the grass seemed greener and never had the field looked so inviting. It was a perfect day for the game. There was not a little anxiousness on the part of the Randall players as they "sized up" their opponents. They found them a sturdy lot of youngsters. "They're playing snappy ball," observed Coach Lighton to Captain Woodhouse. "Yes, and so will we," predicted Kindlings. "Just watch us." "I intend to. That's why I'm out here. Now let me give you and Langridge a few pointers," and he called the pitcher to him, the three strolling off to one side of the field. Tom Parsons was on hand, and it does him no discredit when it is stated that there was a feeling of envy in his heart. But it was honest envy. He wanted to get out on the diamond and do his share in helping the Randall team to win. But he could only look on and cheer with the others. To win or lose the first game meant much to either team. Not so much to Boxer Hall, perhaps, as that team had run Fairview Institute a close second for the championship, but to Randall the winning of the game might put the necessary "snap" into the lads, while to lose it might so discourage them that it would be well on in the season before they would "take a brace." So it is no wonder that there was a feeling of nervousness on the part of the coach and the players. The practice was over. The preliminaries had been arranged, the home team, Randall, having the privilege of being last to bat. Langridge, with final instructions from the coach, took his place in the box. "Play ball!" fairly howled the umpire, and the game was on. "Ping!" That was the sound of the bat colliding with the ball, the first ball that Langridge threw. Describing a graceful curve, the white sphere sailed up into the air. Ed Kerr, hoping it might be a foul, had thrown off his mask and was wildly looking for it, but it was winging its way toward Jerry Jackson in right field. A yell went up from the two hundred college supporters of Boxer Hall, but it was changed to a groan when one of the Jersey twins neatly gathered in the fly and put the runner out. Langridge breathed a sigh of relief and struck out the next two men. Not a man got to first on the Randall team in the initial inning. Kerr knocked a pop fly, but it was caught by the pitcher, who repeated Langridge's trick and sent the next two men to the bench in short order. The next three innings saw goose eggs in the squares of both teams, the only hitting that was done being foul tips. "It's a pitchers' battle," began to be whispered from seat to seat, and so it seemed. In the sixth inning Randall succeeded in getting a man to first on balls, and then began an attempt on the part of the onlooking students of that college to get the pitcher's "goat," which, being interpreted, meant to "rattle" him. That he had a "glass arm" was the mildest epithet hurled at him, but Dave Ogden, who was doing the twirling for Boxer Hall, only smiled in a confident sort of way and struck out the next man. He was not so successful with Kindlings Woodhouse, and the captain hammered out a pretty fly that was good for two bases and sent Bricktop Molloy to third. The Randall boys were rejoicing now, for they saw a chance to score the first run. And the run itself was brought in by the blue-eyed and red-haired Molloy a moment later, when Phil Clinton knocked a hot liner right between the Boxer Hall shortstop and the third baseman. But that ended the fun, though the score was 1 to 0 in favor of the home team. This may have been an incentive to the visitors, for straightway they began pounding Langridge, and when the seventh inning ended the score was 4 to 2 in favor of Boxer Hall. "Boys, we've got to down 'em!" said Woodhouse fiercely. "Don't let them put the game on ice this way. Don't do it. Take a brace." In the eighth inning it looked as if there was going to be a slump in Randall stock. Langridge seemed to go to pieces and issued walking passes to two men, while he was batted for a two-bagger and a three-base hit. But with a gritting of their teeth the others rallied to his support, and though the visitors tucked away two more runs, making the score 6 to 2, at which their cohorts went into a fine frenzy, that was all they could do. "Fellows, we're going to win!" cried Captain Paul, or "Pinky" Davenport, of the Boxers. "Wait a bit, son," advised Kindlings dryly. In the ending of the eighth there was a look of "do or die" about the Randall players. Tom Parsons felt himself gripping the sides of the seat until the board hurt his hands. "Oh, if I could only get down there and play!" he whispered to himself. "Why can't I? why can't I?" But he couldn't and he knew it. Rather to their own surprise the Randall lads began finding the ball with surprising regularity. They batted it out "for keeps," as Molloy said, and they managed to tie the score. Then came the ever nerve-thrilling ninth inning in a close game. By great good luck, after he had given one man his base on balls, Langridge retired a trio in one-two-three order, and the score still stood a tie. "Now, fellows, slam it into them. Wallop the hide off 'em--sting 'em--souse 'em--put 'em in brine for next year!" implored Holly Cross. "I'm first up, and I'm going to give you a correct imitation of a man making a home run." But he didn't. Holly struck out miserably and he went away into a far corner and thought gloomy thoughts. Not for long, however. A resounding crack of the bat told him some one had knocked a fly. It was Phil Clinton, and he started for first like a deer with the hounds after it. "My, but he can run!" exclaimed Tom in admiration. "Wouldn't he be fine covering the gridiron with the ball tucked under his arm? Go on! go on! That's the stuff, Phil! Pretty! pretty! That's a beaut! that's a beaut!" Tom was on his feet yelling at the top of his voice. So were hundreds of other lads and girls also. But the Boxer third baseman was right near the ball. He gathered it in and hurled it to first. It would have been all over with Phil, in spite of his magnificent run, except that the first baseman missed it, and Phil, amid a riot of cheers, kept on to second. That sealed the fate of the Boxers. They "slumped" and went to pieces badly. The Randall lads garnered a run and so they won the game--the first of the season--by a score of 7 to 6. And then what cheering there was! CHAPTER X A COIL OF WIRE "Bonfires to-night, fellows--bonfires multiplied by seven and one more!" cried Captain Woodhouse as he gathered the victorious nine about him and tried to hug each member. "Well played, my hearties! Yo ho! and a heave, yo ho! You shall dine sumptuously this day, an it please ye!" "Hold hard there!" came the laughing but calming voice of the coach. "No breaking of training just because you've won the first game. Not much! You've got to buckle down harder than ever from now until school closes." "Not even a cigarette?" asked Holly Cross, with a wink at his chums. "Or an ice cream soda?" added Bricktop, his blue eyes twinkling. "Go on," answered the coach with another laugh, not taking the trouble to return an answer to so obvious a question. "They are going to cheer you. Get ready to give them a yell in return." The defeated team had gathered together. There was an air of sullenness about the members at losing the game, but this mood quickly passed under the entreaties of Pinky Davenport, who was a sportsman and "a good loser," as he besought his men to "perk up and wallop 'em next time." He called for three cheers for the victors, and they were followed by the Boxer Hall yell. Back came three ringing acclamations and a "tiger" from Woodhouse and his mates, and their yell, as weird a combination of words and syllables as could well be devised, brought the whole concourse of spectators standing up in acknowledgment. Then came more cheering, and the nines disappeared into the dressing-rooms beneath the grandstand, while the crowds filed away. "Well," remarked Sid as he walked along with Tom a little later, "it was a glorious victory, as the poem says. I don't exactly remember what it was all about nor how we did it, but ''twas a glorious victory.'" "Now you're talking," was Phil Clinton's opinion. "Eh, Tommy, my lad?" Tom was rather silent. He had cheered the nine until his throat ached, but somehow there was to him a hollowness in the winning. "Too bad you couldn't play, old man," commented Sid. "I was almost hoping Langridge would strain his arm, and then----" "Don't!" exclaimed Tom quickly. "That's bad luck, and, what's worse, Sid, it's treason." "Then give me liberty or buy me a seltzer lemonade, Patrick Henry!" declaimed Phil. "Honest now, Tom, weren't you just aching to get out and play?" "I was," replied Tom so earnestly that the others looked curiously at him. "I never wanted so much in my life to get into a game. Why, I'd even been glad to act as backstop. But it's all right," he added quickly. "It was a great game, and maybe I'll have a chance to play next year if I live that long," and he laughed, but there was no mirth in it. "Mighty pretty lot of girls at the game," observed Sid, as if to change the subject. "That's what," agreed Tom, glad to get on a more congenial topic. "Oh, wait until we play Fairview Institute," said Phil. "Why?" from Tom. "Why, that's co-ed, you know--girl students as well as boys. And, say, maybe there aren't some stunners among 'em! They take in all the games at home and some that aren't, and they have flags and a yell of their own. They know how to yell, too. I was over to a ball game there last year, before I thought of coming to Randall, and say, it was immense. There was one----" "Cut it out, if it's about a girl," advised Sid. "When you get on the dame question, you don't know where to stop. Sufficient to say that there are some." "Yes, and then some more," added Phil. "Wait until we go there or they come here. Then you'll see something worth seeing." "May the day come soon," spoke Tom with a laugh. "I sat next to a mighty pretty girl to-day all right. She had a flag of Randall colors, and when we won she waved it so hard she nearly put my eye out." "Of course you made a fuss," said Phil with a grin. "Of course. I turned to apologize and so did she, and I knocked her hat all squeegee and she blushed and I got red, and then--well, I up and asked her if she had a brother at college." "That's going some," commented Sid. "What did she say? Did you learn her name? Where does she live?" "Fair and softly, little one," advised Tom, with a sort of assumed superciliousness. "Trust your Uncle Dudley for that." He walked on a few paces. "Well?" demanded Phil. "Is that all?" cried Sid. "No," said Tom, provokingly mysterious about it. "Go on. Tell a fellow, do." "What's the use?" asked Tom. "I saw her walking off after the game with another fellow." "Who?" demanded his two chums. "Langridge." "With him?" exclaimed Sid, and there was a new meaning in his tones. "Who was the girl?" "Her name was Madge Tyler," replied Tom slowly. "Madge Tyler!" repeated Sid. "Why, her brother used to go here. He graduated two years ago. He was a crackajack first baseman. And so Madge Tyler is going with Langridge?" he questioned. "Or he with her," said Tom dryly. "I don't see that it makes much difference. Why, hasn't he got a right to?" "Oh, I s'pose if you put it that way, he has," went on Sid. "Only----" and he stopped abruptly. "Only what?" asked Tom. "Only--nothing. Say, here's a chance to buy me that seltzer lemonade. I think you ought to stand treat for Phil and me, Tom, seeing that if it hadn't been for us the game would have been lost and you wouldn't have met Miss Madge." "I don't know that it has benefited me much," replied Tom. "What do you mean, you old cart horse?" asked Phil, thumping his friend on the back. "Seeing the game won or meeting the pretty girl? I believe you said she was pretty." "I didn't say so, but she is--very. But I meant about meeting her. Langridge seems to have a mortgage in that direction, I fancy." "He makes me sick!" exclaimed Phil. "He and the airs he gives himself. But come on in here," and he turned toward a drug store. "I'm like a lime kiln, I'm so warm. It's your treat, Tom." "All right, I'm willing." "Did Miss Madge ask you to call?" inquired Phil as the three were wending their way toward college again. "Yes." "You don't say so! Well, it seems to me that for a new acquaintance you rushed matters fairly well." "I forgot to add," said Tom slowly, "that I knew her before--back in Northville where I live. She moved away from there some years ago and I didn't recognize her at first. But she knew me at once." "Wow! You old coffee percolator!" shouted Sid. "Why didn't you dish that out to us first, instead of letting us think you made an impression simply by the aid of your manly figure? So you knew her of old. Ha! ha! Likewise ho! ho! I begin to smell a concealed rodent in the woodpile." "You didn't give me a chance," was Tom's quiet answer, and then he fell to talking about the game until he and Sid got to their room. Later there were bonfires and fun galore in honor of the victory. Coach Lighton gave the nine no rest. Early the next Monday afternoon, as soon as lessons were over, he had them out on the diamond playing against the scrub. Somewhat to the surprise of members of the second team as well as that of the 'varsity, Tom Parsons struck out an unusual number of players. "You fellows will have to bat better than this," growled Langridge when practice was over and the 'varsity game had been saved merely by a fumble on the part of a scrub fielder. "This won't do." "Physician, heal thyself," quoted Captain Woodhouse with a grim smile. "You struck out twice, Langridge." "I know it, but batting isn't my best specialty and it is for some of you fellows." "True enough," admitted Kindlings gravely, "and we must brace up a bit for the game next Saturday with Fairview." "The captain is right, boys," added the coach. "You must do some hard hitting." "Or else Tom Parsons mustn't pitch so well," said Phil Clinton in a low voice to Sid. "How about it?" "That's right. He's improving wonderfully. Langridge will have to look to his pitching arm." At that moment the wealthy youth passed by Phil and Sid. He heard what they said, and if they could have seen his face then they would have been somewhat puzzled at the look on it. But neither Tom nor any of his friends saw. It was the next day after the scrub game that as Tom was alone in his room, "boning" away on Latin, a knock sounded on the door. "Come!" he cried, and, much to his surprise, Langridge entered. "You're becoming a regular greasy dig, aren't you?" he asked pleasantly. "Well, I've got to do some studying, you know. That's what I came here for." "Yes, I know and all that sort of thing, but if you're going in for athletics you can't pound away at your books too hard." "Oh, I guess what pounding I do won't hurt me," and Tom laid aside the volume, the while wondering why Langridge had called on him. Tom distinctly was not in the rich youth's set. "I hope not," and the other's manner was becoming more and more cordial. "But I say, Parsons, don't you want to help us get one in on the sophs?" "Sure. You can always count on me. What is it this time?" "Well, you know the little open pavilion down near the river?" "The one near the boathouse?" "That same." "Sure I know it." "Well, you know according to ancient and revered college tradition that is sacred to the sophomores. None other but members of the second-year class may go there. If one of us freshmen is caught there it means a ducking, to say the least." "So I've heard." "Well, Kerr and I were in there the other day, for we heard that the sophs were off on a little racket, and we didn't think we'd be disturbed. We had a couple of girls there and were having a little confab when along came Gladdus and Battersby, grabbed us before we knew it and chucked us into the H{2}O, whence we floundered like drowned rats." "Yes, I heard about it." "So did the whole college, I guess. Now Kerr and I feel that not only have we been insulted, but that the whole freshman class has." "I agree to that." "And will you help us to get even?" "Sure. What you going to do?" "You'll see later. What I need now is a coil of wire. I want to know if you'll get it for me." "Certainly, but why can't you get it for yourself?" "Well, to tell you the truth, I've got about all the marks I can stand this term, and merely because I happened to play an innocent trick in class to-day I'm forbidden to leave the college grounds for a week. Just when I want to go to town, too. So I've got to get some one else to get the wire for me, and I thought you would. I'll pay for it, of course." "Sure I'll get it," agreed Tom, not stopping to think that Kerr, the special chum of Langridge, might have acted for his friend. "What kind do you want?" "I'll tell you. Here's the money," and Langridge handed over a bill, also giving Tom a memorandum of the kind of wire wanted and where to get it in Haddonfield. "And one more thing," the other youth added as he prepared to take his leave. "What's that?" "Don't, for the life of you, tell a soul that you got the wire for me. I want it kept a dead secret. The trick will be all the better then. Will you promise?" "I will." "On your honor as a freshman of Randall College?" Tom wondered at the other's insistence. "Of course I will. Shall I swear?" and Tom laughed. "No, your word is enough," spoke Langridge significantly. "Have the wire by to-night, and we'll teach the sophs a lesson they won't soon forget." CHAPTER XI AN ELECTRIC SHOCK Late that same afternoon Tom, having gone to town alone, that he might accomplish his mission unobserved, came back with a coil of telegraph wire concealed under his sweater at his waist. He smuggled it to Langridge's room without being seen. "That's the stuff, old man," cried Langridge heartily, but there was an air of patronizing superiority in his manner that Tom did not like. Still, he reasoned, the other could not rid himself of an inborn habit so easily, and it really seemed, in spite of the fact that Tom might be regarded as a rival of Langridge, that the latter was doing his best to be friendly. "I s'pose it wouldn't do to ask what's up, would it?" inquired Tom as he was about to leave. "Hardly," replied Langridge with what he meant to be a genial smile. "It might get out, you know. But you can be in at the death, so to speak. The whole freshman class will assemble at the boathouse about nine. There'll be a full moon and we can have a good view of the sophs' pavilion." "Are they going to be there?" "I hope so. In fact I'm counting on it. This is the night of their annual moonlight song festival. They gather in and about the pavilion and make the night hideous with snatches of melody. They're rotten singers--the sophs this year--but that is neither here nor there. The point is that they'll be there, and it's up to us freshmen to give 'em a little surprise party." "I suppose you're going to arrange the wire so they can't get into the pavilion without cutting it," suggested Tom, "or else put it across the path to trip them up." "Er--yes--something like that," replied Langridge hastily. "Oh, by the way, have you a knife? I lost mine out rowing the other day. I'll give it back to you to-morrow." Tom passed over his knife, a good-sized one, with his name engraved on the handle. His father had given it to him. "Don't lose it," he cautioned. "I think a great deal of it." "I'll not," promised Langridge. "Now don't forget to be on hand." "I'll be there to see the fun." "And maybe you'll see more than you bargain for," whispered Langridge as Tom went out. There was a curious look on the face of the 'varsity pitcher. One by one, by twos and threes or in small groups, silent figures stole away from dormitories that night and gathered about the pavilion or the boathouse, which was not far from it. To the first place went the sophomores, bent on having their annual frolic of song. To the second rendezvous traveled the freshmen, but they went more silently, for they did not want their natural enemies to learn of their presence. The sophomores, however, were on their guard. From time immemorial it had been the custom for the first-year class to endeavor to break up the song fest of their predecessors, and it was the function of the first years to do this in as novel a manner as possible. Tradition had it that various methods had been used, such as setting fire to the pavilion, digging pits in the paths that led to it and covering the holes with leaves and grass, laying a line of hose to the place, so that at an opportune moment the singers would be drenched and routed. The latter was a favorite plan and most successful. But to-night a more strict guard than usual had been kept over the battle-scarred pavilion. All that day a committee had been on the watch so that it was thought impossible that any hose could be used or any pits dug. Now the sophomores were beginning to gather in and around the small shelter. They were jubilant, for they began to think they had outwitted their never-ceasing enemies. Meanwhile the freshmen were not idle. In large numbers they had quietly gathered at the boathouse, in the dark shadows of which they remained in hiding, waiting for the opening of the singing and the consequent breaking up of the sophomore body. "What's the game?" asked Sid of Tom as those two and Phil Clinton made their way to the rendezvous. "Water pipes, fire or something brand new?" "You can search me," was Tom's non-committal answer. "I hope it's something new. There doesn't seem to be any provisions for a bonfire and none of us swiped the fire hose." "Langridge and his committee have it in charge," said Phil. "There's some secrecy about it, and very properly, too. Last year, I understand, it leaked out and the fun was spoiled." Tom did not reply, but he wondered what use Langridge was going to make of the wire. "They ought to start soon now," whispered Phil. "There's a good crowd of them there." "Yes, and they've got scouts out all around," added Sid as he and his chums saw a number of shadowy figures patroling the stretch around the pavilion. "They're not going to be caught unawares." "I don't see how we're going to break 'em up," remarked Phil. "You wait and you'll see," exclaimed Langridge, who was moving about among the freshmen. "Say, Ed, you'd better go now and light the fuse." "Is it an explosion?" asked Sid eagerly. "Better be careful," cautioned Phil. Tom's heart was thumping. He began to see the use to which the wire might be put, and he was afraid lest he had taken part in some dangerous prank. If Langridge had planned to explode a mine under the pavilion, some one might be injured. "There'll be no explosion, only an explosion of wrath pretty soon," replied Langridge. "Go ahead, Kerr. Let 'em sing one song and they'll think we've called it off. Then let it go." Kerr hurried off, keeping in the shadows. No sooner had he started than a movement was noticeable among the sophomores, groups of whom could easily be seen now, as the moon was well up. Then, on the stillness of the night, there broke a song. It was an old melody, sacred to Randall, and, in spite of being rendered by hilarious students, it was well done. "That's not half bad," commented Phil. "They've got some good members for the glee club there." "It's punk!" sneered Langridge. "Wait until we have a song fest. We'll make them feel sick!" The melody continued, and coming as it did from the distance, while all about was the wondrous beauty of the moon, the effect produced on Tom Parsons was one of distinct pleasure. It was like being at some play. "What a pity," he thought, "to spoil it all! What brutes we college fellows are--sometimes. I like to listen to that." The song was softer now, and then it broke forth into a full chorus, well rendered. "It's a shame to break it up," reasoned Tom. Then a class feeling overcame him. After all, the sophomores were their traditional enemies, and college tradition demanded that they disperse the gathering. "Kerr ought to be there now," whispered Langridge. "The fuse will burn for two minutes." "Fuse--fuse," repeated Phil. "It _must_ be an explosion. You want to be careful, Langridge." "Oh, I know what I'm doing," was the answer. "But mind now, no squealing, whatever happens." "You needn't say that," was Phil's quick retort. "We're Randall College freshmen," as if that was all that was necessary. Kerr glided in from somewhere. "Well?" asked Langridge. "It's all right." The sophomores had started another song. They were about through the second verse when there came a series of sudden yells from the pavilion. There were cries of pain, and Langridge, in the midst of the freshmen, called out: "That's it! That's the stuff! Rah! rah! sophs! This time we break you up. Cheer, boys, cheer!" The freshmen set up an exultant cry as it became evident that, in some way, the gleeful singing of the second-year lads had been stopped. There was an excited movement in the pavilion, yet the waiting freshmen could not see that anything had taken place. Then came a cry--two exclamations--louder and more anguished than any that had preceded. There was a yell--a protesting yell--and then some one in the pavilion shouted: "Cut it, fellows! The hand railing is charged with electricity!" "Three cheers for the freshmen!" called Langridge, and the response came spontaneously, for his mates knew that they had triumphed over the sophomores. Suddenly above the confused cheering and shouting there came another cry. "Help me, fellows! Oh, help--help!" screamed some one inside the pavilion. There was a confused movement among the singers. Something seemed to have happened--something serious. The freshmen stopped their cheering and crowded up. A big sophomore broke through the throng and dashed toward the college. "What's the matter?" called Tom, and he had an uneasy feeling as he asked the question. "Matter? It's you confounded freshmen, that's what's the matter! Gladdus and Battersby have been knocked unconscious." "Unconscious?" "Yes, by a powerful current of electricity. Get out of my way, fresh, or I'll knock you down! I'm going for a doctor. Some of you had better notify the proctor," he added to a few of his classmates who followed him on the run. "This is serious business." "Come on, fellows," advised Langridge. "It's all right. We broke up the pavilion meeting all right." "But maybe some one is seriously hurt," said Sid. "Nonsense, it was only a current from the incandescent light lamps. It couldn't hurt them. Come on, take a sneak away from here. We've had our fun. And mind, everybody keep his mouth shut," and Langridge disappeared in the shadows of the trees, while ahead of him panted several sophomores on their way to summon a physician. CHAPTER XII TOM DOESN'T TELL Tom and Sid hurried along in the midst of the freshmen, Phil Clinton trailing after them. The three found themselves in a little group, comparatively alone. "Maybe we'd better do something," proposed Tom. "No, best not to interfere," advised Sid. "Let them manage it." "But if Gladdus and Battersby are hurt----" "Come on," urged Phil. "We're likely to be caught any minute. Proc. Zane will be out after all that racket. Let's get to our rooms and lay low." When Tom and Sid were in their apartment the scrub pitcher turned to his chum and asked: "Did you know what was in the wind to-night, Sid?" "No. I left it all to Langridge and Kerr. But I guess it's all right. Why?" "Oh, nothing much. But if some one is hurt----" "Nonsense, don't worry. Why, that's nothing to what other classes have done. I remember hearing a story of how----" But Sid's yarn was interrupted by a tap at the door, and Ford Fenton slid in. There was rather a frightened look on his face. "What's up, Fenton?" asked Sid. "I don't know, but something is. They've carried Gladdus and Battersby into the infirmary, and there's a lot of scurrying about. They've sent for a doctor from town, and Moses and Proc. Zane have gone down to the pavilion." "What for?" asked Tom. "Blessed if I know. Say, but we broke up their singing all right, didn't we? It was great. My uncle says----" "Shut up!" cried Tom, and there was such unusual irritability in his tone that the other two looked at him in surprise. He saw it and went on: "I--I didn't exactly mean that, Fenton, old chap, but I'm--I'm all upset." "For cats' sake, what about?" demanded Sid. "You don't mean to say you're worried because our class knocked out a couple of greasy old sophs?" "Well, I--er----" There came another interruption, and a lad entered. "Here's the Snail," exclaimed Sid as Sam Looper crawled in and closed the door softly behind him. "He can find out what's up. How about it, Snail--any news?" Sam blinked his eyes as if the light hurt him. "I've been around--around," he said slowly, waving his hand to take in the whole compass of the college and grounds. "I saw 'em carry the two sophs away. They're badly burned and shocked. Langridge is a fool!" They had seldom seen the Snail so excited. "He went and strung a wire from the electric light circuit to the iron hand rail around the pavilion. Only he made a mistake in the connections and got the wires crossed with the powerful arc circuit. The incandescent is only a hundred and ten volts, while the arc is twenty-four hundred. Some difference. Only that they got a small part of it, they'd be dead instead of merely badly shocked." Tom Parsons half uttered an exclamation. "What's the matter?" asked Sid quickly. "Oh, nothing. Go on, Snail." "That's about all," came from Sam. "Pitchfork--he's a sort of doctor, you know--he's working over 'em now. I guess they'll be all right." Tom started to leave the room. "Where you going?" inquired Sid. "Out. I--I must see what's happened!" "You stay here!" ordered Sid, half fiercely. "You'll be nabbed in a minute. Proc. Zane has his scouts out, waiting to corral everybody. Here, Snail, you go. You know how to keep out of sight." "Sure," agreed Sam, who liked nothing better than to prowl around in the dark. "Wait here and I'll sneak back." "Be careful," cautioned Ford. The Snail slowly winked his half-shut eyes, but did not speak. Then he closed the door softly and they heard him tiptoeing down the corridor. "The Snail will find out," almost whispered Sid. Somehow they all appeared to be under a strain. Tom was pacing back and forth in the room. Ford stood with his back to the mantel, his hands clasped behind him. Sid tried to look at a book, but he took no sense of the words. Finally, with an exclamation, he threw it on the sofa. Ford quietly left the room and a little later Phil Clinton came in. Sid and Tom saw that he had heard all. Tom ceased his nervous walk and went over to the sofa. He sat down on it, the ancient piece of furniture creaking with his weight. But he was not there half a minute before he arose and began pacing up and down again. Then he tried an easy chair, whence there floated up a little cloud of dust from the old cushions. There was silence in the apartment, broken only by the ticking of a fussy little alarm clock. It seemed to double up on the number of seconds allotted to a minute. The three could hear each other's breathing. They were under some strain, though, for the life of them, neither Sid nor Phil could tell what it was. "Why doesn't some one say something?" asked Phil at length, and it was as if some one had broken the silence in a church. Sid picked up the book he had cast aside. Then he threw it down again, for there sounded the noise of a person coming along the corridor. The Snail came in. "Well?" gasped Tom, and it was as if he had shouted it, though he spoke in a low, tense voice. "They're in a bad way," said the Snail slowly, "but there's a chance to pull them through. There's going to be an investigation, I heard. Langridge is likely to----" There came a knock on the door. The lads started guiltily. Phil, being nearest the portal, opened it, though if it was one of the proctor's "scouts," as was likely, he would be "up" for breaking one of the college rules about being in another room after the prescribed hours. It was a "scout," Mr. Snell, a sort of upper janitor. "Mr. Parsons," said the scout deferentially--and he took no notice of the presence of the Snail or Phil, for which they were duly grateful--"Mr. Parsons, the proctor would like to see you in his office." "Now?" asked Tom, and his heart began to beat double strokes. "Now, yes, sir." Without a look at his chums Tom went out and to the office. He was afraid lest he might betray the secret he feared would be disclosed at any moment--the secret of the coil of wire. "Mr. Parsons," began Proctor Zane slowly when the door had closed behind Tom, "there has been a serious accident to-night." Tom bowed. He could not trust his voice. "Two students were badly hurt and the results may be lasting. They are only just now out of danger." Once more Tom bowed. He could not speak. The beating of his heart was choking him. "As a rule," went on the proctor judicially, "I take no notice of the--er--the affairs between the different classes or student bodies. But this time I am obliged to. Dr. Churchill and myself have made an examination of the pavilion where this outrage occurred. We discovered the wires running from the electric light circuit to the hand rail. We discovered where a spring connection had been made, so that, by the burning away of a fuse, the parts of the spring closed, the wires came in contact and the current filled the hand rail. We also discovered something else." He paused, and Tom, for the first time, looked the proctor full in the face. Mr. Zane held out a small object. "This knife was found near where the wires were fastened to the railing," he said. "It has your name on it. Is it yours?" "Yes, sir," replied Tom. "You took part in this affair?" "I am a freshman." "That is answer enough. Did you attach the wires?" "No, and I had nothing to do with that part of it." "Your knife would seem to indicate that you had." No answer from Tom. "Did you use your knife to attach the wires?" "No, sir." "Do you know who did?" "I think I do." "Will you tell?" Tom could almost hear his heart beating. There was a singing in his ears. Then he answered: "No. I cannot tell, Mr. Zane. I--I----" "That will do," said the proctor gravely. "I did not expect you would tell." Tom turned and made his way from the room. There was a mist before his eyes. There came back to him the promise he had made to Langridge. On his honor as a freshman he had agreed not to give information. When he gave the promise he had not known how serious it would be. But, nevertheless, it was a promise. Tom stumbled into his room. The Snail and Phil were gone. Sid sat with the light turned low. He jumped up as his chum came in. "Tom," he cried, "what's the matter?" "Nothing," was the answer in a dull, spiritless tone. Tom threw himself into a chair. The fussy little clock ticked away. Half an hour passed and not a word was spoken. "You'd better go to bed, old man," said Sid gently. "It'll be all right to-morrow." Without a word Tom began to undress. The light was turned out. Sid was dozing off when he heard his chum tossing restlessly on his bed. "Tom," he called through the darkness, "can I help you?" "No," came the answer, and then Tom lay quiet. But he did not sleep. CHAPTER XIII A GIRL AND A GAME There was a more complete investigation the next day. The report was also circulated that the two sophomores were not so badly injured as had at first been feared. But there was something in the air which showed that stringent measures were likely to be taken by the faculty. Dr. Churchill was ten minutes late in opening chapel that morning, and there was much stately moving to and fro on the part of the instructors. On the face of Professor Emerson Tines there was a look of satisfaction, as if he was glad that some one had gotten into trouble. "Look at Pitchfork!" said Sid to Tom, but Tom's face had not lost its anxious look. "For Heaven's sake, cheer up!" whispered Phil Clinton. "They'll think you did the whole business if they see your face, Tom." Dr. Churchill made an unusual prayer that morning. Though he did not directly refer to the happening of the previous night, it was in his petition, and many a freshman, impressed by the solemn words, then and there resolved to abjure in the future unseemly pranks and to become a "grind." "The freshman class will remain after chapel this morning," announced the venerable head of Randall, and as the other classes filed out there were commiserating looks cast at the unlucky first-years by the juniors and seniors and vindictive glances bestowed by the sophomores. The examination was a long and searching one. Tom was questioned at length, but all he would admit was that he took part in the affair, though he stated that he had had nothing to do with fixing the wires. Nor did he tell of having brought the coil to Langridge. His knife was damaging evidence against him, and he was content to let it stand as such. Kerr manfully admitted lighting the fuse which sprung the wires together and sent the current sizzling into the hand rail, but he would go no further nor tell who had strung the conductors. The faculty dismissed the class and the instructors went into executive session. "Maybe we'll all be in for it," predicted Phil as the lads strolled off to their classrooms. "They may suspend us all for a week." "I don't believe they'd do that," was Sid's opinion. "They may forbid any of us taking part in athletics, though." "Yes, they might do that," added Fenton. "My uncle says----" The boys all stopped and looked at him. No one spoke a word. Fenton squirmed under their unflinching gaze. "Well--well," he began hesitatingly, "he ought to know, for he was a coach here----" "Yes, and you're a regular trolley car, with an automatic gong that rings up the same thing every time," exclaimed Langridge. "They wouldn't dare keep us out of athletics for such a little joke as that. Why, the whole student body would be up in arms. The ball team would go to pieces, and we'd lose the championship. They wouldn't dare." "Glad you think so," remarked Holly Cross calmly. "But I can see us giving a good imitation of a lot of fellows in trouble. Maybe we--that is, whoever strung those wires, for I don't know who it was--maybe we went a little too far. If I'd have known what was up, I'd have made a kick." "Oh, is that so?" sneered Langridge. But he did not admit his part in the prank and he let Tom suffer for him, for that afternoon it was announced that Tom was to be suspended for two weeks and Kerr for three. Every other member of the freshman class was barred from leaving the college grounds for a week. There arose a mighty protest over this, for there was a game scheduled with Fairview Institute at the end of the week, and if the class was kept within bounds it meant that many of the nine could not play and that all the freshmen would be barred from witnessing the second of the championship struggles, as the contest was to take place at Fairview. Then the faculty reconsidered the matter, being "almost human," as Phil said, and, with the possible exception of Professor Tines, having once been young and fond of sport themselves. They made a new ruling: That the class was to keep within bounds until the day of the game, when all would be allowed to attend save Tom and Kerr. In their case no exception would be made. There was more objecting, but the ruling stood. It meant that Tom could not pitch on the scrub and that Kerr could not catch on the 'varsity, whereat there was much anguish of soul, for the Fairview team was a hard proposition, and it would take the best that was in the Randall lads to beat them. But there was no help for it. Nor did Tom reproach Langridge for having gotten him into the trouble. Tom had hoped that his rival would confess and shoulder the blame, in which case, merely having brought the wire on a supposition that it was to be used for a comparatively harmless prank, Tom's case would not have been nearly so bad. But Langridge said nothing. Sid heard somehow of the 'varsity pitcher's part in the trick. Then Tom's chum expressed the belief that Langridge had deliberately acted so as to get Tom into trouble because the rich lad had feared the newcomer might supplant him as pitcher. But Tom would not hear of this. He took his suspension grimly, silently, and though barred from class, he kept up his studies; nor did he neglect his practice of throwing curves, Kerr gladly agreeing to catch for him, for the two were outcasts from the diamond, Tom not even being allowed to play on the scrub. "But two weeks and three weeks can't last forever," declared Kerr, "though I sure would like to see the Fairview game." Saturday came and with it a feeling of apprehension on the part of the Randall students, for various reports had come to them of the prowess of their rivals. The team made ready to depart for Fairview Institute. They were to go by rail to the college that was fifteen miles away. Tom and Kerr, about the only ones in the athletic set who remained at Randall, looked wistfully at their departing comrades. And then, so suddenly that it seemed like a miracle, their sorrow was turned to joy, for the proctor sought them out on the campus, where the team was being cheered previous to departure, and announced in the case of the two suspended students that they might go to the game, but take no part, even in an emergency. They gladly accepted the terms. Dr. Churchill's heart had softened at the last moment. "Girls, girls, girls!" exclaimed Tom as he walked out on the field with Sid and Phil and saw the grandstand at Fairview massed with gay femininity. "And all pretty too!" "Of course," agreed Sid. "What did I tell you? But what interests me more is the other team. Jove! but they are quick," for the Fairview students were batting and catching in a manner to provoke admiration. There were shrill cries of encouragement from the girls and more hoarse shouts from the male students, for at Fairview the sexes were about evenly divided, both boys and girls taking equal interest in sports. Coach Lighton shook his head dubiously as he saw the Randall boys stream out on the diamond for practice. "I hope Cross will appreciate the seriousness of the matter," he said. "He can't begin to touch Kerr at catching, yet he's the best one we can put in." "Yes," agreed Kindlings. "But maybe we'll make out. I hope so." Kerr was as nervous as a girl at not being able to play. He paced up and down the coaching lines until Kindlings, fearing he would disconcert the team, sent him to the grandstand, where Tom had already gone. Well, that game with Fairview is ancient history now. Sufficient to say that after a good beginning, when they gathered three runs the first inning and held their opponents down to a goose egg, principally through the pitching of Langridge, the Randall lads went to pieces and the Fairviews ran away with them. Langridge was finally fairly batted out of the box and the final score was 16 to 4 in favor of the co-educational institution. It was a sorely disappointed nine that filed off the diamond, nor could the generous cheers of the victors apply any balm to the wounds. "Such pitching!" grumbled Phil as he was in the dressing-room. "That lost us the game as much as anything else. Langridge didn't seem to be in form." The pitcher overheard him. "I say, Clinton," he called out sneeringly, "you mind your own affairs. I train as good as you, and I didn't miss a fly that came right into my hands," for Phil had thus offended, letting in a run. "I've seen you pitch better," spoke Sid quietly, for he and several others were "sore" at Langridge, who plainly enough had not been in his usual good form. "Well, maybe. I can't be on edge all the while," and the pitcher laughed nervously. Tom, in the grandstand, was making his way down amid a bevy of pretty girls and wishing he had some one who would introduce him to them when he heard a voice call his name. He turned quickly and saw Madge Tyler in a bewilderingly pretty dress, her hair framing her face in a most bewitching manner, while her eyes were bright with the joy of youth and the fire thereof. "Too bad, wasn't it?" she asked sympathetically, holding out her hand to Tom. "I was so sorry for Mr. Langridge!" "Why Langridge?" asked Tom quickly. "Oh, well, because the pitcher seems to have to work so hard, and then to be defeated----" "Yes, it was unpleasant--the defeat," agreed Tom. "But are you going out?" "Yes, I came over with friends to see the game, but I seem to have missed them in the crush." "Then let me be your escort back to Haddonfield?" asked Tom. "I'm rather by my lonesome, too." "Oh, thank you. I dare say----" She paused and looked over the moving mass of students, boys and girls who were laughing happily or walking away dejectedly according to the colors they wore. Tom followed her gaze. He saw Langridge approaching and he knew that Miss Tyler had seen him also. "There's Mr. Langridge!" she exclaimed. "I wonder how he feels? He promised to meet me after the game." Tom took a sudden resolve. He did not stop to think that it might be a foolish one. He was actuated solely by what he argued to himself was a platonic interest in the pretty girl at his side. He had known her in childhood, he knew her people, and they were old friends of his folks. Of late Tom had heard certain rumors about Langridge, nothing serious as rumors about college students go, but enough to make Tom glad that, in the case of his sisters, Langridge could not get to know them. It was therefore with somewhat the same feeling that he might have warned his sisters that he spoke to Miss Tyler. "You and Mr. Langridge are quite friendly," he said in what he intended to be a light tone. "Oh, yes," came the frank answer. "I like him immensely. I like all college boys--when they're nice," she finished with a little laugh. Tom's face was grave, and she saw it. With a girl's intuition she felt that there was something in the air, and, girl-like, she wanted to know what it was. "Shouldn't I like him?" she demanded with an arch look. "Well--er--that is--no, Miss Madge!" burst out Tom, speaking more loudly than he had intended to. "You won't mind me speaking about it, for I've known you so many years." "Oh, I'm not so ancient as all that!" exclaimed the girl rather pertly. "No," admitted Tom, and he felt that he was getting into deep water and beyond his depth. But he would not retreat and floundered on: "No, but I--I know your folks wouldn't like you to go with Langridge--that is, too much, you know. He does not bear a very good----" There was a hand on Tom's shoulder, and he felt himself wheeled suddenly around, to be confronted by Langridge. The pitcher had brushed his uniform and looked particularly handsome in a well-fitting suit, while there was a healthy glow to his face. "Perhaps you'd better repeat over again, Parsons," he said somewhat sternly, "what you were just saying to Miss Tyler about me. I didn't catch it all!" "I--er--I----" Tom was choking, and the girl bravely came to his relief. "We were just talking about you," she admitted with a nervous little laugh. "I was saying how disheartening it must be to pitch through a hard game and then lose it. And Tom--I mean Mr. Parsons, but I always call him Tom, for I've known him so long--he was just saying--er--he was just saying that you were rather--well, rather a flirt. I believe that was it, wasn't it, Tom?" and she looked quickly at him, but there was meaning in her glance. Langridge kept his hand on Tom's shoulder and the two looked each other straight in the face unflinchingly. Miss Tyler lost some of her blushes and her cheeks began to pale. Then Tom spoke quietly. "If you wish to know exactly what I said," was his quiet but tense answer, "I will tell you--later," and he swung on his heel and started down the grandstand steps. For an instant Langridge stared after him. Then, with a little laugh, he turned to Miss Tyler. "Poor Parsons is sore because he's been suspended," he said. "He can't even pitch on the scrub. But how pretty you're looking to-day, Miss Madge." "Miss Tyler, please," she corrected him. "Mayn't I even call you Miss Madge after I've been defeated in the game?" he pleaded, and he looked at her boldly. "It would be--er--well, sort of soothing to me." "Would it?" and she laughed lightly. "It surely would," and he bent closer toward her. "Well, then, you may--but only on occasions of defeat." "Then I'm going to lose every game," he added promptly as he turned at her side and walked down the steps. Tom Parsons, strolling alone over the now vacant diamond, saw them together, and there was a strange feeling in his heart. CHAPTER XIV TOM'S CURVES There was lively practice of the Randall nine the following week, and Coach Lighton said some things that hurt, but they were needed. Nor was Langridge spared, though he affected not to mind the sharp admonition that he must pitch more consistently. The nine played a game Saturday with an outside team, more for practice than anything else, and won it "hands down," as Holly Cross said. But, after all, it was not much credit to the 'varsity, for their opponents were not as good as the college scrub. Holly caught, the period of Kerr's suspension not being up yet. Tom kept at his practice, but he was more than glad when he could resume his class work again and take his place on the second nine. "Now we'll tackle work together," said the coach one afternoon to Tom, for Mr. Lighton had not been allowed to give him directions during the suspension weeks. "I hope you haven't gone stale, Parsons." "I hope not. Kerr and I have been sort of practicing together." "That's good. I hope, before the season is over, that you and he will go into a regular game together. If not, you'll have your 'innings' next year, if you progress as you have been doing." Tom was glad of the praise, but he would have been more glad of a chance to get on the 'varsity. Still he determined to do his best on the scrub, but it was hard and rather thankless work. Mr. Lighton put him through a hard course of "sprouts" that afternoon. With some members of the scrub to bat against him, Tom sent in swift and puzzling balls, for all the while his ability to curve was increasing and his control was improving. That afternoon he struck out six men in succession, retiring them without having given any one of them more than two balls. It was very good work, and the fact that the men were not extraordinary good hitters did not detract from it. "That's fine!" cried Mr. Lighton enthusiastically. "I'm going to----" But what he was going to do he did not say. "They ought to make you substitute pitcher on the 'varsity team," was the opinion of Dutch Housenlager when the practice was over. "Rod Evert isn't one-two-six with you, and he doesn't do any practicing to speak of." "Maybe he feels that he doesn't have to, for Langridge seems to make good nearly every time," spoke Tom. "Aw, rats! All that keeps Langridge manager is his money. He certainly runs the financial end of the game to perfection. And if he wasn't manager he wouldn't be pitcher. But the fellows know he takes a lot of responsibility from them, and they're just easy enough to let things slide. Some day we'll be up against it. Langridge will be knocked out of the box, Evert won't be in form, and we'll lose the game." "Unless they call on 'yours truly,'" interjected Tom with a laugh. "Exactly," agreed Dutch seriously. "That's my point. I wish they'd name you for sub. I'm going to ask----" "No, no!" expostulated Tom quickly. "If I can't get there on my own merits, I don't want it. No favors, please. I can wait." "Well, just as you say, of course. But say, there's the Grasshopper. Watch me make him jump." He pointed to Pete Backus, a tall student, who seemed to be measuring off a certain distance on a grassy stretch down near the river. "Looks as if he was going to jump without you making him," observed Tom. "Oh, he's always jumping. He thinks he's great at it. Wants to make the track team, but he can't seem to do it. He'll do his distance easily one day and fall down the next. You can't depend on him. But I'll make him jump now. Sneak down behind those bushes." Tom followed Dutch softly. There were no other students about and they managed to gain the screen of the bushes unobserved by the Grasshopper, who was intent on measuring distances with a pocket tape. The two conspirators could see where he had been practicing the broad jump. The Grasshopper stood close to a clump of elder bushes, with his back to them. He was preparing for another test. Dutch Housenlager, who was not happy unless he was engaged in some joke or horse play, silently cut a long pole and fastened to it a big pin, which he extracted from some part of his garments. Then, seeing a good opening that gave access to a tender part of the rear elevation of the Grasshopper's legs, he thrust with no gentle hand just as poor Pete was about to throw himself forward in a standing broad jump. "Wow!" cried the punctured one. But it was so sudden that he did not have time to stop his leap, which he was on the verge of making, and he sprang through the air like an animated jumping-jack. "Fine! fine!" cried Dutch, rising up from his place of concealment. "That's the time you beat your own record, Grasshopper." Pete turned. He looked over the space he had covered. His heels had come down at least a foot beyond where he had previously landed. The look of anger on his face, as he felt of his pricked leg, turned to one of satisfaction. "By Jove! I believe you're right," he exclaimed. "I have done better by--let's see"--and he measured it--"by fourteen inches." "I told you so," called Dutch, still laughing. "Next time you want to jump, just let me get in the bushes behind you. It'll be good for an extra foot every time." "Um," murmured the Grasshopper, still rubbing his leg reflectively. "It was an awful jab though, Dutch." "What of it? Look at your distance," and once more Pete looked happy as he again measured the space he had covered. "Poor old Grasshopper," commented Dutch as he and Tom strolled along the campus, leaving the jumper still at his practice. "Poor old Grasshopper! He'll never make the track team." The next few days saw Tom putting in all his spare time practicing curves under the watchful eye of Mr. Lighton. The 'varsity played with the scrub and narrowly escaped a good drubbing. Langridge seemed to be asleep part of the time and issued a number of walking papers. It was after the contest, which the regulars had pulled out of the fire with rather scorched fingers, that the coach called Captain Woodhouse and Langridge to him. "I rather think we'd better make a little shift," he said. "In what way?" asked Langridge quickly. "Well, I think we ought to name Parsons as substitute pitcher on the 'varsity. He's been doing excellent work, fully equal to yours, Langridge. Of course he's a little uncertain yet, but one big game would take that out of him. I'd like to see him pitch at least part of the game against Boxer next week." "Does that mean you're dissatisfied with me?" asked Langridge quickly, and his face flushed. "Not necessarily. But I think it rather risky not to provide better than we have for a substitute pitcher. Evert is available, of course, but as he is a junior his studies are such that he can't devote the necessary time to practice. Parsons ought to be named." "Do you demand that in your official capacity as coach, Mr. Lighton?" asked Kindlings. "Because if you do, I'll agree to it at once." "No, I merely make that suggestion to you." The captain looked at the manager. Langridge stood with a supercilious smile on his face. "I presume I shall have something to say as manager," he remarked. "Certainly," admitted the coach gravely. "Then I say Parsons shan't act as substitute pitcher. I'm good for the season, and I'm going to play it out. I see his game. He wants to oust me and he's taken this means of doing it. He got you to plead for him, Mr. Lighton. I'll not stand for it." "You're entirely mistaken, Langridge," said the coach, with the least suspicion of annoyance in his even voice. "It is my own idea. Parsons does not even know that I have spoken to you; in fact, I believe that he would not allow me to." Langridge was sneering now. "I guess he would," he said. "Then you, as manager, don't want Parsons as substitute pitcher?" asked the coach. "No!" snapped Langridge. "Of course if you order it, Mr. Lighton," began honest Kindlings with an uneasy look at the coach--"of course if you make a point of it----" "No, I don't," and Mr. Lighton spoke quietly. "That was not my intention--just yet. Parsons will remain on the scrub then, at least for the present. Later I may--er--I may make a point of it," and he turned and walked away. CHAPTER XV A SOPHOMORE TRICK While knowing nothing of the efforts Coach Lighton was making in his behalf, Tom continued hard practice at his pitching. Every day he made some improvement until his friends on the scrub regarded him as a marvel. But, as if some mysterious whisper had come to Langridge, the latter also showed improvement. He spent more time in practice and at one game, when it looked as if the scrub would beat the 'varsity, chiefly due to Tom's fine pitching, Langridge saved the day by brilliant work in the box. The coach was pleased at this and Tom could not help feeling that his chances were farther away than ever. There were many other phases of college life, aside from baseball, that appealed to Tom. He liked his studies and he gave them more attention than perhaps any other lad of the sporting set. He was not a "greasy dig," by which was meant a student who burned midnight oil over his books, but he stood well in his classes, for learning came naturally to him. Not so, however, to his roommate. Poor Sid had to "bone" away rather hard to get along, and, as he was required to put in a certain amount of time on the diamond, his lessons sometimes suffered. He was warned one day by Professor Tines, in the Latin class, that if he did not show more improvement he would be conditioned and not allowed to play on the team. "And that mustn't happen," declared Captain Woodhouse. "Take a brace, Sid. Don't go throwing us down now. It's too late to break in another first baseman." Sid promised, and, for a time, stood better in his class. In the meanwhile other sports went on at Randall College. The crew was out every day on the river and the 'varsity eight-oared shell, several doubles and some singles held impromptu races. A freshman eight was formed and Tom was asked to join, but he wisely refused, for he reasoned that he could not give enough time to it to become a member of a racing crew without sacrificing either baseball or his studies, and he would do neither. "But you'll never make the 'varsity nine," argued Captain Bonsell, of the freshman crew. "Much better to train with us, for I'll promise you a place in the boat when it comes to the championship race. You'll never be the 'varsity pitcher." For Bonsell had looked with envy on Tom's big muscles. "Well, I'm not going to give up until the last game," declared Tom stoutly. "Maybe I'll get a chance at the tail end. Langridge can't last forever, though far be it from me to wish him any bad luck." "I see," spoke Bonsell with a laugh, "the survival of the fittest. I wish you luck, old man." So Tom practiced and practiced and practiced until on the scrub his name became one to conjure with. But Langridge remained in his place on the 'varsity and Evert was the substitute pitcher. Between Tom and Langridge there was more than ever a coldness. It was not due to the sneaking act of the rich lad in not absolving Tom from blame in the wire episode, but might more properly be ascribed to the incident connected with Miss Tyler, though neither youth was willing to admit this. In spite of himself, Tom found that he was entertaining a certain indescribable feeling toward the girl. Often, at night, he would recall her laughing, tantalizing face as she walked away with Langridge. "Hang it all!" Tom would exclaim to his pillow. "He's not fit for her! She ought to know it. I practically told her, yet she went off with him, after all. Confound it all, I can't understand girls, anyhow." But Tom might well have been comforted, for no one else does either, though many believe that they do. But, though part of Tom's coldness toward Langridge was based on the latter's meanness about the wire and though probably the 'varsity pitcher kept aloof from Tom for the same reason, there was no disposition on Tom's part to complain or "squeal." As far as the faculty was concerned, Tom was guilty of the prank that had had so nearly a fatal ending. But he did not complain. He had given his word. "Well, Tom, old man, going along?" asked Sid one day as he came in from a biology lecture and tossed his text-book under the bed, though he knew he would have to crawl for it afterward. "Going along where?" "The team's going to Dodville for a game with a big prep. school there. Not much as regards a game, but it will be fun. It's a nice trolley trip, and I hear all the subs are going." "But I'm not a sub." "Well, you're a scrub, and that's almost the same. Come along and root for us, anyhow, though I guess we'll wipe up the earth with the preps." "I thought we had a game with Boxer to-morrow." "We did, but they canceled it, as they have to fill in a postponed game with Fairview, so we've shifted our schedule. Will you come?" "Sure, if there's room." "Of course there is. Langridge has hired two special trolleys. You know he's not going to play the regular 'varsity team. Only freshmen are to be allowed on it. It's more for practice than anything else." "Oh!" exclaimed Tom. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Sid thought there might be a chance to do some pitching, but he thought better of it. The Dodville Preparatory School had a good nine and a reputation of putting up a hard game, but Langridge was set on the idea of playing only freshmen against them, and thus it was decided. On the afternoon of the game the team, many supporters and the scrubs and substitutes boarded two trolleys for the trip to the grounds. It was a jolly crowd, and the way was enlivened by songs and jokes. Tom was in the first car with Sid and some others of his particular chums. Langridge was also there, but he kept rather away from Tom. Out on the platform with the motorman was an individual with a slouch hat pulled down over his eyes and his coat collar turned up. "Who's that, a tramp?" asked Tom as he noticed the man. "Looks like it," admitted Sid. "Begging a ride maybe on the strength of this being a special. Well, let him go. If you call attention to him, some of the fellows may make a row and create a rough house. Don't say anything." Tom did not, but he noticed that the tramp appeared to be very friendly to the motorman and talked frequently with him. The electric line to Dodville ran through a stretch of country not thickly populated, and at one point it switched over another trolley road which ran to a distant, thriving village. The boys were so engrossed in their fun, laughing and joking that they paid little attention to matters outside, and the time passed quickly. Holly Cross was giving (by request) an imitation of a well-known vaudeville performer when Sid, who happened to look out of the window, exclaimed: "Say, fellows, where, for the love of tripe, are we? This isn't the road to Dodville." "Aw, what's eatin' you?" demanded Dutch Housenlager. "Could the trolley car go off by itself on a road alone? Answer me that!" "I don't know what it could do, it's what it has done," retorted Sid. "I know this road. It goes to Fayetmore, which is next door to Squankum Center. Fellows, we're five miles from Dodville!" "Get out!" cried Langridge, unwilling to believe it. "Fact!" asserted Sid. "We're five miles out of our way, on the wrong road, and the game starts in less than an hour. They'll call it a forfeit on us and never stop twitting us about this." "Ah, you must be wrong," declared Holly Cross. "Don't you s'pose the motorman knows the way? It isn't as if this was an auto." Sid pulled open the front door. The tramp, who had been talking to the motorman, had gone. "I say," began the first baseman, "is this the road to Dodville? Aren't you on the wrong line?" "Why, sir, I don't rightly know," replied the motorman somewhat timidly. "You don't know?" repeated Sid incredulously. "No. I--I hope this is the right road." "You hope so!" cried Langridge. "Well, I should say yes. Why don't you know?" "Well, you see, I'm new on this section of the line. To-day is my first run. I took the turn back there where the gentleman told me to." "What gentleman?" "The one who was out here on the platform with me. He said he was your manager." "Manager!" fairly yelled Langridge. "Why, I'm the manager of this team." "Can't help it. That's what the gentleman said. He said he knew the road to Dodville, and when I got to the switch he told me to come this way." "What was his name?" demanded Langridge, who was beginning to "scent a rodent," as Holly Cross said. "He gave me his card," went on the motorman, who had halted his car in the midst of a lonely stretch of woods. "Let's see!" cried Sid. The trolley man fumbled in his pocket for it. Tom looked back, but could not see the other special car. That had probably been some distance behind the first one and had doubtless gone the right road, the motorman not suspecting that his predecessor was not ahead of him. Sid took the bit of pasteboard which the man held out to him. He looked at it and then uttered an exclamation. "It's a trick!" he cried, "a soph trick! Listen to this, fellows. This is Fenmore's card, and he's written on it this message: 'This is only part of what we sophs owe you freshies for the pavilion game. There is more coming. Hope you have a nice picnic in the woods.' That fellow on the platform was Fenmore," went on Sid. "No wonder he kept his hat down." "And here we are--part of the team--out here in the wilderness, five miles from the game, which starts in half an hour!" cried Langridge in disgust. "Say, those sophs got back at us all right. We're in a nice pickle!" CHAPTER XVI TOM MAKES A DISCOVERY There was consternation among the freshmen and their supporters. With a divided team, part of it being so far away from the grounds that it was practically impossible to arrive on time, and on a wrong road at that, the situation was enough to discourage any nine. "What made you let that fellow tell you where to go?" demanded Sid of the motorman. "Well, he said he was your manager, and I believed him." "Manager!" cried Holly Cross. "Yes, we need a manager. We need a nurse and a governess, that's what we need. To think that twenty of the brightest freshmen at Randall have been duped by one soph! Wow! I must have blood!" and he began to dance and howl like a stage Indian. "Well," said Langridge disgustedly after a few minutes' thought, which period was occupied on the part of the others by the use of language more strong and rugged than polite, "the only thing to do is to go back. Make the best time you can and see what we can do. Shift the car, motorman." "I can't." "Why not?" "Because I got orders not to start back until half-past four. You see, this is a single-track road, and I might run into a car coming in the opposite direction. We've got to stay here until four-thirty." This was worse than ever, and a howl went up. But suddenly Sid, who had been narrowly looking at the motorman, took a step toward him. He reached up, grabbed his beard and pulled it off. "Hayden!" he exclaimed as there was revealed to view the features of one of the liveliest of the sophomore class. "By all the gods that on Olympus dwell, it's Hayden!" "At your service, gentlemen," exclaimed Hayden with a mocking bow. "This is a little pleasure trip that Fenmore and I arranged for you. I hope you enjoy it," and with another mocking bow he slipped off the controller handle and leaped over the dashboard of the car. "We hired the regular motorman to let us take his place," he went on. "I guess you don't play ball to-day," and he disappeared in the woods with a tantalizing laugh. "Let's catch him!" cried Holly Cross. "Sure! Let's scalp him and tie him to a tree," proposed Dutch Housenlager. "What's the use?" asked Sid. "He knows this part of the country like a book, for he's been hunting in it. Better let him go. He'll only laugh the more at us." "But what are we to do?" demanded Langridge. "We don't want to lose the game." He was very vexed, for he knew it would reflect on him as manager. "The only thing I see to do is to walk back until we meet another car and then send on word of this abandoned one," said Sid. "It's a long walk, but----" "Hark!" cried Tom Parsons suddenly. "An auto is coming along the road." "Maybe some of us can get a ride," proposed Phil Clinton. "We can go to town and hire a rig for the rest of you." Along the road rumbled some big vehicle. There came in sight a big auto truck, ponderous and heavy. It was one of several used by a milk concern to transport cans to the railroad depot. "That's the stuff!" cried Tom. "Maybe he'll take us to Dodville if we pay him." The man was hailed and the situation explained to him. He looked dubious and shook his head. "Why can't you take us?" asked Phil. "You say you have no load on your truck, and it isn't much out of your way. We'll pay you well." "Maybe you would," admitted the man, "but I've heard of you students. If some of you ran off with a trolley car, there's no tellin' but what you'd take this truck away from me at some lonely spot and go cruisin' off like Captain Kidd." "No, no," promised the lads eagerly. "We won't cut up a bit." They had some difficulty in convincing the man of this, but did so finally, and he allowed them to pile in. They had to stand up and the road was rough. They were jolted about, for the truck was not built for easy riding, but they did not mind that, for they felt that there was a chance to play the game, and they urged the man to put on all speed. [Illustration: THE MAN ALLOWED THEM TO PILE IN] They reached Dodville just as the game was about to be awarded to the preparatory school on a forfeit. The members of the Randall nine who had arrived in the second trolley car, which safely made the trip, could not explain the absence of their companions. The game was started, but it was not remarkable for any brilliant work on the part of the college freshmen. In fact the other students played all around them. Possibly this was due to the episode that had occurred, for Langridge was nervous and threw wild, giving a number of men their bases on balls. Kerr asked him to let Tom pitch, but Langridge refused arrogantly and with bitter words against the scrub twirler. Nor would he consent that Evert should fill the box. "I'll pitch!" he cried excitedly. "I'll strike 'em out next inning. You watch." Tom happened to be in the dressing-room when it was the turn of Randall to bat, and Langridge came in. The 'varsity pitcher did not see his rival, but going to where his valise was containing his clothing, he took something from it. Tom saw Langridge put a bottle to his lips. "I wonder if he's taking medicine," he thought. A moment later the pitcher hurried from the room as his name was called to bat. Tom walked to a window that gave a view of the grounds. As he passed Langridge's valise he smelled a pungent, alcoholic odor. He started and for a moment could not tell what it was. Then it came to him. "Liquor! He's been drinking liquor!" he almost exclaimed aloud. "He's broken the training rules. I wonder--I wonder if this is what Sid hinted at--if this is what Mr. Lighton meant!" From the diamond there came a sharp crack. It was a bat meeting a swiftly pitched ball with that inspiring sound that indicates a fair hit. Tom saw Langridge speeding for first base, while Randall lads were yelling at the top of their voices. "It's a three-bagger!" cried Tom delightedly, and so it proved, Langridge bringing in a run a moment later on a sacrifice hit by Holly Cross. CHAPTER XVII AN EXPOSTULATION "Now we'll do 'em up!" cried Langridge, dancing about in a strange enthusiasm as he crossed the home plate. "Knock a home run, Kerr, and we'll roll up a score. Then I'll strike out the next six men." There were but two more innings to play, and the run Langridge brought in had reduced the lead against the Randall freshmen from 6 to 5. But five runs are a big handicap, especially when you can't depend on your pitcher. Kerr struck out and so did Sid, who was up next. Langridge was disappointed, though not discouraged, and he made wild promises about what he was going to do. But he did not fulfil them and got careless in his pitching. The game degenerated almost into a farce in the last inning, when Dodville piled up four runs, making the total score 17 to 5, it being the worst drubbing the Randalls had received in many years. The only consolation was that it was not the 'varsity team, but, as Kerr said, that was no excuse. There were almost jeers mingled with the cheers of the preparatory school lads, and it was a sore and sorrowful lot of freshmen who made their way to the special trolley cars, the stalled one having been brought up in the meanwhile. "Who's eating cloves?" asked Sid Henderson as he piled into the electric and threw his big mitt on the seat beside him. "Have some?" asked Langridge, holding out a quantity. "I had toothache and I took a few." "No, thanks, don't use 'em," replied Sid with a quick look at the pitcher, whose eyes were unnaturally bright. "But if you have any ginger about you, it might come in handy." "Ginger--how?" "For this team. We need it. To be beaten by a bunch of schoolboys!" "Well, we didn't have our regular team," explained Langridge. "Besides, I didn't have any support. I pitched well, but you fellows didn't back me up." There was an arrogant look on his face. "Yes, you pitched well, you did," exclaimed Kerr with an unconcealed sneer in his voice. "You did hot work, you did." "What about my three-bagger?" "That didn't make up for your rotten pitching!" The others looked at Kerr in surprise. It was something new for him to find fault openly with Langridge. The latter felt it, too, and hardly knew what to say. "Well, I--er--I----" "Yes, make some excuse," went on the catcher bitterly. "We got dumped, and that's all there is to it. I'm not saying I did such brilliant work--none of us did--but you did rotten, Langridge, and you know it. It isn't as if you couldn't do better, for we all know you can. You've gone stale--or--or something!" Tom had an idea what it was that had made the pitcher go "stale." His brilliant hit and run had been followed by a reaction, the result of the stimulant he took. It is always thus. Langridge stared at Kerr, his most particular chum, and then, as if not understanding it, went off by himself in a corner of the car. It was not a jolly party that rode back to Randall College. Nor were matters much better when they arrived. The freshmen had to endure the taunts of the sophomores concerning the trolley episode, as well as their own unexpressed disappointment at the result of the game. "Sid," said Tom in their room that night, when his roommate was stretched out on the old creaking sofa--"Sid, if you knew some member of--er--well, the crew who didn't train properly--that is to say, did sneaking things on the sly--didn't keep in form for a race, what would you do?" "How's that? Is some member of the crew trying to throw the college?" cried Sid, suddenly sitting up. "No, no. Of course not. I'm just supposing a case. You know we have to suppose cases in our psychology class. I'm just taking one for the sake of argument." "Oh," replied Sid sleepily. "If it's only a supposititious case, all right. I thought you meant you knew of some chap who was doing a dirty trick." "Well, suppose I did know of one--or you did--what would you do? Would you tell the coach or the captain?" "What good would it do?" "That's not the point. Would you?" "Well, you must have a reason for telling. Don't you learn that in psychology?" "Of course. Well, my reason might be that I wanted to see the crew do good work and not lose on account of some fellow who couldn't last out a race because he broke training rules on the sly. Or it might be that I wanted to see the fellow himself take a brace." "Both good reasons, son. Both good. As the Romans say, _Mens sana in corpore sano_. You would do it for his own physical good. Very nice. For his mental improvement also." "I'm serious," declared Tom. "So am I, you conscientious old wind-ammer! I know it. The trouble is you're too serious. Why don't you let things slide sometimes?" "I can't." "No, I s'pose not. Well, then, fire away, old chap. Wait until I get more comfortable, though," and Sid turned and wiggled on the decrepit sofa until it threatened to collapse. "You haven't answered my question yet," persisted Tom when his chum had been silent for two minutes. "What question? Oh, blazes, Tom, I thought you'd gone to sleep. But say, why don't you come right out and say what you mean? Do you know any member of the crew who's doing that?" "No, I don't. I told you this was a supposititious case. But, if there was one, what would you do?" "Well, I'll give you a supposititious answer." Sid closed his eyes. The fussy little alarm clock seemed to be counting time for him while he made up his mind. "Why don't you tell the fellow yourself?" asked Sid so suddenly that Tom jumped. "Would you?" he asked. Sid arose. He came and stood close to his chum. Then he spoke. "There be certain things, son," he said with an assumed serious air which was more than half real, "certain things that, in college, one might better ignore. If, perchance, however, one is so constituted morally that one can't; if the laws of the Medes and the Persians are so immutable that one can't rest--why, my young philosopher, take the easiest course so long as you are true to your own motto, _Dulce et decorum est pro alma mater mori_. There, I don't know whether I've got the Latin right, but it says what I mean--tell the other fellow first--Tom," and with that he went over, picked up his trigonometry and fell to studying. It was not an easy fight that Tom had with himself that night. He went all over the ground: the arrogance of Langridge, the scene in the dressing-room, the pungent odor of liquor and then his knowledge of it. Was it fair to the team to let the members be in ignorance of the fact that their pitcher took stimulants secretly--that he had done it before? For Tom was sure it was not the first time. Would it not mean, in the end, that Randall would lose some deciding game and the championship? Tom thought so and determined that it was his duty to do something. The question was, what? In a measure Sid had solved this for him, and before he fell asleep that night Tom determined to expostulate with Langridge the first chance he got. It came sooner than he expected. There was a game with Boxer Hall on the grounds of the latter university and it was expected to be a hard one, which expectation was not unfulfilled. For the first few innings Randall seemed to have the contest well in hand. Then, during a few minutes when his side was at bat, Langridge disappeared into the dressing-room. With a heart that beat harder than usual Tom quietly followed. He was just in time to see Langridge putting away a bottle that gave out the characteristic odor. "Don't do that!" cried Tom quickly, but in a low voice. He was hardly conscious of what he was saying. Langridge wheeled around and faced him. "Don't do what?" he asked sharply, his face flushed. "Take that liquor to brace you up. You'll only pitch the worse for it, and it's not fair to the team." Langridge took a step toward Tom. "What right have you got to speak so to me?" he demanded. "You're a dirty sneak, that's what you are, following in here to spy on me! I guess I know what I'm doing. Can't I take a little toothache medicine without being insulted by you? Liquor! Supposing it is? The doctor ordered it for me." "Not in the middle of a game," said Tom quietly. "Besides, it's against training rules, and you know it. It's not fair." "Oh, I see your game," sneered Langridge. "I know what you're after. You want to tell some story about me, thinking that I'll be dropped and you can have my place. But you can't. I'll do you yet. I'll show 'em how I can pitch!" He was boasting now, for he was not himself. "Get out of my way, you dirty sneak!" he cried. "I'm going to bat out a home run," and he put some cloves in his mouth. He almost knocked Tom over as he rushed past him and went out in time to take his place at the home plate. He did knock a home run to the delirious delight of the team, but it was short-lived joy, for, just as in the other games, Langridge went to pieces in the box, and Boxer Hall won the game by a score of 8 to 5. But the home run of Langridge so shone out that even Kerr did not have the heart to decry his friend's ragged pitching. Coach Lighton, however, shook his head, as the championship chances for Randall College seemed fading away. "Well," thought Tom as he accompanied the defeated team back that afternoon, "I did my duty, anyhow. I expostulated with him and was insulted for my pains. I did all I could." But that night there came to him something like a voice asking, "Did you?" Tom tossed restlessly on his bed. "What shall I do next?" he thought. CHAPTER XVIII SOME "OLD GRADS" "What's the matter, old man?" inquired Sid the next morning as he rolled over in bed and looked at Tom. "Matter? Why?" "You look as if you'd been drawn through a knot hole, and a small one at that. What's wrong?" "Nothing," and Tom tried to laugh it off. "I didn't sleep very well, that's all." "For that matter, neither did I." "Get out! I heard you snoring away like a boiler blowing off steam." "Then I must have been tired. I never snore unless I am. Wow! ouch! Decameron's Prothonotary!" Sid made a face that indicated intense anguish and put his hand to his side as he turned over in bed. "What's the matter?" asked Tom anxiously. "Strained my side when I slid for second base that time. I didn't notice it yesterday, but it hurts like sin now. Guess I'll have to cut lectures to-day and stay in bed." "What excuse will you give?" "Oh, I'll say--no, I won't, either," declared Sid with a sudden change of decision. "I can't say it was playing baseball that laid me up or Moses will ask me to cut out the ball. I've got to suffer. I know what I'll do. I'll limp in chapel and on my way to lectures. I'm not prepared in trig, anyhow, and maybe they'll let me off easy. I'm sure to slump in Latin, but maybe Pitchfork will have mercy on a gladiator who was willing to die for Cæsar." Tom felt like laughing, but he restrained himself as he saw that Sid was really suffering. The first baseman crawled out of bed with many a groan and made wry faces. He limped across the room. "How's that?" he asked Tom. "Do I do it naturally?" "Sure. It would deceive anybody." "I don't want to deceive 'em. It's gospel truth. I'm as lame as a sore horse. But I'll go down." "Let me rub it," suggested Tom, and he forgot part of his troubles in giving vigorous massage to Sid's strained side. "It feels better. Thanks, old man," declared the hurt one as he began to dress. "But you're limping worse than ever." "Sure. No use losing any of the advantages of my limp. It may save me from a discredit in Latin. Oh, if you want to know how to limp come to your Uncle Dudley." Tom laughed and prepared for chapel. He himself was in no very jolly mood, however, for he could not help thinking of the problem connected with the discovery about Langridge. That it was a problem, and no small one, Tom was ready to admit. He felt himself in a peculiar position. He had spoken to the 'varsity pitcher and had been insulted. To let him go on in his course, breaking training and endangering the success of the nine, Tom felt would not be right. Yet if he spoke to the coach or captain about it there would be but one construction put upon his action. Tom could fancy Mr. Lighton thanking him for the information about Langridge and could even imagine the coach acting on it and warning the pitcher. Tom could see the look on the face of Kindlings when he was told. It would be a revelation. Yet for all the service that he rendered to the team there would be but one construction put upon Tom's act by his classmates--he would be accused of informing in order to oust Langridge so that he might have the pitcher's place. "And I can't do that," declared Tom to himself. "I'll have to find some other way. I'll make one more try with Langridge." Sid's limp did not save him in Latin, for he "slumped" most ungracefully, and with a black look Professor Tines marked a failure against him, accompanying it with words of warning. As for Tom, his worry over the secret caused him to pay too scant attention in his geography class, and he was caught napping, whereat the instructor looked surprised, for Tom was one of the best students. The next day the scrub team went on a little trip to Morriston to play a small semi-professional nine, and Tom had a chance to show what he could do in the box. He gave a fine exhibition of pitching, so much so that the other nine was held down to a goose-egg score, and there were very few hits secured off Tom. The scrubs were wild about it and held a celebration, for it was the best victory they had scored yet. During the next few days Tom saw little of Langridge. In fact the 'varsity pitcher seemed to be keeping out of the way of the lad who had remonstrated with him. "I'll see him at the Boxer game Saturday," thought Tom. "If I get a chance, I'll make one more attempt, though I'm afraid it won't do any good." The next Boxer contest was a sort of annual mid-season affair. It was a game which members of the alumnæ of both colleges made it a point to attend in even greater numbers than at the contests deciding the championship. In fact of late years there had been no chance for such exhibitions, for Randall did not have a "look in" at the pennant, as Holly Cross used to say. The game was to take place on the Randall grounds, and before the hour when it was to be played the stands and bleachers began filling up. It was a beautiful afternoon about the middle of May and a better one for a game could not have been had, even if made to order. Oh, how Tom wanted to play! But he could only look on. The regular team came out for practice, with the substitutes waiting for a chance to go in. Then out trotted the Boxer Hall lads, to be received with a cheer. There were pretty girls galore, each one waving the flag of her particular college. Tom moved about in the grandstand, trying to pretend to himself that he was not looking for any one, but all the same his heart gave a great thump when he heard some one call: "Tom! Mr. Parsons!" "Why, how do you do, Miss Tyler?" he exclaimed. "I didn't know you were coming." "Oh, yes, I wouldn't miss this for anything. I just love to see the old graduates. They are so interesting, just as if they were boys again." She made room for Tom beside her, and he gladly availed himself of the chance. "Yes, there are quite a few of the old boys on hand to-day," he remarked. "Look at those two," and he pointed to two well-dressed men, each attired in a tall silk hat and a frock coat. They each had a gold-headed cane and they were very staid in looks, yet at the sight of each other they rose in their seats, clasped hands across the heads of intervening persons and one, the elder, cried out: "Well, well! If it isn't old Skeeziks! How are you? I haven't seen you since I graduated in '73!" "Nor me you, you old fish-pedler! How are things? Do you remember the day we kidnaped Mrs. Maguire and took all her chickens?" "Hush! Not so loud!" cautioned the other, his face breaking into smiles. "The faculty never found out who did that, and there's no use telling now. But I am glad to see you. Do you think our boys will win?" "I hope so, though I see by the papers they haven't been playing as good ball as when we went to school. They need a little ginger." "That's right. I wish I was young again. We certainly had some great games." On all sides similar scenes were being enacted and like reminiscences were being exchanged. It was a great day for the "old grads," and they took advantage of it. Many there were also from Boxer, though they occupied a different part of the grandstand. However, they exchanged visits with their former rivals during the practice. Ford Fenton was in his element. His uncle, who had been a coach at Randall, was on hand, and Ford was showing him off as if he was a prize animal at a county fair. Ford wanted to take his uncle around and introduce him to his classmates, but Mr. Fenton declined, as he wanted to meet some of his old friends. But this did not deter Ford from going about telling the news, and about all he could be heard to say was: "My uncle, the former coach, is here. He came to see the game. My uncle says----" Then the long-suffering ones would turn away, or if they were lads who had no particular regard for Ford's feelings, they would guy him unmercifully. "Hi, Ford!" cried Holly Cross after about half an hour of this sort of thing, "have you heard the latest?" "No. What is it?" "Why, 'my uncle' says that if you don't stop talking about him, he's going to leave and take you with him. He says he's being 'uncled' to death." "Ha! ha!" laughed Dutch Housenlager. "That's right, Ford, that's right," and he pretended to collide accidentally with the lad, knocking him against Holly, who promptly pushed him back. But now practice was over. The rival captains were in conference, the umpire was taking the new ball from the tinfoil wrapping and the spectators were settling back for the contest. "Boxer has improved since the other game," said Tom, who had been critically watching the teams at practice. "That's what I heard," replied Miss Tyler. "Oh, I do hope our boys will win!" "So do I," exclaimed Tom as he watched Langridge, who was first to go to the bat, in this game the visitors winning the privilege of being last up. Tom tried to notice the 'varsity pitcher, to see if he was in good form, but he could not judge then. "Play ball!" called the umpire, and Dave Ogden, the Boxer pitcher, drew back his arm to deliver a swift curve. CHAPTER XIX TOM IN COLD WATER Langridge at the first effort sent out a hot liner, which flew just over the pitcher's head. The second baseman made a jump for it and the ball began to roll along in front of the center fielder. Amid a wild burst of yells Langridge raced for first and got there safely, not daring to go on to second, as Ogden had run down to help cover it. "That's the stuff! that's the stuff! That's the way to line 'em out!" chanted an excited voice, and Tom looked around to see the two silk-hatted "old grads" embracing each other and doing an impromptu dance in their seats. "Aren't they jolly!" exclaimed Miss Tyler. "Very, but they're crowing too soon. The game has only just begun. Boxer Hall will play strong." And Tom's prediction came true, for in spite of the auspicious opening by Langridge, not a man crossed home plate for the Randalls that inning, the pitcher dying on third. Then it came the turn of the home team to show what they could do in holding down the visitors. It looked as if they were going to do it, too, for Langridge struck out the first two men. But he gave the next one a pass to first and was batted for a two-bagger by the following player, the inning ending with one run for Boxer. The Randall College boys and their girl supporters began to look anxious and so did some of the "old grads." On the other side there was laughter, cheers and jollity, while some of the aged former students of Boxer began to chant oldtime college songs. "Oh, I do hope our fellows win," exclaimed Miss Tyler, and there was an anxious look on her pretty face, while she tapped her flag of colors impatiently against her little foot. "Have you a bet on the game?" asked Tom. "A box of candy or some gloves?" "No, but I want to see Randall win. Besides, Fred--I mean Mr. Langridge--he told me he was going to work hard for success, and I never like to see any one disappointed--do you?" "No," said Tom rather shortly. He really did not care to hear his rival's praises sung by this fair damsel. "Do you know," she went on, "I've been thinking of what you started to tell me about him the other day. Is it really true?" "Well," began Tom slowly, "if you will excuse the privilege of a friend who has known you for some time, I would say that I don't believe your people would like you to go with him." "Why, mamma knows his uncle, who is his guardian, and she says he is very nice--I mean the uncle," and she laughed a little. "I have no doubt of it. I only----" But Tom did not say what he was going to, for just then Pinky Davenport, captain of the Boxers, knocked what Holly Cross described later as a "lalapoolassa" fly, which went clear over the center fielder's head and netted a home run for the captain of the visitors. What yelling and shouting there was then! It seemed to put new life into the opponents of Randall, if such was needed, for they began piling up the score until they were six runs in the lead. Then Randall "took a brace," encouraged by the yells of the "old grads" and others, and by the eighth inning had cut it down even. In the close of the eighth they held their opponents down to one run, making it necessary to gather in two to win the game, but with that it meant holding the visitors hitless in the last half of the final inning. The first part of the program was carried out all right. By some phenomenal playing Randall managed to get the lead by one run. They would have had another but for a miscalculation on the part of Ed Kerr, who was caught napping between third and home, where he was run down and put out. "Now, fellows, we have them on the hip!" exclaimed Captain Woodhouse as he called his players together for a little talk before the final struggle was made. "If we can hold them down this inning we have them. Langridge, it's up to you!" "I know it. But don't worry, I'll do it." It sounded well, and there was a determined look in the pitcher's face, but his eyes were unnaturally bright. His pitching had been ragged during the last three innings and the sudden decline of the abilities of the Boxer players had done as much as anything to give Randall her chance. "Oh, I hope Fred strikes three out, one right after the other!" exclaimed Miss Tyler as she shifted nervously in her seat. "He must be under a dreadful strain." "Probably he is," said Tom. "But if he takes a brace now he'll be all right." "He's been taking too many bracers--that's what's the matter with him," said a voice back of Tom, and he knew it was one of the former graduates speaking. Tom looked at the girl beside him. Either she had not heard or she took no notice of the remark. It was a tense moment when Langridge sent in the first ball. It was called a strike and the batsman looked surprised. The next was a ball, but two more strikes were called without the player getting a chance to swing at the horsehide. Langridge smiled at the cheers which greeted him. Then he did what few other pitchers could have done under the circumstances. He struck out the next two men, though one did manage to hit a high foul, which Kerr missed. Langridge had saved the game by holding the other team hitless. Such a cheer as went up then when it was seen that Randall had won! The stamping of feet on the stands sounded like thunder. Back of Tom and Miss Tyler two old men began yelling like Indians, hugging each other and whirling about. They were the two "old grads" of '73. They were waving their hats in the air and yelling "Randall! Randall! Randall!" until their faces were the color of raw beef. "Wow!" cried the taller of the two. "This does my heart good! I'm forty years young again. Wow! Whoop-la!" Suddenly he drew back his hand and his silk hat went sailing over the edge of the grandstand to the grass of the outfield. It was caught by some Randall players and quickly kicked out of shape. "Why, that was a new hat!" exclaimed the man's companion. "I know it, but there's more where that came from. I can buy a new hat every day, but I can't see my old college win such a game as this. Wow! Whoop!" "That's right. I'm with you," and a second hat went the way of the first, while the old men capered about like boys. They were given a round of cheers on their own account by the team when the players understood what had happened. Ford Fenton was running about, all excited, trying to find his relative. "Have you seen my uncle?" he asked several. "No!" cried Holly Cross. "And if I do, I'll shoot him on sight! Get out or I'll eat you up," and with a roar of simulated wrath he rushed at poor Fenton, who beat a hasty retreat. Tom was jubilant at the success of his college, nor did he withhold unstinted praise for Langridge. He had been surprised at the sudden improvement shown. Tom and Miss Tyler walked across the grounds toward the campus, the girl looking back several times. Suddenly Langridge appeared from amid a group of players. "I'll be with you in a minute," he called to Miss Tyler, "as soon as I change my duds. Wait for me." There was an air of proprietorship in the words and the girl must have felt them, for she turned away without speaking. "Perhaps I'd better say good-afternoon," spoke Tom, a trifle piqued. "Not unless you want to," she replied with a quick look at him. "Of course I don't want to, but I thought----" "Don't bother to think," she added with a little laugh. "It's tiresome. Come and show me the river. Not that I haven't seen it before, but it's so beautiful to-day, I want some one to enjoy it with me." "How would you like to go for a little row?" asked Tom. "I can get a boat and we'll go to Crest Island." "That will be lovely. The water is like glass." They were soon afloat. Tom was a good oarsman and sent the light craft ahead with powerful strokes. They spent some little time on the island, where other pleasure seekers were, and when the shadows began to lengthen started back. "I've enjoyed it ever so much," said Miss Tyler gratefully as the craft neared the float adjoining the college boathouse. "That's good," said Tom heartily. "Perhaps you will go again." "I probably shall--if any one asks me," she replied archly, and then he helped her out, whispering as he did so, for there were quite a number on the float, "I'll be sure to ask you, Madge." Tom may have imagined it, but he thought there was just a little return of the pressure when he pressed the hand he held. "Well, I thought you were going to wait for me," exclaimed a voice, and Langridge pushed his way through the throng and came close to where Miss Tyler was standing, waiting for Tom to tie the boat. "I didn't say so," she answered. "But you--you----" Langridge did not know what to say. "I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me now," said the girl calmly, though she smiled at Langridge in no unfriendly fashion. "Come and take a walk," he almost ordered. "I want to say something to you." Before she could answer Tom was at her side. He looked keenly at Langridge and was about to make some reply when the 'varsity pitcher reached out as though to link his arm in that of the girl. Miss Tyler drew back and Langridge edged himself forward. He may have been merely eager or it may have been the result of intention. At any rate, he jostled Tom to one side and the next minute the pitcher of the scrub, vainly endeavoring to retain his balance, toppled into the cold water of the river. CHAPTER XX A GAME OF ANOTHER SORT "Oh!" screamed Miss Tyler. "He'll be drowned! Save him, some one!" There was much commotion on the float. The crowd surged to the edge and it tilted dangerously. "Get back! get back!" cried Dan Woodhouse. "Get a boathook, some one!" "We will!" cried the Jersey twins, and together they darted for the place where the rowing craft were stored. Langridge seemed stupefied at the result of his act. He stood there, peering down into the water beneath which Tom had disappeared. "Get back, I tell you! Get back!" yelled Woodhouse. "We can't get him out if you tilt the float so. We'll all be in the water!" Understanding this, the crowd of lads and girls moved back. Captain Woodhouse was peering over the edge of the dock, looking for a sight of Tom, and meanwhile was taking off his coat and vest, preparatory to a plunge in. "There he is! I see his head!" suddenly cried Miss Tyler, and she pointed to a dark object barely visible in the shadows that were settling down over the river. "I'll get him!" cried Langridge thickly, but he could not seem to unbutton his coat. "Look out!" cried a voice, and a tall, lithe figure, clad only in a rowing jersey and trunks, pattered in bare feet down the length of the float. "It's Fenmore!" exclaimed several, and the tall sophomore, who had been out in a single shell and who, arriving at the float, had understood what had happened, plunged in. He swam quickly to Tom, who seemed bewildered and unable to help himself. But, if he was dazed, which they later found to be the case, he had sense enough to let Fenmore rescue him in the proper fashion and was soon being lifted out on the float. His face was pale and blood from a cut on his forehead trickled down one cheek. "Much hurt?" asked Dan Woodhouse as he put his arms about Tom. "No--not--not much," gasped the rescued one. "I hit my head on the edge and that dazed me. I couldn't strike out, and I swallowed some--some water," he gulped. "Can you walk?" "Sure. I'm all right now," but Tom began to shiver, for the evening had turned cool and the water was not yet right for bathing. "Here, take my cloak for him!" exclaimed Miss Tyler, impulsively holding out a thin wrap which was more for appearance than utility. "It will keep him warm." "It will ruin it," declared Tom. "I'm as wet as a rat." "No matter!" cried the girl imperiously, and she tried to wrap it about Tom's shoulders. "Here are some sweaters," said the more practical Kindlings. "Now run up to the infirmary, Tom, get into a hot bath and throw some hot lemonade into you." Tom prepared to start off and Miss Tyler had taken back her cloak. She went closer to Tom. "I'm awfully sorry. It was all on my account," she said. "I hope you will be all right." "Su--sure I'll--I'll be all--all right," declared Tom, though his teeth chattered in spite of himself, for he had sustained a nervous shock. "I'll inquire for you to-morrow," she added with a smile as she turned aside. "I say, old man, I'm afraid I pushed you in, but I didn't mean to--'pon my soul!" exclaimed Langridge earnestly as he edged up to Tom. "All--all right--it doesn't matter--now," answered Tom, and then his chums rushed him up to the college, where a warm bath and drinks were soon effectively administered. No bad results attended the unexpected plunge, and that night Tom was able to join in the celebration that followed the winning of the ball game, when many bonfires blazed and the students were allowed more license than usual. It was about a week later when, following a rather hard series of games between the scrub and 'varsity teams in which Tom had strained his arm, Coach Lighton advised him to get a new kind of liniment to rub on it. It could only be had in a certain store in town, and, obtaining permission to go there on condition that he return to college before nine o'clock, Tom started off alone one evening. Sid had to make up some lessons he was "shaky" on, and though he wanted to take the walk, he did not feel that he dared spare the time. On his way to the drug store Tom passed the side entrance of a certain resort much patronized by the "sporty" class of students. Several lads were in there, as Tom could tell by the snatches of college songs that floated out, and as he got opposite the place the door swung open to give entrance to others and Tom saw Langridge sitting at a table with several flashily dressed lads. They were playing cards and glasses of some sort of liquor stood at their elbows, while most of them, including Langridge, were smoking cigarettes. "He's broken training with a vengeance!" exclaimed Tom in a low voice as he hurried on. "Cigarettes are the limit!" Tom tried not to think about what he had seen as he went on to the drug store and had his prescription filled. He had to wait some little time for it and as he came out he noticed by a clock that he would have to hurry if he wanted to get back to college in time. He started off briskly and just as he got in front of the side door of the resort the portal opened and several lads came out. Langridge was with them, and all were somewhat worse for the lively evening they had spent. The 'varsity pitcher, who seemed strangely hilarious, caught sight of Tom. "Well, if there ain't my deadly rival!" he cried in what was intended to be a friendly manner, but which was silly. "Hello, Parsons! Come in and have a cigarette!" "No," was the answer in conciliatory tones. "I'm in a hurry to get back to the college. My time's nearly up." "So's mine--so's all of us. But what's the odds? We've got to have a good time once in a while, eh, fellows?" "Sure," came the chorus. "I can't smoke, I'm in training," spoke Tom, intending it to be a hint, if not to Langridge, at least to his companions. "So'm I, you old hunk of fried tripe! Have a smoke." "No," and Tom started on. "Hold on!" cried Langridge. "I'll go with you. I'm going to shake you fellows," and he waved his hand to his companions. "I'm going to be virtuous and go to bed with the larks. I wonder if larks do go to bed, anyhow." "You mean chickens," declared one of the others with a laugh. "Come on then, fellows, if Langridge goes back, we'll stay and have some more fun." Tom was not unwilling to play the good Samaritan, so linking his arm in that of Langridge, he led him down the street. The 'varsity pitcher was not as steady on his feet as he should have been. "I--I s'pose you'll tell Kindlings and Lighton about me, eh, what?" he asked brokenly as he walked along. "No," said Tom quietly. "But you ought to cut it out, Langridge, if not for your own sake for the sake of the team." "That's right, that's right, old man, I ought. You're a good sort of chap, too preachy maybe, but all right. I ought to cut it out, but I like fun." "You ought to give up smoking and drinking," went on Tom boldly. He had determined that this was just the chance he wanted and decided that he would take advantage of it. "There you go again! there you go again!" cried Langridge fretfully, with a sudden change of manner peculiar to him. "Don't go to lecturing. I get enough of that from Moses and Pitchfork. Give us a rest. I'm all right. Have another cigarette." "No," and Tom declined the proffered one. "Oh, I forgot you don't smoke. That's right. It's bad for the heart. I don't take 'em only once in a while." Tom tried to reason with him, but Langridge was not himself and answered pertly or else insulted Tom for his good offices. "You ought to give up gambling, too," Tom said, starting on a new tack. They were nearing the college now. "There you go again! there you go again!" exclaimed Langridge and he was almost crying, silly in his excitement. He sat down on a stone along the road and lighted another cigarette. "Now let's argue this thing out," he said. "I feel just like arguing, Parsons. Guess we'll call you 'dominie,' you're so fond of preaching. Let's argue." Tom tried to urge him to come on. It was getting late and only by running could they reach college and report before the prescribed hour, nine o'clock. But Langridge was obstinate and would not come. Tom did not want to leave him, for he had heard that Langridge did not stand any too well with the faculty, and a few more demerits would mean that he would have to give up athletics. So Tom determined that, if possible, he would get the foolish lad within bounds in time. But it was a useless undertaking, and Tom heard nine strokes boom out on the chapel bell when they were some distance from college. "That cooks our goose!" he exclaimed. "It doesn't so much matter for me, as it's the first time, but Langridge will suffer if he's caught in this plight." He redoubled his persuasive powers and by dint of much talk at length induced Langridge to get up and come on. But it was half-past nine now and it was twenty minutes to ten, when, with his arm linked in that of the lad he was trying to save in spite of himself, Tom walked up the campus to get to the dormitory. The watchman opened the door at his knock. Langridge had slipped behind Tom and stood in the deep shadow. "After hours," said the man simply. "You will report to the proctor to-morrow morning, Mr. Parsons." "Yes," replied Tom simply. Langridge was moving uneasily about in the shadows on the stone steps. "Any one with you, Mr. Parsons?" "Well--er--that is----" The watchman started to go out, thinking to catch several students. At that instant Langridge, with a cunning evidently born of long experience, circled around Tom on the opposite side to that on which the watchman stood and darted down a small areaway that led to the basement. "Ha! trying to hide!" exclaimed the guardian of the door. "I'll find out who you are!" In the darkness he went down into the areaway. A moment later Langridge had roughly upset him there, and before the man could gain his feet, the pitcher had sprinted up the steps and into the open door of the dormitory and thence along the corridor to his room. The watchman had not had a glimpse of his face. The man came panting up the steps. "Who--who was that with you, Mr. Parsons?" he demanded sternly as he rubbed his bruised shins. Tom took a sudden resolve. There might be a chance for Langridge to escape. "I'm not going to tell," he said firmly but respectfully. "Very well," he replied. "You must report to Mr. Zane in the morning. I'll inform him of this outrage. He'll make you tell who was with you." "I don't believe he will," thought Tom as he went to his room. CHAPTER XXI ON THE GRILL "Well, what's up?" asked Sid as Tom came in. "You're going the pace, aren't you, old man?" and he looked anxiously at his chum, whose face was flushed from the experience through which he had just gone. "I got in late," admitted Tom. "Get caught?" asked Sid, as if that was all that mattered. "Yep, but that's not the worst of it." "What? You don't mean to say you've been caught? Well, of all things. You, one of the 'grinds,' falling a victim." "It wasn't altogether my fault." "How's that?" Tom considered for a moment. Would it be violating the ethical honor of a college boy if he told his chum? Would it be contrary to the spirit of Randall? Tom thought not, merely to let Sid know what had happened. For it would go no further, and, as a matter of fact, several students had seen Tom and Langridge leave town together. Besides, Tom wanted advice. So he told his chum everything from the time of meeting with the sporty students until the sensational retreat of Langridge to his room. "Now, what would you do?" asked Tom. "Keep still and take what's coming or tell the proctor and use that as an excuse for coming in late? It really wasn't my fault." Sid scratched his head. It was a new problem for him. He saw the point Tom made, that by informing on a fellow student, Tom would be held blameless, as indeed he had a right to be. Why should Tom suffer for another's fault? That came plainly to Sid. Yet he only hesitated a moment before answering. "Of course you can't squeal," he said simply. "That's what I thought," agreed Tom, as if that was all there was to it. "I'll have to take what's coming, I s'pose." "Maybe proc. won't be hard on you. You've got a good record." "Fairly. Anyhow, I hope he doesn't cut me out from baseball. Well, I'm going to bed. I wonder if they'll find out about Langridge? If the watchman thought to make a tour of the rooms, he'd discover that he just got in." "He'll not do that. Too many of 'em. Besides, trust Langridge for knowing how to take care of himself. He's getting reckless, though." "Of course you won't say anything to any of the fellows about him playing cards and smoking," went on Tom, but he did not mention the drinking episode, though probably Sid guessed. "Of course not," came the prompt answer, "but it's not fair to the rest of the team. However, I'm not going to make a holler. Hope you come out of it all right. By-by." "Um," grunted Tom, for he was rubbing some of the liniment on his arm and the pungent fumes made him keep his eyes and mouth shut. Sid tumbled into bed, leaving Tom to put out the light, and there was no further talk. Tom undressed slowly. He was in no mood for sleep, for he was much upset over the incident of the night, and he was not a little anxious about the next day and his prospective visit to the proctor. For the first time that he noticed it, the ticking of the alarm clock annoyed him, the fussy, quick strokes making him say over and over again the words of a silly little rhyme as one sometimes, riding in a railroad train, fits to the click of the wheels over the rail joints some bit of doggerel that will not be ousted. "I must be getting nervous," thought Tom. "Wonder if I'm over-training?" This idea gave him such an alarm that it served to change the current of his thoughts, and before he knew it he had fallen asleep over a half-formed resolution to undertake a different sort of gymnasium exercise for a few days. Tom's first visit the next morning after chapel was, as the rules required in such cases, to Proctor Zane. "Well?" inquired that functionary in no pleasant voice as Tom stood before him, for there had been some skylarking in the college the previous night and the proctor had been unable to catch the offenders. "What is it now, Parsons?" He spoke as though Tom was an habitual offender when, as a matter of fact, though the lad had taken his part in pranks, it was only the second time he had been "on the grill," as the process was termed. "I got in after hours last night, sir," reported Tom quietly, though he resented the man's manner. "Ha! So I was informed by the watchman." He looked at Tom antagonistically. "Well," he snapped, "why don't you continue? There's more, isn't there?" "Not that I know of," replied Tom calmly. "I had permission to go to town, but I got in late, that's all." "Oh, is it? What about the student who was with you? Wasn't there some one with you?" "Yes, sir." "And didn't he engage in a fight with the watchman, and, taking advantage of a mean trick, sneak to his room? Didn't he, I ask you?" "I presume the watchman has correctly informed you of what happened." Tom's voice was coldly indifferent now, and the proctor recognized that fact. "He did," he snapped. "And you know of it, too. I expected you to tell me that." "Since when has it been a college rule," asked Tom, "to confess to the doings of another student? I thought that all that was required of me was to report my own infraction of the rules." Tom knew that he was right and that the proctor had no authority to ask him concerning the doings of Langridge, and the proctor knew that he himself was in the wrong, which knowledge, shared as it was by a student, did not add to his good temper. "Then you refuse to say who was with you?" he snapped, his eyes fixed on Tom's face. "I certainly refuse to inform on a fellow student, Mr. Zane," was Tom's answer, "and I don't think you have any right to ask me to do so." If he had stopped with his first half of the reply all might have been well, for certainly the proctor did not expect Tom or any other student to be a tale-bearer, though he always asked them to speak in order to make more easy his own task. But to be practically defied, and by a freshman, was too much for the official, who had a certain dignity of which he was proud. "Ha!" he exclaimed, "you are impertinent, Parsons." "I didn't so intend, sir." "Ha! I don't have to be informed of my rights by you. I know them. You will write me out two hundred lines of Virgil by to-morrow afternoon and you will stand suspended for two weeks, with absolutely no privileges regarding athletics or going away from college!" It was a hard sentence under any circumstances. It was an unjust one in Tom's case, and he knew it. Yet what could he do? "Very well, sir," he replied, trying to overcome a certain trembling feeling in his throat, and he turned to go. "If," went on the proctor in a slightly more conciliatory voice, "you think better of your resolution and let me know the name of the student who so outrageously assaulted the watchman, I may find it possible to mitigate your punishment. Mind, I am not asking you to inform me in an ordinary case of breaking the rules, but for an extraordinary infraction. The watchman has a badly injured leg. So, if you wish to inform me later, I will be glad to hear from you." "I shall not change my mind," said Tom simply. "Nor I mine," added the proctor, jerking out the words quickly. Tom turned on his heel and left the room. CHAPTER XXII DARK DAYS Sid was waiting for Tom outside the proctor's office. "Well?" he asked eagerly as his chum appeared, but it needed only a look at the downcast face to tell that it was not "well" but "ill." "Rusticated!" exclaimed Tom. "For how long?" "Two weeks." "On your own account, or----" "Mainly because I wouldn't tell, I guess. Being out late just once isn't so monstrous." "Of course not. Still you couldn't tell." "Certainly not. It's tough, though. Suspended twice in the first term! I wonder what dad and the girls'll say." "Don't tell 'em." "Oh, I'll have to, but I guess they'll understand." "It certainly is rocky," admitted Sid, "but, do you know, I envy you a bit. It's getting mighty hard in class now. I have to bone away like a Trojan. Pitchfork has it in for me on Latin. I wish I had a vacation." "Without baseball?" asked Tom. "N-o--no, of course not without being on the team. But two weeks are soon over." "Not soon enough," and Tom darted away. "Where you going?" "Back and study. I can't afford to fall behind in my work." "My, but aren't you the grinder, though!" exclaimed Sid, but there was something of envy in his tone for all that. He went into recitation, while Tom continued on to their common room. He was walking along the path that led past Booker Memorial Chapel and paused for a moment to admire the effect of the early sun shining through a stained glass window. The combination of colors was perfect, and Tom, as he stood and looked at a depiction of a biblical scene which represented the Good Samaritan ministering to the stranger, felt somehow that it was a rôle that he himself had had a part in. Then came a revulsion of feeling. "Oh, pshaw! You're getting sentimental in your old age!" he exclaimed half aloud. "You've got to have your share of hard knocks in this world, and you've got to take what comes. But it's queer," he went on in his self-communing, "how Langridge seems to be getting mixed up with me. This is twice I've had to suffer on his account. I'd like--yes, hang it all, what's the use of pretending to yourself--I'd like to take it out of him--in some way. It's not fair--that's what!" The thought of Langridge brought another sort of musing to Tom. He saw a certain fair face, with pouting lips and bright, dancing eyes, a face framed in a fluffy mass of hair, and he fancied he could hear a little laugh, a mocking little laugh. "Worse and worse," growled Tom to himself. "You're getting dopy. Better go take a long walk." He kicked impatiently at a stone in the path and wheeled around just as a voice exclaimed: "Ah, Parsons, admiring the windows? The color effects are never so beautiful as early morning and the evening. The garish light of day seems to make them common. But--er--are you going to recitation? If so, I'll walk along with you," and genial Dr. Churchill, with a friendly nod of his head and a twinkle in his deep-set eyes, came closer to the lad. Tom wondered if the good doctor knew of the punishment that had just been meted out. If he did not he soon would have the report of the proctor for confirmation. "I've been suspended," blurted out Tom. "I was going to my room to study." "Suspended, Parsons! This is the second time, isn't it?" There was surprise and dismay in the doctor's voice. "Yes, sir, but----" Tom paused. How much should he tell, how much leave unsaid? "How did it happen?" asked the head of the college, and he placed his arm on Tom's shoulder in a friendly fashion. Tom said afterward that it was just as if he had been hypnotized. Before he knew it he was telling the whole story. "But I never mentioned the name of Langridge," he protested to Sid, to whom later he related all the events. "I never even hinted at it, but for all that I believe Moses knew. He's a regular corkscrew." Dr. Churchill was silent after the recital, a recital rather brokenly made, but containing all the essential facts. "Suspended for two weeks!" he murmured when Tom had finished. "With no athletics," added Tom. "Not even to see the games that are to be played here, and there are to be two." "Hum," mused the doctor. "Well, you know we must have discipline here, Parsons. Without it we would soon have chaos. But--ah--er--hum! Well, come and see me this evening. I will have a talk with Mr. Zane. He has to be strict, you know, very strict under certain circumstances, but--er--um--come and see me to-night." "What do you s'pose he wants?" asked Sid when Tom had told him of the meeting. "Blessed if I know, unless it's to give me a lecture on my conduct." "No, Moses isn't that kind." "He's going to restore to you all the rights and privileges of a student," declared Phil Clinton, who, together with some others of Tom's chums, was in his room. "My uncle says----" began Ford Fenton, but instantly there was a protesting howl. "Give me that water pitcher!" demanded Sid of Phil. "This isn't fit to drink," was the remonstrance. "I know it, but Fenton needs a bath, don't you, Ford? Your uncle! Say, the next time you say that we'll make you repeat the first book of Cæsar backward, eh, fellows?" "That's right," came in a chorus. "Well," went on Fenton in somewhat aggrieved tones, "he once told me----" "Write it out," expostulated Phil. "Move he be given leave to print," came from Sid, who had once heard a long debate in Congress. There was laughter and more chaffing of luckless Fenton, whose uncle, from his own making, was like unto a millstone hung about his neck. "Well, all the same, I'd like to know what Moses wants of you," said Phil, and the others agreed with him. "I'll let you know when I come back," said Tom. "It's early; you can all stay here for a while." He returned in half an hour from his call on the head of the college. "Well?" demanded his chums of him. "Great!" he cried. "He received me in his study. Say, were you ever there? It's a fine place. Books, books, books all over. The floor was piled full of them. There was a fire going on the grate and he was sitting there, reading some book with the queerest letters in it." "Sanskrit," ventured Phil. "I guess so. Well, he brought up a chair for me, and----" "Oh, for the love of Dionysius! give us some facts," cried Sid. "What happened?" "Well, he said he'd had a talk with the proctor and he removed the worst part of my suspension. I can go to the two games here with Boxer Hall and Fairview, but I can't play. I couldn't, anyhow, on account of my arm, so that's all right. And I can attend the special lectures in biology, which I hated to miss. I can't recite for two weeks, but I don't mind that. It's all right. I'll vote for Moses every time!" "I should say yes," agreed Phil. "He's white, he is. But Zane--ugh! He's----" "Treason," counseled Sid quietly. "The walls may not have ears, but the keyhole has. Better cut it, fellows, the time is almost up, and Zane's scouts will be sneaking around." The other lads departed, leaving Tom and Sid alone. "What about your pitching?" asked Sid. "Well, I'll have to give my arm a rest, Mr. Lighton says, so this comes in the nature of a special providence. It isn't so bad as it looked at first." But, in spite of his philosophy, there were dark days for Tom. It was hard to be deprived of the chance to play on the scrub and he missed the daily recitations. His arm, too, began to trouble him, and he was obliged to go to a doctor for treatment, though the medical man said all it needed was a little massage and rest. Tom, in his eagerness to excel, had overworked the muscles. Meanwhile the 'varsity nine was kept busy at practice or with league and other games. Word came that both the Boxer and Fairview nines had greatly improved, chiefly by shifting their players about, and the Randall coach and captain wore serious looks as they "sized up" the work of the Randall team. There came a contest with Fairview Institute on the Randall diamond. It was a "hot" game and Fairview won. There was anguish of heart among the Randall students and it was not assuaged when, the next week, Boxer, playing on the Randall grounds, took away a game with them, the score being 8 to 2. "Two drubbings in two successive weeks," exclaimed Kindlings. "What are we going to do?" "One thing we've got to do is to improve in pitching," declared the coach, and when some one brought word of this to Tom his heart, that had been heavy during the two weeks of suspension, grew lighter. "Maybe I'll get a chance," he said to Sid. "It would make up for everything if I did." "No one wants to see you in the box any more than I do, old chap," spoke Sid fervently. CHAPTER XXIII AT THE DANCE It was the night of the junior dance, an annual affair second only in importance to commencement and a function attended, as Holly Cross used to say, "by all the beauty and chivalry of Haddonfield and all points north, south, east and west." On this occasion all strictly partisan college feelings were laid aside. Forgotten were the grudges engendered by hazings or the rivalries of the field. It was an evening devoted to pleasure, and, on the part of the juniors at least, to seeing that their girl friends and acquaintances danced to their hearts' content. "Tom," cried Sid as they were dressing in their room, "does this dress suit seem to fit?" "Well, it might be a little larger across the shoulders," was Tom's answer as he turned around from an attempt to get his tie just right and surveyed his chum. "That's what I thought. I'm outgrowing it. I'm afraid it will split when I'm dancing, and I'll be a pretty sight, won't I? I'll disgrace the girl. Hang it all, I hate a dress suit. I always remind myself of some new specimen of a bug, and I think some entomological professor will come along, run a pin through me and impale me on a cork. In fact I'd just as soon he would as to go through this agony again." "Nonsense. You'll enjoy it," ventured Tom. "Maybe--after it's all over." But he managed somehow to wiggle himself into the garments and then, having asked a girl to the affair, he set off after her in a coach he had hired. Tom had not invited any one, but he heard that Miss Tyler was to be there and from the same source of information he knew that Langridge was to escort her. "In which case," reflected Tom, "I shall probably not have a chance to dance with her." The gymnasium had been turned into a ballroom. Around the gallery, which contained the indoor running track, flags and bunting had been festooned, the colors of Randall being prominent. From the center electric chandelier long streamers of ribbon of the mingled hues of each class were draped to the boxes that had been constructed on two sides of the room. There was a profusion of flowers and with the soft glow of the shaded lights the big apartment that was wont to resound to the blows of the punching bag, the bound of the medicine ball or the patter of running feet was most magically transformed. Over in one corner, screened by a bank of palms, was the orchestra, the musicians of which were tuning their instruments in thrilling chords which always tell of joys to come. The guests were arriving. Bewildering bevies of pretty girls floated in with their escorts, who showed the tan and bronze of the sporting field or the whiter hue of a "dig" who spent most of his time over his books. Then came the chaperons, grave, dignified, in rustling silks, a strange contrast to the light, fluffy garments worn by the younger set. Tom felt rather lonesome as he strolled out on the waxed floor, for most of his chums had girls to whom they were attentive, and of course they could not be expected to look after him. "Hello, Parsons!" called a voice, and he turned to see one of the Jersey twins. Which one it was he could not determine, for if Jerry and Joe Jackson looked alike when in their ball suits or ordinary clothes, there was even less of difference when they wore formal black, with the expanse of shirt showing. "Hello!" responded Tom. "I'm Jerry," went on the twin. "I thought I'd tell you. My brother and I are going to play a joke to-night." "What is it?" "Joe's going to get talking to a girl and then he's going to excuse himself for a moment. I'll take his place and I'll pretend I don't know what she's talking about when the girl tries to continue the conversation. I'll make believe I've come back to the wrong girl. Great, isn't it?" "Yes, except maybe for the girl." "Oh, we'll beg her pardon afterward. Got to have some fun. I'm on the arrangement committee and I'm nearly crazy seeing that every one has a good time. Got your name down on all the cards you want?" "I haven't it on any yet." "No? That's a shame! Come on and I'll fix you up," and the good-natured Jerry dragged Tom about, introducing him to an entrancing quartet of pretty girls and then Tom knew enough to do the rest, which included scribbling his name down for a whole or a half dance as the case might be. He had just finished this very satisfactory work when he heard his name called and turned to see Miss Tyler smiling at him. "I'm awfully glad to see you," he exclaimed, starting impulsively toward her with outstretched hand. "May I have a dance?" "Only one?" she asked with a laugh. "All of them, if you can spare them," he said boldly. "Greedy boy! I'm afraid you're too late. You may look," and she held out her card. Tom, with regret, saw that it contained the initials "F. L." in many places. There was only one two-step vacant. "Some one else has been greedy, too," he said as he filled in the space. "Let me see," she demanded, and she made a little pout. "How dare he think I'm going to give all those to him!" she exclaimed. "Here, Tom, let me have your pencil. I never can write with the ridiculous affairs they attach to dance programs." She used the lead vigorously on the card and then let Tom see it again. His name was in three places, and, to his surprise, on the last waltz he saw that the girl had written his initials under those of Langridge. "What does that mean?" he asked. "It means that I'm going to share the last dance with you," she almost whispered, "in memory of old times," and she nodded. "Don't forget now," and she shook her finger at him. "As if I would!" exclaimed Tom. The music began a march as the opening of the dance and the couples took their places, Langridge coming up almost on the run to claim Miss Tyler. He looked sharply at Tom. "How are you, dominie?" he asked with a nod, intended to be friendly, and then he led the girl away. Tom had no partner for the march and he stood about disconsolately until the first dance. Then he went to claim his partner, whom Jerry Jackson had secured for him, a pretty little girl in a yellow dress who was a fine dancer. "I wish you had another open date--I--er--I mean that you could give me another dance," he corrected himself quickly from the language of the ball field. "I can," she said simply, and she gave him a quick glance, for Tom was a fine dancer. He scribbled his name down and then had to relinquish her to another partner. Two dances after that, however, Tom was privileged to claim Miss Tyler. As he was leading her into the waltz Langridge came hurrying up. "I thought this was my dance, Madge--Miss Tyler," he stammered. "I wanted to vary the monotony," she said with a little laugh that had no malice in it. "How is your arm, dominie?" she asked of Tom, looking up into his face and smiling as she gave him the nickname conferred on him by Langridge. "Oh, much better," he answered. "How did you hear?" "Oh, the proverbial bird, I suppose. You had to stay away from class two weeks on account of it, didn't you?" "No," exclaimed Tom quickly, "not on _that_ account." "Oh!" she cried, struck by the change in Tom's voice. "I--I heard so." "Did Langridge tell you that?" "Yes," was her answer. "Well, it was partly on that account," and Tom turned the conversation away from what he considered a dangerous subject. If Langridge cherished any ill will toward Tom for taking away Miss Tyler the 'varsity pitcher did not show it. But Tom noticed that he was not far from the girl's side the remainder of the evening. "I wonder if she doesn't believe what I told her about him," thought Tom. "Well, I'm not going to say anything more. Let her find out for herself. Only--well, what's the use?" and he went to claim another dance elsewhere. It was the last waltz. Around the brilliant, gaily decorated room swung the dancers to the strains of the enthralling music. Langridge skilfully led Miss Tyler in and out among the maze of couples. The music turned into another melody. "I think this is about half," she said. "About half? What do you mean?" "Well, you were so greedy," she explained, laughter in her eyes, "that I had to punish you. I gave half this last dance to--to the dominie," and her lips parted in a smile. "Well, I like that!" spluttered Langridge, but just then Tom, who had been summoned from the "side lines" by a signal from Miss Tyler, came to claim her. "I like your nerve, Parsons!" snapped Langridge, glad to be able to transfer his wrath to a foeman more worthy of it. "It was my doing, Mr. Langridge," said the girl with some dignity. "You had no right----" began the 'varsity pitcher. "I fancy Miss Tyler is the best judge of that," spoke Tom coolly as he took the girl's hand. "Is she?" sneered Langridge. "Maybe she knows who brought her to this affair then! If she does, she can find some one else to take her away," and he swung off. For an instant Miss Tyler stood looking at him. The dancers whirled around the couple standing there and the music sounded sweetly. There was the suspicion of tears in her eyes. "He had no right to say that!" she burst out. "Indeed, no," agreed Tom. "But, since he has, may I have the honor of being your escort?" "Yes," she said, and then, with a revulsion of feeling, she added, "Oh, Tom, I don't feel like dancing now. Take me home, please!" CHAPTER XXIV DRESS SUITS COME HIGH So after all, Tom did not get the last half of the last waltz with Miss Tyler. He did not much care, however, for, as matters turned out, he had a longer time in her company. The girl soon recovered her usual spirits and the walk to where she was stopping with relatives in Haddonfield seemed all too short to Tom. "Will you be at the game Saturday?" he asked as they were about to part. "What game?" "Over at Fairview. Our team is going to try and run up a big score against them." "I hadn't thought of going." "Then won't you please think now?" pleaded Tom, with an odd air of patheticness, at which Miss Tyler laughed gaily. "Well, perhaps I shan't find that so _very_ difficult," she replied. "And if you think real hard, can you get a mental picture of your humble servant taking you to that game?" Tom was very much in earnest, though his air was bantering. "Well," she answered tantalizingly, "I do seem to see a sort of hazy painting to that effect." "Good! It will grow more distinct with time. I'll call for you, then. A number of the boys are going to charter a little steamer and sail down the river, and into the lake. We'll land at a point about four miles from Fairview, and go over in some automobiles." "That will be jolly!" "I'm glad you think so. Is the picture any clearer?" "Oh, yes, much so. I think the autos have cleared away the mist. Aren't we silly, though?" she asked. "Not a bit of it," declared Tom stoutly. "I'll be on hand here for you, then, shortly after lunch on Saturday." "Is the nine going that way?" Tom felt a sudden suspicion. Was she asking because she wanted to know whether Langridge would be in the party of merrymakers? "No, I think they're going in a big stage." "I thought maybe you might want to be with the nine," she went on, and Tom saw that he had misunderstood. "You might get a chance to pitch," and she looked at him. "No such luck," replied Tom, trying to speak cheerfully, but finding it hard work. "Well, I'll say good-night, or, rather, good-morning. When I write home I must tell my folks about meeting you here." "Yes, do. I've already written to mine, telling what a fine time I'm having." Tom was rather thoughtful on his way home. He stumbled into his dark room, nearly falling over something. "What's the matter?" asked Sid, who was in bed. "That's what I want to know," replied Tom, striking a match. "Why don't you keep your patent leathers out of the middle of the floor?" he demanded. "I did, Tommy, me lad, as Bricktop Molloy would say, but I had to throw them out there later." "How's that?" "Mice. Two of the cute little chaps sitting in the middle of the floor, eating some nuts that dropped out of my pocket. I stretched out on the bed without undressing when I came in from the dance, and must have fallen asleep, with the light burning. When I woke up I saw the mice staring at me, and I heaved my shoes at the beggars, for I'd taken 'em off--my shoes, I mean--when I came in, as my feet hurt from dancing so much. Then I doused the glim and turned in, for I knew you wouldn't be along until daylight." "Why not?" "Oh, I saw you going off with her. I admire your taste, old man, but it must be hard on Langridge." "It's his own fault." "So I understand. I heard about it." "Um," murmured Tom, for he did not want to talk about Miss Tyler and her affairs--at least not yet. There are some things that one likes to ponder over, and think about--all alone. The game with Fairview was looked forward to with more than ordinary interest, for the season was about half over, and a partial estimate could be made of the chances for the championship. Up to this time the three teams in the league had been running nearly even, with Randall, if anything, a trifle in the lead, not so much regarding the number of games won, but counting form. In the last two weeks, however, Fairview and Boxer had been doing some hard work, and in games between those colleges Fairview had some the best of it. If, on the occasion that was approaching, Randall won, it would put her nine in the lead, and if, on the contrary, she lost it would mean that she would be the "tail-ender," though only a few points behind Boxer, which would be second. "We've just got to win!" declared Sid, one afternoon, following a severe game with the scrub, who had played the 'varsity to a tie in eleven innings. "That's right," admitted the coach. "But I think we will. We have improved all around lately." This was true, more especially in the case of Langridge. Since the affair of the junior dance he had not spoken to Tom, and had taken pains to avoid him. But the 'varsity pitcher was certainly doing better work. The day before the game with Fairview, Coach Lighton called Tom to one side. "I think you had better prepare to go as a sub to-morrow," he said. "Why, is Langridge----" burst out Tom, a wild hope filling his heart. "No, it isn't our pitcher. But I understand Sid is falling back in his Latin, and he may not be allowed to play. In that case I'll have to do some shifting, and I _may_ be able to give you a place in the field." "Well, I don't want to see Sid left, but I would like a chance." Tom was in rather a quandary. He had arranged to take Miss Tyler, and he could not, if he went with the team as a sub. He hardly knew what to do about it, and was on the point of going over to see her, and explain, when Sid came bursting into the room. "Blood! blood! I want blood!" he cried as he threw his Latin grammar against the wall with such force that the covers came off. "What ho! most worthy knight!" replied Tom gently. "In sooth, gentle sir, what hath befallen thee?" "Heaps!" replied Sid. "Oh, Pitchfork, would I had thee here!" and he wadded up the table cover, and pretended to choke it. "What now?" asked Tom. "Oh, he put me through a course of sprouts for further orders this afternoon," explained Sid. "Thought he'd catch me, but I managed to wiggle through. Nearly gave me heart disease, though, for fear I'd have to be out of the game to-morrow. But I managed to save myself, much to the surprise of Pitchfork. Now I want my revenge on him." "What can you do?" "I don't know--nothing, I guess. I wish--hold on!" Sid struck a thoughtful attitude, looked fixedly at the floor, then at the ceiling, and finally cried: "Eureka!" "Has some one been playing hob with your crown?" asked Tom, referring to the exclamation said to have been made by the ancient king, when he discovered, in his bath, a means of finding out if his jeweler had cheated him. "No, but I've found a way to get even with Pitchfork." "How?" "Listen, and I will a tale unfold--a spike-tail at that. When I was coming in from recitation, disgusted with life in general, and with the Roman view of it, particularly, I met Wallops the messenger. He had a bundle under his arm, and you know what a talker he is. Confided to me that he was taking Pitchfork's best suit to the tailor's to be pressed, and his dress-suit to have new buttons put on, and some other fixings done. Pitchfork is going to a swell reception to-night, and will wear his glad rags. All he has now is his classroom suit, and you know what that is--all chalk and chemical stains when he goes into the laboratory once in a while on the relief shift." "I don't seem to follow you." "You will soon. See, as it stands now Pitchfork is without a decent suit he can wear, and he's such a peculiar build that no other professor's garments will fit him." "Well?" "Well, when he wants his dress-suit to go to the blow-out to-night, he's going to learn something new." "What's that?" "Just this. That dress-suits come high this time of the year! It's going to be the best joke yet. Now, ladies and gentlemen, with your kind permission and attention I will endeavor to give you a correct imitation of Professor Pitchfork hunting high and low for his glad rags--particularly high. I will roll back my cuffs, to show you that I have nothing concealed up my sleeves. Now, commodore, a little slow music, please," and Sid, who had assumed the rôle of a vaudeville performer, pretended to nod to an imaginary leader of an orchestra. CHAPTER XXV TOM IN A GAME "Want any help?" asked Tom, when Sid had outlined his scheme of "revenge." "No, I guess not, until I get ready to pull the strings. Then you can give me a hand. We'll have to do it after dark, and be mighty careful not to be caught, though." "But how are you going to get the suit?" "I have a plan. Watch your Uncle Dudley." Sid spent the rest of the afternoon in making up a bundle to look like one that contained two suits just from the tailor shop. Only, in place of clothes he used old newspapers. It was toward dusk when he went out with it under his arm. "It's about time Wallops was coming back," he said to Tom. "I'll meet him in the clump of elms, where it's good and dark, and he can't tell who I am." "Be careful," warned his roommate. "Sure. But I know what I'm about. Revenge is sweet! Wow! Wait until you see the face of Pitchfork!" Sid stole carefully along to a spot near the edge of the river, where a clump of big elm trees grew. This was near the bridge on the road to Haddonfield. The spot was lonely and deserted enough at this hour to suit his purpose, and the dusk of the evening, being added to by clouds, and by the shadows of the trees, made concealment easy. "I guess that's Wallops," murmured Sid as he peered out from behind a tree. "That walks like Wallops, and he's got a bundle under his arm. Now for a grand transformation scene." Awaiting the psychological moment, Sid hurried out, and bumped into the college messenger. Wallops' bundle was knocked from under his arm, and, by a strange coincidence, so was Sid's. "I beg your pardon!" exclaimed the student in an assumed voice. "Awfully careless of me, I'm sure. I beg a thousand pardons! I was in a hurry, and I didn't notice you. Is this the road to Haddonfield?" "That's all right," replied Wallops good naturedly as his pardon was begged again. "Yes, keep straight on, and you'll come to the trolley that runs to Haddonfield." "Let me restore your bundle to you," went on Sid, picking up both parcels. He handed one to the messenger, and kept one himself. "'Twas yours, 'tis mine; 'twas his, 'tis ours," he paraphrased. "Again let me express my sincere sorrow at this happening. I trust there was nothing in your package that could be damaged when I knocked it from your grasp." "No, nothing but some clothes of one of the college professors. It's all right." "And I'm sure my package isn't damaged," said Sid, in a queer voice, as he hurried away. A little later he was telling Tom, with much mirth, how it all came about. The two, in the seclusion of their room, opened the bundle, and saw two suits, one full dress. "Won't he howl when he finds nothing but a lot of newspapers!" exclaimed Sid. "Now for the rest of the trick." "Maybe he'll borrow a dress suit from some student," said Tom. "Not much he won't," replied Sid. "I thought of that, and I forwarded a message by wireless to all the dormitories that if Pitchfork sent around to borrow some glad rags, he was to be refused on some pretext or other." Sid's precaution was well taken. A little later it was evident that something unusual had occurred. Wallops and several other college messengers were seen hurrying first to the rooms of one professor, then to the apartments of another. Each time the scouts came back empty-handed to that part of the faculty residence where Professor Tines dwelt. "I knew they had no spike-tails that would fit him," exulted Sid. "Besides, most of them are going to the reception themselves." There was consternation in the apartments of Professor Tines. Wallops had delivered to him the bundle of papers, and when the astonished instructor had threatened and questioned him, the unfortunate messenger could only say it was the package he had received from the tailor. That worthy, on being appealed to by telephone, declared that he had sent home the professor's garments. Wallops had no idea that the stranger he met in the wood had played a transformation trick on him, and Professor Tines, in his anxiety to get dressed, and go to the reception, did not dream that it was a student prank. Rather he blamed the tailor, and made up his mind to sue the man for heavy damages. Then, just as Sid had expected, the instructor endeavored to borrow a dress-suit from one of the students. But they had been warned, and were either going to wear their suits themselves, or had just sent them to the tailor. "What shall I do?" wailed Professor Tines. "I can't go in this suit," and he looked at his acid-and-chalk-marked classroom garments. "Yet I was to read a paper on early Roman life at this reception. It is too provoking. I can't understand why none of the students have a suit available." "You could have one of mine, only----" began Dr. Churchill as he looked first at the figure of the professor, and then at himself. "I'm afraid it wouldn't fit," he added. "No--no, of course not!" exclaimed Mr. Tines distractedly. "I will telephone that rascally tailor again. Never, never shall he press another suit of mine!" But the knight of the goose and needle insisted that the professor's clothes had been sent home, and that was all there was to it. Mr. Tines could not go to the reception, and, as it was an important affair, where nearly all of the faculty was expected to be present, he was grievously disappointed. When all was quiet that night a party of students, including Sid and Tom, stole out to the campus. They worked quickly and silently. "There!" exclaimed Sid, when all was finished. "I rather guess that will astonish him!" In the morning the attention of most of the college students, and several of the faculty, was attracted to a throng of passersby staring up at the flagstaff. They would halt, point upward, make some remarks, and then, laughing, pass on. Some one called the attention of Dr. Churchill to it. "Why, bless my soul!" he exclaimed as he prepared to go out. "I hope none of the students have put the flag at half mast or upside down." He put on his far-seeing spectacles, and walked out on the campus. There, at the top of the pole, was a figure which looked like a man, with outstretched arms. "What student has dared climb up there?" exclaimed the head of the college. "Send for Mr. Zane at once," he added to Professor Newton, who had accompanied him. "He must be severely punished--the venturesome student, I mean." "I hardly think that is a student," replied Mr. Newton. "Do you mean to say it is some outsider?" "I think it is no one at all, Dr. Churchill. I believe it is an effigy. See how stiff the arms and legs are." "I believe you are right," admitted the venerable doctor. His belief was confirmed a moment later, for a farmer, who was driving along the river road, left his team, and came up the campus, a broad smile covering his face. "Good-morning, Dr. Churchill," he said. "Is this a new course in eddercation you're givin' the boys?" "Ah, good-morning, Mr. Oakes. What do you mean?" "Why, I see you've got a scarecrow up on that liberty pole. I thought maybe you was addin' a course in agriculture to your studies. Only if I was you I wouldn't put a scarecrow up so high. There ain't no need of it. One low down will do jest as well. And another thing, I allers uses old clothes. There ain't no sense in puttin' a swallertail coat an' a low-cut vest on a scarecrow. Them birds will be jest as skeert of an old coat and a pair of pants stuffed with straw as they will of a dress-suit. That's carryin' things a leetle too fur!" and the farmer laughed heartily. "Dress-suit! Scarecrow!" exclaimed Dr. Churchill, and then he got a glimpse of the figure on top of the pole. It was arrayed in a full-dress suit, and Professor Tines, coming out a moment later, beheld his missing garments. "This is an outrage!" he declared. "I demand the instant dismissal of the student or students responsible for this, Dr. Churchill!" Dr. Churchill tried hard not to smile, but he had to turn his face away. [Illustration: DR. CHURCHILL HAD TO TURN HIS FACE AWAY] "I am greatly obliged to you, Mr. Oakes, for your information," said the head of the college to the farmer, who was still laughing. "Our improvised scarecrow shall be taken down at once." "Scarecrow!" exclaimed Professor Tines. "I think----" But wrath choked his utterance. "I demand that my suit be taken down at once!" he went on, after a pause, "and that the guilty ones be punished!" "They shall be, I assure you," promised Dr. Churchill, "when I learn who they are. If you hear, professor, let me know." "I shall. But I want my suit. Perhaps it is ruined." But a new difficulty now arose, for Sid and his fellow conspirators had fastened the halyards high up on the pole, and it was not until Professor Tines had sent Wallops for a ladder that the ropes could be untied and the suit lowered. During this process a group of students gathered at a respectful distance from the flagstaff and looked on interestedly. But, though a strict inquiry was made, no one was ever punished for the "scarecrow joke" as it came to be called, and it is now one of the traditions of Randall College. Owing to the fact that Sid had "made good" in Latin he was not barred from the game that day, and there was no chance for Tom to act as substitute. He went with Miss Tyler, and the trip on the river, lake, and in the auto was a delightful one. There was a big crowd on the bleachers and grandstand when the nines began to play, and rivalry in singing college songs, giving college yells and waving college colors ran high. Randall got two runs in the first inning, and for three more Fairview secured only zeros. Langridge was pitching fine ball. Then Lem Sellig, who was doing the "twirling" for Fairview, seemed to warm up to his work, and struck out a surprising number of men. In the seventh inning Fairview secured five runs, and in the eighth they reeled off five more, for Langridge grew reckless, and not only gave men their bases on balls in rapid succession, but struck two men, which gave them free passes to first. "He's going to pieces!" exclaimed Coach Lighton as he saw the score piling up against his men. "It's got to stop, or we'll be the laughing stock of the league." Yet he did not like to take Langridge out. Captain Woodhouse was angry clear through, and as for Kerr, he openly insulted the pitcher. "What's the matter?" the catcher cried after a particularly bad series of balls and a fumble on the part of Langridge that let in a run. "You're rotten to-day!" Langridge flushed, but his face had been rosy-hued before that, and twice he had gone to the dressing rooms, whence he came odorous of cloves. Then the "rooters" seeing their game took up cries of derision against the pitcher, in an endeavor to "get his goat." Langridge bit his lips and threw in a fierce ball. There were two out, but it looked as if it would go on that way indefinitely. Frank Sullivan, a good batter, hit it fairly, but Joe Jackson, out in left field, made a desperate run for it, and got the ball. It was a sensational catch, and was roundly applauded. When Randall came to the bat for the last time the score was 12 to 2 in favor of their opponents. "We can't win," said Kindlings hopelessly. "No, but for the love of Mike, don't let them roll up any bigger score against us, or they'll put us out of the league," begged Bricktop Molloy. "Speak to Langridge, and tell him to hold hard." "What's the use speaking to him?" asked Kerr gloomily. "He'll go off his handle if I do. He told me never to speak to him again, just because I called him down a bit. Land knows he needed it!" "We've got to make a change," decided the coach. "I'll not let Langridge pitch next inning. If he does I'll resign, and I'll tell him so." He walked over to the pitcher, and soon the two were in earnest conversation. Randall could not make another run, for Sellig was doing his best and they did not get a hit off him. "Our only chance is to strike them out," murmured Kerr as he arose from the bench to take his place. "Who's going to pitch, Mr. Lighton?" "Tom Parsons." "Tom Parsons? What's the matter with our regular substitute, Evert?" "His arm is no good and he's out of practice. I'm going to put Tom in." And much to his astonishment Tom was summoned from the grandstand, where he was talking to Miss Tyler about the slump. "Me pitch? Are you sure Mr. Lighton sent you for me?" he asked Jerry Jackson, who had brought the message. "Sure. Come on and get into part of a uniform." "Yes, do go," urged Miss Tyler. "I--I hope you beat them." "It's too late for that now," replied Tom sadly as he walked down from the stand. A little later he was in the box, facing Roger Barns, one of the best hitters on the Fairview team. Tom was nervous, there is no denying that, but he held himself well in control. It was the goal of his ambition--to pitch on the 'varsity, and he was now realizing it. True, it was almost an empty honor, but he resolved to do his best, and this thought steeled his nerves, even though the crowd hooted at him. And he struck out the first three men up, at which his college chums went wild, for it was all they had to rejoice over in the game. CHAPTER XXVI THE FRESHMAN DINNER They wanted Tom to ride back to the college with the team and the substitutes, but he would not leave Miss Tyler, and, though he was torn between two desires, he went back to the girl. Moreover, he had an idea that it would not be altogether pleasant riding in the same stage with Langridge, who, he had heard whispered, made strenuous objection when Coach Lighton ordered him to give place to Tom. "He'll be down on me more than ever," thought Tom as he made his way back to the grandstand, which was rapidly emptying. "Well, I can't help it." "Your arm must be much better," remarked Miss Tyler as Tom came up to her. "You pitched finely." "Well, I've had plenty of practice," was his answer. "I fancy Langridge was tired out," he added generously. "It's no fun to pitch a losing game." "But you did." "Oh, well, it was my first chance on the 'varsity, and I would have welcomed it if the score had been a hundred to nothing." "Will you pitch regularly now?" "I don't know. I hope----" But Tom stopped. He had almost forgotten that Miss Tyler was very friendly to Langridge, in spite of the little scene at the dance. For two days after the disastrous game with Fairview Langridge sulked in his room and would not report for practice. He talked somewhat wildly about Tom, the latter heard, and practically accused him of being responsible for his disgrace. He even said Tom was intriguing against him to win away his friends; meaning Kerr especially, for the 'varsity catcher announced that he was done with Langridge as far as sociability was concerned. But Kerr, hearing this, came to Tom's defense, and stated openly that it was Langridge himself who was to blame. Mr. Lighton would stand for no nonsense, and ordered Evert into the pitcher's box, promising that Tom should have the next chance. He would have made Tom the regular substitute but for the fact that Evert, by right of seniority, was entitled to it. Hearing this news, Langridge came out of his sulks and resumed practice. "I have a large framed picture of Randall winning the league pennant," announced Sid gloomily one night as he and Tom were sitting in their room. "Our stock is about fifty below par now, and with only a few more games to play, we've practically got to win them all in order to top the league." "Maybe we'll do it," said Tom, in an endeavor to be cheerful. "We might, if you pitched, but Langridge is that mean that he'll keep in just good enough form so Mr. Lighton won't send him to the bench, and that's all. He won't do his best--no, I'll not say that. He is doing his best, but--well, something's wrong, and I guess I'm not the only one who knows it." "No," said Tom quietly. "I do and have for some time. It's been a puzzle to know what to do; keep still and let the 'varsity be beaten or squeal on Langridge." "Oh, one can't squeal, you know." "No, that's what I thought, especially in my case. It would look as if I was grinding my own ax." "That's so. No, you can't say anything. But it's tough luck. Maybe something will turn up. We've got a couple of games on our own grounds next, and we may do better. If we don't, we may as well order our funeral outfits. Well, I'm going to bone away at this confounded Latin. Ten thousand maledictions be upon the head of the Roman who invented it!" Sid opened his book, and studied for half an hour. Tom likewise was busily engaged, and only the ticking of the clock was heard, when suddenly there came a gentle tap on the door. "Who's there?" demanded Tom. "Yellow, sky-blue and maroon," was the reply, which indicated that a freshman was without, that being the password. "Flagpole," answered Sid, which being translated meant that it was safe to enter, no member of the faculty nor scout of the proctor's being nigh. Dutch Housenlager pushed open the portal and entered. He looked carefully around, and then, coming on tiptoe to the middle of the room, after having carefully shut the door, said in a whisper: "It's all arranged!" "Nay, nay, kind sir," retorted Sid, with a shake of his head. "Nay nay what?" demanded Dutch indignantly. "No tricks to-night," went on Sid. "We're two virtuous young men. We belong to the ancient and honorable order of _infra digs_ to-night, Dutch. Too near the exams. Thus did I exclaim 'nay, nay, kind sir.' We are not to be tempted, nay, even if it were to take mine ancient enemy, Pitchfork, and drop him into the lake; eh, Tom?" "Yes. I can't afford to take any chances. Twice bitten once shy, or words to that effect, you know. I, too, am delving into the hidden paths that lead to the spring of which the poet doth sing." "Say, you two give me a sore feeling in the cranium!" exclaimed Dutch as he sank into the easy chair with force enough almost to disrupt it. "Who's asking you to play any tricks?" "Aren't you?" "No." "_Fiat justitia, ruat coelum!_" exclaimed Tom, with mock heroics. "We have done you an injustice, most noble Dutchman. Say on, and we will hear thee." "I've a good notion not to," said Housenlager a bit sulkily. "Here I come in to tell you fellows a piece of news, and I find you boning away, and when I start to talk you spout Latin mottoes at me. I've a good notion to dig out." "Stay! Stay, dear friend!" cried Tom, laughing. "There, we'll chuck studying for to-night, eh, Sid?" "Sure. I'm sick of it." "Now, say on," invited Tom. Somewhat mollified, Dutch took an easier position in the creaking chair, thereby raising a cloud of dust, and remarked: "Well, the freshman dinner will come off to-morrow night. It's just been decided." "Honest?" cried Sid. "Sure. Our committee has everything in shape, and we'll fool the sophs this time. Ford Fenton and I have been going around notifying the fellows. You see, we had to keep it quiet, because those sophs will put it on the blink if they can." "Sure they will," agreed Tom. "Where is it to be----" He stopped suddenly, for there was the sound of footsteps in the hall outside. "Some one is spying," whispered Sid. Softly he opened the door and then he laughed. "It's Fenton," he said as the other entered. "All through?" asked Dutch of his partner. "Yes. I don't believe the sophs suspect. A few years ago, when the freshmen had a dinner, the sophs ate it all up, and my uncle says----" Tom significantly reached for a heavy book, and Ford, with a disappointed look, stopped his reminiscence. "It's to be in Cardigan Hall, in town," explained Dutch, "and we'll start from here in a----" He paused in a listening attitude and tiptoed over to the door. Throwing the portal open suddenly, he darted into the hall, the others crowding up close to see what was going on. "Some one was out there," declared Dutch as he came back, "but I couldn't catch him. Maybe it was only one of our boys, though. Now I'll tell you the plans," and he proceeded to go into them into detail, telling Tom and Sid where to join the other freshmen the next night, in order to steal away to Haddonfield and hold their banquet undisturbed by the sophomores. Tom and Sid promised to be on hand, and the two members of the committee departed, Ford Fenton being unable to tell what it was his uncle had said. As Tom saw their guests to the door, something bright and shining in the hall attracted his attention. "It's a matchbox," he remarked as he picked it up. "It's got initials on, too." "What are they?" "Hum--look like H. E. G." "Horace E. Gladdus," said Sid. "I wonder if he was sneaking around here trying to catch on about the dinner?" CHAPTER XXVII TOM IS KIDNAPPED For a moment Tom looked at Sid. The same thought was in both their minds. "Had we better tell Dutch?" asked Tom. "It wouldn't be a bad plan." "All right, I'll let him know. If Gladdus and his crowd find out our plans they'll spoil 'em." So Tom hastened after Dutch Housenlager and related the finding of the matchbox and the suspicion engendered by it--that Gladdus had been listening in the hall. "All right," remarked Dutch. "We'll change our plans a bit. I'll see you later." Tom and Sid did not feel like resuming their studies after what had happened. Instead they sat talking of the prospective dinner, Sid stretched lazily at full length on the sofa, while Tom luxuriously sprawled in the easy chair. "I tell you what it is, old man," said Sid, "it's mighty comfortable here, don't you think?" "It sure is." "And to think that next term we'll have to go into the west dormitory," went on Sid. "We'll be bloomin' sophs then. At least you will." "That's very nice of you to say so, but what about yourself?" "I'm not so sure," and Sid spoke dubiously. "That confounded Latin will be the death of me. I tell you what it is. I was never cut out for a classical scholar. Now, if they had a course of what to do on first base, I'd be able to master it in, say, a four years' stretch. But I'm afraid I'll go the way of our mutual acquaintance Langridge, and spend two years as a freshman, at which rate I'll be eight years getting through college." "Oh, I hope not. You stand better than Langridge. He's smart--not that you aren't--but he doesn't get down to it. It's just like his baseball practice, if he would only----" Then Tom stopped. He didn't want to talk about the player whom he was trying to supplant on the nine. "Well," he finished, "I guess I'll turn in. We'll have to see Dutch in the morning and learn what the new plans are." Housenlager and his fellow members of the freshman dinner committee found it advisable to make a change after what Sid and Tom had discovered. "But we can't alter the time or place of the feed," explained Dutch. "It's too late to do that. Anyway, there's no danger once we get inside the hall, for we've arranged to have the doors bolted and braced and guards posted. The only danger is that they'll get at some of us before we get to the place or that they'll get at the eating stuff in some way and put it on the blink." "I shouldn't think there'd be much danger of that," spoke Tom. "Won't the man who is going to supply it look out for that end?" "I s'pose he will," admitted Dutch, "so the main thing for us to do is to see that we get safely to the hall. I think we'd better not meet down near the bridge, as I proposed first. You know, we were all going in a body. I think now the best way will be for us to stroll off by ones and twos. Then there won't be any suspicion. The sophs will be on the watch for us, of course, but I think we can fool them." "Then you mean for each one of us to get to the hall as best he can?" asked Sid. "That's it," replied Dutch. "Some fellows did that one year," put in Ford Fenton, "but the sophs caught them just the same. My uncle says----" He paused, for the group of lads about him, as if by prearranged signal, all put their hands over their ears and all began talking at once loudly. "Hu!" ejaculated Ford. "You think that's funny, I guess." "Not as funny as what your uncle might have said," remarked Sid, who some time previously had planned to have his chums give this signal of disapproval the moment Ford mentioned his relative. "Well, I guess it's all understood," went on Dutch. "We'll have a sort of go-as-you-please affair until we get to the hall in Haddonfield." "I hear Langridge isn't coming," said Ford. "Who told you?" asked Sid. "Why, he did. I asked him if he was going to be on hand, and I told him about a dinner where my uncle said----" "I guess he doesn't want to come because he is afraid your uncle will be there," declared Tom with a good-natured laugh. "More likely because the dinner isn't going to be sporty enough for him," was the opinion of Dutch. "Well, we don't want anybody that doesn't want to come. But I've got to go and attend to some loose ends. Now mind, mum's the word, fellows, not only as regards talk, but don't act so as to give the sophs a clue. See you later," and he hurried off. Few in the freshman class did themselves justice in recitations that day from too much thinking about the fun they would have at the dinner that night. Even Tom fell below his usual standard, and as for Sid, his rendering of Virgil was something to make Professor Tines (who was a good classical scholar, whatever else he might be) shudder in anguish. But Sid didn't mind. "I tell you what it is, old man," spoke Sid to Tom that evening as they prepared to leave for the spread, "we'd better go it alone, I think." "Just what I was about to propose. If we leave here together, some sneaking soph will be sure to spot us. Will you go first or shall I?" "You'd better take it first. There's a hole in one of my socks I've got to sew up. I never saw clothes go the way they do when a laundry gets hold of 'em." "Can you darn socks?" "Well, not exactly what you'd call _darn_," explained Sid. "I just gather up a little of the sock where the hole is and tie a string around it. It's just as good as darning and twice as quick. I learned that from a fellow I roomed with at boarding school. But go ahead, if you're going." It was quite dark now and Tom, after a cautious look around the entrance of the dormitory, to see if any sophomores were lurking about, stole silently down toward the river. He intended to take the road along the stream, cross the bridge and board a trolley for Haddonfield, which plan would be followed by a number of the freshmen. Tom was almost at the bridge when he saw a number of dark shadows moving about near the structure. "Now, are they sophs or our fellows?" he mused as he cautiously halted. He thought he recognized some of his classmates and went on a little further. "Here comes one!" he heard in a hoarse whisper. Tom stopped. It was so dark he could not tell friends from foes. But he knew a test. A countersign had been agreed upon. "What did the namby-pamby say?" he asked. Back came the answer in a hoarse whisper: "Over the fence is out!" It was the reply that had been arranged among the freshmen. Confident that he was approaching friends, Tom advanced. A moment later he found himself clasped by half a dozen arms. "We've got one!" some one cried, and he recognized the voice of Gladdus. "Take him away, fellows, and wait for the next. I guess the freshies won't have so many at their spread as they think!" "Kidnapped!" thought Tom disgustedly as he was hustled away in the darkness. "Now they'll have the laugh on me and some of the other fellows all right. They have discovered our countersign or else some one gave it away." CHAPTER XXVIII THE ESCAPE After the first shock of surprise was over Tom struggled against being taken away by his captors. He almost succeeded in breaking loose, but so many came at him, crowding close around him, that by sheer weight of numbers they formed an impassable barrier. "It's all right, freshie, you're hooked good and proper, so don't try to get away," advised a tall youth whom he recognized as Battersby. "All right," agreed Tom good-naturedly, though he by no means intended to give up trying to escape. But he would bide his time. "Where are you going to take me?" he asked. "Oh, a good place. You'll have plenty of company. Take him along, fellows. I'll go back and help capture some more. The idea of these freshies thinking they could pull off a dinner without us getting on to it. The very idea!" and Battersby laughed sarcastically. He and Gladdus had fully recovered from the electric shocks and were probably glad of a chance to make trouble for the freshmen. Tom, in the midst of half a dozen sophomores, was half led, half pushed along a dark path, over the bridge and then down a walk which extended through the woods. He recognized that he was being taken toward a little summer resort on the shores of the lake. Once he thought he saw a chance to break loose as the grips on his arms loosened slightly, but when he attempted it he was handled so roughly that he knew the sophomores had made up their minds to hold on to him at any cost. "You're our first prisoner," explained one lad, "and for the moral effect of it we can't let you get away. You'll have company soon." A little later Tom was thrust into a small shanty. He recognized the place as one that had been used for a soda water and candy booth at the picnic grounds, but which shack had not been opened this season yet, though others near it were in use. There was nothing doing at the grounds on this night and the resort was deserted. "Lock the door," exclaimed some one as Tom was thrust inside. "Then a few of us will have to stand guard and the others can go back and help bring up the rest." Tom staggered against some tables and chairs in the dark interior of the shack. He managed to find a place to sit down. "We're a bright lot of lads," thought the scrub pitcher, "to be taken in after this fashion. We should have stuck together and then we could have fought off the sophs. But it's too late now. I wonder if Sid was caught?" He listened and could hear the retreating steps of his captors. That all had not gone and that some were left on guard was indicated by the low talk that went on outside and by the tramping about the shack of several lads. "Can he get out?" Tom heard some one ask. "No. The place is nailed up tight." "Maybe I can't and maybe I can," mused Tom. "Anyhow I'm going to have a look. Wait until I strike a match." Holding his hat as a protection, so that no gleams would penetrate possible cracks in the door, Tom struck a light and examined the walls of his prison. The shack consisted of only one room and was cluttered up with chairs, tables, benches, counters and other things. Tom at once eliminated from his plan of escape the front, as there he knew the sophomores would remain on guard. He must try either the sides or the back. The sides, he saw, were out of the question, as they contained only small windows, hardly big enough for him to get through. In addition the casements were closed by heavy wooden shutters, nailed fast. "No use trying them," thought Tom. "The back is the only place." This he examined with care, and to his delight he saw what he thought would enable him to get out. This was an opening near the top, and it was closed by a thin wooden shutter swinging on a hinge. "It's nailed fast," Tom remarked when, by dint of lighting many matches inside his hat, he had examined the shutter. "But I can reach it by standing on two chairs, and if I can get it open, I can crawl out and drop to the ground. But how am I going to pull out those big nails?" Indeed it did seem impossible, but Tom was ingenious. His fingers, when he had thrust his hands into his pockets, had touched his keen-bladed knife, the one that had gotten him into trouble about the wire and which had been returned to him by the proctor. "I can cut away the wood around the nails," he thought, and at once he put his plan into operation. He managed to get two chairs, one on top of the other, and mounting upon this perch, he attacked the shutter. Fortunately the wood was soft, and working in the darkness by means of feeling with his fingers around the nails, Tom soon had one spike cut free of the shutter. Then he began on the others, and in half an hour he could raise the solid piece of wood. A breath of the fresh night air came to him. "No glass in it," he exclaimed softly. "That's good. Now to get away and show up at the dinner. I hope they didn't get any other fellows. They haven't brought any more here, that's sure." He listened at the door a moment. "I wish some of our fellows would come back," he heard one of the guards saying. "Yes, it's lonesome here. I wonder if Parsons is still there?" "Sure he is. How could he get away?" "That's so. He couldn't." "Wait a bit," whispered Tom. He again mounted the chairs, and pulling himself up by the edge of the opening, after fastening up the shutter, he prepared to crawl through and drop down outside. "I hope it isn't much of a fall and that the ground is soft," he murmured. Just then he heard a commotion in front of the shack. "They're bringing up some more of our class," he reasoned. "Maybe I can help 'em. Had I better stay in?" He was undecided, and he remained on the edge of the window, partly inside and partly outside the shanty. He heard the door open, and looking back in the semi-darkness, saw that a struggle was going on. He guessed that the sophomores were trying to thrust inside one or more freshmen. Then another shout told Tom that his escape was discovered. "I'll drop down outside," he decided, "and see what I can do toward a rescue." He looked down. In the gloom below the high window was a figure. "Look out, soph, I'm going to drop on you!" cried Tom warningly. He heard a half-smothered exclamation and then he let go, prepared to defend himself against recapture. The fall was longer than he anticipated, for there was a depression at the back of the cabin. He toppled in a heap, and before he could straighten up, he saw some one rushing toward him. Then around the corner of a shack came two figures, one carrying a lantern. "What's up?" they cried together. Tom was aware that the dark figure which he had seen underneath the window was jumping toward him. The light of the lantern shone full on Tom's face. He was in the act of struggling to his feet when he felt some one kick him in the side, and as the toe of a heavy shoe came against his right elbow with crushing force the pain made Tom cry out. The lantern swung in a circle and by the light of it Tom, glancing up, saw Langridge standing over him. It was he who had administered the kick. Then the light appeared to fade away, and Tom felt a strangely dizzy feeling. He seemed to be sinking into a bottomless pit. CHAPTER XXIX ANTICIPATIONS Tom became dimly aware that he was climbing up from some great depth. It was hard work, and he felt as if he was lifting the whole world on his shoulders. No, it was all on one arm--his right--and the pain of it made him wince. Then he realized that some one was calling him, shaking him, and he felt as if he had tumbled, head first, into some snow drift. "Wake up, Tom! Are you all right, old man? What happened? Here, swallow some more water." He opened his eyes. He saw in the darkness some one bending over him. "What's the--where am----" he began, and he was again seized with a feeling of weakness. "You're all right, old chap," he heard some one saying. "You had a bad fall, that's all." "Phil!" he exclaimed. "Yes, it's me, Clinton. They tried to put me in there, but I fought 'em, and then there came a yell for help for the sophs who were bringing up a lot of our fellows, and the ones who had me and those on guard cut for it. I guess our lads got away. I heard a row back here and came to see what it was. Are you all right now? Can you walk? If you can, we'll go on to the dinner. We've beaten out the sophs. Can you manage?" "I--I guess so," replied Tom, who was feeling stronger every moment. If only that terrible pain in his arm would cease. "Where's Langridge?" he asked. "Langridge? He isn't around. I haven't seen him to-night at all," answered Clinton. "Feeling better?" "Yes, I'm all right. Only my arm." "Is it broken?" "No, only bruised. Some one kicked--I guess I must have fallen on it," Tom corrected himself quickly. His mind was in a tumult over what had happened. He had seen Langridge plainly in the light of a lantern carried by one of the sophomores, and he felt that Langridge must have seen him, for the gleam struck full on his face. Yet why had the 'varsity pitcher attacked Tom? Could he have mistaken him for a sophomore? Tom hardly thought so, yet the kick had been a savage one. His arm was swelling from it. "Are you sure they didn't catch Langridge?" asked Tom as he stumbled on beside Phil. "Sure. He said he wasn't going to the dinner at all. Had a date in town with some girl, I believe." Tom winced, not altogether with pain. "Why are you so anxious about Langridge?" went on Phil. "Nothing, only--only I thought I saw him around the shack." "Must have been mistaken. You and I were the only ones they managed to get this far, and they wouldn't have had me, only about a dozen of them tackled me at once." "That's what they did to me," admitted Tom. "Our fellows made a mistake," declared Phil. "We should have been more foxy. However, I think we all got away. The last bunch the sophs tackled were too much for them, and they had to call for help. That's why those at the shack left it. But come on, we'll get to Haddonfield. It isn't very late." Tom did not feel much like going to a dinner, but he repressed his disinclination and bit his lips to keep back little exclamations of pain. Phil and Tom, eluding the sophomores who prowled about in scattered parties, found most of their chums gathered in the hall where the spread was arranged. They were greeted with cheers on their entrance and made to tell their adventures, but Tom did not mention Langridge. He explained his injured arm by saying he had twisted it in his fall. "Hope it doesn't knock you out from pitching, old man," spoke Sid sympathetically. "It would if I had a chance to pitch," responded Tom, "but, as it is, I guess it isn't going to make much difference." Several other freshmen who had been caught by the sophomores, but who managed to escape, came straggling in, filled with excitement, and the dinner was soon under way, with many a toast imbibed in cider, ginger ale or water, to the confusion of the sophomores and the success of the freshmen. "We fooled 'em good and proper!" cried Sid, who had been elected toastmaster. "We put 'em to rout, and now let us eat, drink and make a big noise!" Which they proceeded to do, undisturbed by any further attack of their traditional enemies. Tom's arm pained him so before the dinner was over that he whispered to Phil that he was going to leave. The big center fielder agreed to accompany Tom back to college, and without saying anything to the others to break up the fun, they slipped quietly away. Dr. Marshall, of the faculty, who was a physician as well as an instructor in physics and chemistry, looked critically at Tom's arm when Phil insisted that his chum get medical aid. "You say you got that in a fall?" asked Dr. Marshall, examining Tom's elbow, which was red and much swollen. "In a sort of a fall--yes, sir." "Humph! It was a queer fall that caused that," said the physician. "More like a blow or a kick, I should say. You haven't been trying to ride a horse, have you?" "No, sir." "Ha--hum!" ejaculated the doctor, but he asked no more questions, for he had been a college lad in his day and he knew the ethics of such matters. "You can't play ball for a couple of weeks," he went on, "and you'll have to carry that arm in a sling part of the time." "Can't I pitch on the scrub?" asked Tom in dismay. "Not unless you want to have an operation later," replied Dr. Marshall grimly. Tom sighed, but said no more. Healthy blood in healthy bodies has a marvelous way of recuperating one from injuries, and in a little over a week Tom's arm was so much improved that the doctor allowed him to dispense with the sling. In the middle of the second week Tom started in on light practice at pitching, his place meanwhile on the scrub having been filled by another player. "Now go slow, young man," advised Dr. Marshall as Tom one day sought and obtained permission to take part in a game against the 'varsity nine. "You're only human, you know, but"--he added to himself as Tom hurried away--"you're like a young colt. A fine physique! I wish I were young again," and the good doctor sighed for the lost days of his youth. In the meanwhile Tom had said nothing to Langridge. He reasoned it all out--that the 'varsity pitcher might have been captured as he was, and, in breaking loose, he might have mistaken Tom for one of the sophomores. Nor did Tom communicate in any way his suspicions to his chums. He knew if he began asking questions intended to disclose whether or not Langridge had been among those captured some one would want to know his object. "I might be mistaken," thought Tom, and he honestly hoped that he was. "Anyhow, my arm is better, and I can pitch--at least on the scrub." The game between the first and second teams that day was a "hot" one. Langridge seemed to have recovered mastery of himself and he pitched surprisingly well. Tom, because of his hurt, was not at his best. The 'varsity lads were joyful when they beat the scrub by a big score. "Well, now, if we do as well as that Saturday against Boxer Hall," said Kindlings Woodhouse, "we'll be all to the pepper hash, poetically speaking." "We've got to do a great deal better than this against Boxer," declared Coach Lighton with a shake of his head. "Why?" asked Langridge. "Because much depends on this game. I don't know whether you boys have figured it out, but we have a mighty slim chance for the pennant this year." "Have we any?" asked Sid. "Yes," replied the coach, "and it's just this. If we win the game against Boxer----" "Which we will," declared Langridge confidently. "If we do," went on Mr. Lighton, "and also win the one the following Saturday from Fairview, we will capture the pennant by a narrow margin." "Hurrah!" cried Kindlings. "Not so fast," admonished Mr. Lighton. "You boys will have to play ball as you never played it before and against rather heavy odds." "How's that?" inquired Sid. "Well, both games are away from your own grounds. You are to play Boxer Hall on their diamond and the Fairview game takes place over at the co-ed institution. That means that they'll have a big crowd of rooters out, and you know what an incentive that is." "We'll take a lot too!" cried Holly Cross. "Sure, we'll organize a cheering club," added Bricktop Molloy. "And bring megaphones," declared Jerry Jackson. "And phonographs," echoed his twin brother. "Win the games, that's what you want to do!" said Mr. Lighton. "Win the games! Play ball! Bat your best, you hard hitters. You that aren't so sure, practice. Fielders, get on to every fly as if you had glue on your gloves. Kerr, play close up to the bat. Henderson, you want to practice jumping for high ones, for they do come high when the boys get excited. Langridge----" "Yes, what about me?" drawled the pitcher. "Pitch your very best," said Mr. Lighton, and there was a different meaning in his admonition than before. "Now don't let any chance go by without practice," he added as he turned toward the other members of the nine. "We've got our work cut out for us. I want to see Randall win the pennant." "So do we!" shouted the others in a chorus as the coach left them. And the days that followed were filled with anxiety and anticipation for the members of the nine and those substitutes who hoped for a chance to play. As for Tom Parsons, he felt that if he could pitch in one of the games he would ask for nothing more. But he had small hopes. CHAPTER XXX A GREAT GAME Sid Henderson fairly burst into the room where Tom Parsons was studying. The first baseman strode over to the window, looked out as though he was glaring at some attacking force and then throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed: "It's rotten, that's what it is!" "What?" asked Tom, looking up from his book. "Has Pitchfork been at you again about the Latin?" "No, this is worse. I don't see how we're going to win the game to-morrow. And if we lose!" "Why, what's the matter?" asked Tom, for he had seldom seen his chum so excited. "Matter enough. Langridge is pitching fierce ball. We just had some light work and arranged a code of signals for him and Kerr. Why, you'd think our pitcher didn't have to practice! He seemed to think that all he had to do was to stand up in front of the Boxer players and they'd strike out just to please him. It makes me sick! But that's not the worst of it." "Well, what is?" asked Tom, smiling at Sid's vehemence. "Might as well get it out of your system and you'll feel better." "Oh, you know what it is as well as I do," went on Sid. "There's no use trying to ignore it any longer. I've tried to fight shy of it and so have some of the other fellows, but what's the use? It's enough to make a fellow disgusted so he'll never play on the nine again." "You mean----" began Tom. "I mean that Langridge isn't playing fair. He doesn't train. He's been drinking and smoking on the sly and staying up nights gambling. There's no use mincing words now. I caught him drinking in his dressing-room to-day, and he was in a blue funk for fear I'd tell. Said he had a weak heart and the doctor had told him to take it. Weak heart! Rats! He drinks because he likes it. I tell you if we don't look out, we'll be the laughing stock of the Tonoka Lake League. Langridge can put himself on edge with a drink of that vile stuff and do good work for one or two innings, maybe. Then he'll go all to pieces and where will we be? I know. We'll be tailenders, and it will be his fault. It's a shame! Some one ought to tell Lighton." "Why don't you?" asked Tom quietly. "Oh, you know I can't. No one could go peach like that." "I know. I asked you about it once when I discovered what ailed Langridge. You remember what you said?" "Yes, and I almost wish I'd told you to go and tell. The team would be better off now, even if it was against tradition and ethics and all that rot. It makes me sick! Here we are to go up against a hard proposition to-morrow and every other fellow on the team is as fit as a fiddle except Langridge. He seems to think it's a joke." "What do the other fellows say?" "Well, they don't know as much about him as you and I do. But they are grumbling because Langridge doesn't put enough ginger into his work." "What about Mr. Lighton?" "I don't know. Sometimes I think he suspects and then again I'm not sure. If he really knew what Langridge was doing, I don't believe he'd let him pitch. But you know Langridge has plenty of money and he hasn't any one like a father or mother to keep tabs on him, so he does as he pleases. He's practically supported the team this year, for we haven't made much money. I suppose that's why Kindlings stands for him as he does. Maybe that's why Mr. Lighton doesn't send him to the bench. Langridge's money will do a great deal." "Oh, I shouldn't like to think that because of it he is kept on the team when there's a chance of our losing the pennant." "Neither would I. Maybe I'm wrong about the coach, but what's the use of saying anything? Langridge will pitch for us against Boxer Hall, and--no, I'll not say what I was going to. I believe if we lose that game there'll be such a howl that he won't dare pitch against Fairview. That will give you a chance, Tom, for the last game of the season." "What about Evert?" "Oh, he's practically out of it. He hasn't had any practice to speak of and wouldn't last two minutes. You're in good trim. You did some great work on the scrub yesterday." "Yes, but it's not likely to amount to anything. However, I'm going along and root for you to-morrow." "Yes, we'll need all the support we can get. I declare I'm as nervous as a girl, and I've got to buckle down and prepare for a Latin exam, too." "Can't you let it go?" "No, it's too risky. I'm only on the team now by the epidermis of my molars, as the poet says. If I flunk in Latin it will mean that I can't play against Fairview." "Then don't flunk, for the team needs you." "It needs more than me, but I'm going to try and forget it now and bone away." Tom hoped to have the pleasure of taking Miss Tyler to the game with Boxer Hall, which was to take place on the grounds of that institution, but the girl sent back a regretful little note, saying she had arranged to go with Langridge or, at least, he was to bring her home. "Hang it!" exclaimed Tom. "I thought she was done with him." And, somehow, there was a rather bitter feeling in his heart as he prepared to accompany the other fellows to the great game that Saturday afternoon. He almost made up his mind that he would not bother to speak to Miss Tyler again and then he thought such a course would be silly and he tried to be more philosophical about it, though it was difficult. Never had there been such a crowd out to witness a game on the Boxer diamond. The grandstand was packed long before the teams trotted out for practice and the bleachers were overflowing. A fringe of spectators packed the side lines, and what with the yelling and cheering of the rival factions, the waving of the colors, the tooting of the auto horns in the throng of machines that had brought parties to the contest, there was an air of excitement that might have excused even more veteran players from getting nervous, for the game meant much to both colleges. If Boxer won, it would have a chance to play Fairview for the championship, but if Randall won the privilege would fall to that college. And that both teams had determined to win goes without saying. Almost at the last minute Coach Lighton had told Tom to get ready to go as a substitute, and it was in his field uniform then instead of his ordinary clothes that Tom went to the game. But he had slender hopes of pitching, for Langridge seemed in unusually fine form and that morning at Randall had done some good work. But the orders of the coach could not be disobeyed. So Tom took his place on the bench with the other Randall lads, and, after some practice on the field, his eyes roved over the grandstand in search of a certain face. He fancied he saw where Miss Tyler sat, but he could not be sure. "Langridge will probably go home with her," thought Tom. "He didn't bring her here, for he came in with us." He had little more time for thought, however, as the umpire was getting the new ball from the foil cover and was about to call the game. Boxer had won the toss and elected to bat last, so it was the turn of the visitors to get up first and show what they could do. Langridge was greeted with a cheer from a crowd in the Randall section of the grandstand as he went to the bat. He was popular with the large mass of students in spite of his ways. He seemed in good form and there was a confident air about him as he swung his willow stock to and fro. "Play ball!" called the umpire. Dave Ogden, with a calculating glance at the batsman, tied himself into rather a complicated knot and threw the horsehide. It was right over the plate and Langridge struck viciously at it, but made a clean miss. There was a groan from the Randall supporters and the team looked glum. Langridge, however, was not disconcerted. He was as confident as ever. Once more the ball was hurled toward him. He stepped right up to it, for he knew a pitcher's tricks and there was a resonant crack that made the hearts of his chums leap. He had lined out a "beaut." "Go on! go on! go on!" yelled Coach Lighton. "Leg it, Langridge, leg it!" Langridge was running low and well. The Boxer right fielder had muffed the ball, but made a quick recovery and threw to first. It seemed that Langridge was safe, but the umpire, who had run down toward the bag, called him out. A groan went up from the Randall sympathizers and the team joined in. "That'll do!" cried Captain Woodhouse sharply to his men. "Don't dispute any decisions. Leave that to me. We'll accept it. You're up, Kerr." Kerr was a notoriously good hitter and Ogden gave him his walking papers. Sid Henderson was next at the bat and he knocked a little pop fly, which the second baseman neatly caught, and Sid, shaking his head over his hard luck, went to the bench. Captain Woodhouse himself was next to try, and there was a grim look on his face as he went into the box. It was justified, for he made a safe hit and went to second on a swift grounder that Dutch Housenlager knocked, the ball rolling between the shortstop's fingers. The Randalls would have scored if Bricktop Molloy had hit harder or higher, but the shortstop made as pretty a catch as was seen on the grounds that day, leaping high for the ball, and with Bricktop out it was all over, and a goose egg went up on the scoreboard as the result of the first half of the initial inning. "Now, Langridge, don't let them get any hits off you," implored Kindlings as he and his men went to the field. "Of course not," promised the pitcher easily. His first ball was wild and there was an anxious feeling in the hearts of his chums. But he steadied almost at once and his next two deliveries were called strikes. "Here's where you fan!" he called to Pinky Davenport, who was up. "Do I? Watch me," replied Pinky, but he only hit the wind. "That's the way to do it!" called a shrill voice from the grandstand. "Fine, Langridge!" "All right, don't tell us what your uncle said," retorted the pitcher. "Keep that back, Fenton," for it was the boy with the ever-present relative who had yelled, and there was laughter at the pitcher's jibe. Langridge had never done better work than in that first inning when, after passing the hardest hitter of the Boxers to first purposely, in order to make sure of one of their weakest stick-wielders, the Randall twirler struck him neatly out, and the rivals of Randall were rewarded with a neat little white circle. In the next inning Jerry Jackson was first up and he ingloriously fanned, but Phil Clinton earned fame for himself in the annals of his _alma mater_ by bringing in a home run--the only one of the game. Langridge kept up his phenomenal work and another pale zero went up for Boxer, while Randall had a single mark that loomed big before the eyes of the cheering throng. But the hopes of those who wanted to see Randall win suffered a severe setback, for in the next two innings they could not score, while in each frame for the Boxers there were two runs chalked. "Four to one," remarked Tom to Phil Clinton. "They're crawling up. I wonder if we have any show?" "The game is young yet," answered Phil. "I think we will do them." Randall got one run in the fifth and Langridge was the lucky player who brought it in. He showed his elation. "Oh, we've got 'em on the run!" he cried, and then he went into the dressing-room. There was a queer look on Tom's face as his eyes sought those of Sid, and the latter shook his head. Coach Lighton, too, seemed anxious. He watched for the reappearance of Langridge, but his attention was occupied for a moment when Woodhouse knocked a neat fly. The captain was steaming away for first, but the ball was also on its way there and both arrived about the same time. "Out!" cried the umpire, and a dispute at once arose. The Randalls had to give in, though it was manifestly unfair. When Langridge came out of the dressing-room there was a noticeable change in his manner. His breath smelled of cloves, and Sid, who noticed it, made a despairing gesture. A little later Housenlager hit the breeze strongly and went out, the score at the ending of the fifth inning being 4 to 2 in favor of the Boxer team. "Now, Langridge," said the coach earnestly, "it depends on you. If you can hold them down, we are pretty sure of winning, even if we have to go ten innings, for some of our batters have Ogden's measure." "I'll do it!" cried Langridge. "You watch me!" But he failed miserably. He did manage to strike out two men, for there was snap and vicious vim in the way he delivered the balls, but suddenly, when the influence of the stimulant he had taken wore off, he went to pieces and the Boxers piled in five runs before they were stopped by a remarkable brace in the Randall fielding contingent. There was a steely look in the eyes of Coach Lighton as the Randalls came in for their turn to bat in the sixth inning. "I'll do better next time," promised Langridge, but he spoke rather languidly. "No, you'll not!" exclaimed the coach. "Why not?" and the pitcher seemed suddenly awakened. "Because you're not going to pitch next inning!" "I'm not?" "No, you're not." "I guess I'm manager of this team." "And I'm the coach. I say you shan't pitch any more in this game, or, if you do, I'll resign here and now. Captain Woodhouse, are you with me in this?" "Oh, well, can't you take a rest for a couple of innings, Fred, and pitch the last one?" asked the captain, adding: "if the Boxers will allow us to suspend the rules for you." "If I pitch at all, I'll pitch the whole game!" cried Langridge fiercely. "If you do I resign," was the decision of Mr. Lighton. "Well, it's up to you," said Woodhouse with a shrug of his shoulders, as if ridding himself of the burden. "Whatever you say goes." "All right, then I say Langridge goes to the bench. He's not fit to pitch and he knows it." "What's the matter with me?" demanded the youth haughtily. "Do you want me to tell?" asked Mr. Lighton quickly, with a sharp look. Langridge, without a word, walked into the dressing-rooms. "Parsons will pitch the remainder of the game," went on the coach to the Randall players and he made the necessary announcement to the game officials. "Tom," he called, "come on; you're up in place of Langridge." Tom Parsons' heart gave a great throb. At last he had the chance for which he had waited so long. He was to pitch in a big game! Tom was a good batter. He was also acquainted with many pitchers' tricks, for Mr. Lighton had given him good instruction. Tom was ready for whatever came. The first ball Ogden delivered was an incurve. Tom instinctively stepped back to avoid it, but it went neatly over the plate and a strike was called on him. He shut his teeth hard. He reasoned that Ogden would expect him to be on the lookout the second time for an outcurve, for it might naturally be supposed that the pitcher would vary his delivery. "But he thinks I'm looking for an out," thought Tom. "Therefore he'll give me another in. I'll be ready for it." He was. He stepped right into the next ball, which was an incurve, and with a mighty sweep sent it sailing far over the right fielder's head. It was good for three bases and Tom took them. "Go on! Keep running! That's a beaut! Take another! Make it a homer!" yelled the crowd, which was on its feet shouting like mad, waving hats, hands, handkerchiefs and college colors. "Stay there!" cautioned Coach Lighton, for the ball was being relayed home. Tom's sensational hit seemed to put new life into the team and Bricktop Molloy also brought in a run. That, however, ended the good work. Then came Tom's turn in the box. That he was a little nervous was natural, but he kept control of himself and only allowed one hit, though it was good eventually for a run. There was a noticeable stiffening in the work of the team and the coach congratulated Tom as he came in with his chums to take their turn at the bat again. The seventh inning saw four runs safely laid away for Randall, while the marker put up a neat little ring in the square for Boxer, for Tom struck out two of the three men who were up, one going out on a pop fly, the pitcher having misjudged his batter. Neither side scored in the eighth, and when Randall got three runs in the ninth, and, in spite of strenuous work on the part of Tom, the Boxers got one run that same inning, the score was tied--11 to 11. "Ten innings! They've got to play ten innings!" went the cry around the field. Then came more cheers. It was a game of games and it began to look as if the hoodoo against Randall was broken and that the college had a chance for the pennant. "Three cheers for Tom Parsons!" yelled Ford Fenton, and what a shout there was! "What would your uncle think of him?" asked a student. "He'd say he was all right!" rejoined Ford good-naturedly. Randall got one run in the tenth, putting them ahead, and then came a supreme struggle for Tom. Coolly and calculatingly he delivered the balls. He struck out the first man, who viciously threw down his bat so hard that it splintered. The second man also went the same way, and there was a salvo of cheers that shook the stands, while the stamping of feet of the anxious ones threatened to bring down the structures. Tom measured his next man and sent in a neat little drop. But the batter was a veteran and got under it in time. He sent it well out into the field. "Take it, Jerry! Take it!" cried the coach, for the horsehide seemed about to fall into the right fielder's hands. But he muffed it, and what a howl there was! George Stoddard, who had knocked it, kept on to second, for which he had to slide, but he was called safe. Then Tom was obliged to pass the next man to first, for he was an excellent hitter, while the one who followed him was not. But just then one of those "accidents" that are always cropping up in sport happened and the poor hitter made good, knocking a curious little twisting fly that the first baseman misjudged, and the run came in, again tieing the score. But no more Boxer players crossed home plate. It was with a "do or die" expression on all the faces of the Randalls that they came to bat in the eleventh inning. The story of that game is college history now, and how Tom brought in a run after a magnificent hit that would have been a "homer" but for the fleetness of the opposing center fielder's feet is told to many a freshman. They could do no more, though, after getting one ahead. It needed but a single run on the part of the Boxers to tie the score and two to win. But Tom resolved that they should not get even that one tally. He went to his box, his teeth clenched, making his jaw look firm and square. He resolved to try a new sort of twisting curve that he had used several times against the 'varsity. Each time it had proved deceptive. He worked it on the first man and sent him ingloriously to the bench. Then the second batter fell for it, but Tom dared not try it on the third. He felt himself getting nervous, and his next delivery was a bit wild. A ball was called on him, but that was all. The next three deliveries were strikes, and the batter, though he fanned desperately at them, missed each time. [Illustration: THE BATTER MISSED EACH TIME] "That settles it!" cried Phil Clinton as Tom, with a wildly throbbing heart, walked out of the box, while a hush fell over the assemblage, for the crowd could hardly realize that the game was over and that Randall had won by a score of 13 to 12. "Good work, Parsons! Oh, pretty work!" yelled a host of supporters, and then such cheering as there was! "Come, fellows, a cheer for Boxer Hall!" cried Captain Woodhouse, and it was given, followed by the college yell. Boxer generously retaliated, and as the teams ran for the dressing-rooms Langridge, pale and with trembling hands, stepped out. He was dressed in his street garments, and without a word to his chums, he started across the diamond for the grandstand. "He's going over to her," thought Tom, and the joy of the victory he had helped to win was embittered for him. "Parsons, you did splendidly!" cried Mr. Lighton. "I congratulate you with all my heart. If it hadn't been for you, we'd have lost the game." "Oh, I don't know about that." "Yes, we would. You're the regular pitcher on this team for the remainder of the season, subject, of course, to the confirmation of Captain Woodhouse." "Whatever you say," assented Kindlings, but he looked a bit uncomfortable. "There are only two more games," went on the coach, "one out of town next Saturday, and then comes the final struggle with Fairview. If we win that, we'll have the pennant." "Oh, we'll win!" cried Holly Cross. "Look who's going to pitch for us." "I don't know about that," replied Tom with a laugh, but he was silenced with cheers. "Well, I want you to win that game," concluded the coach as he walked off the diamond and the team got ready to go back to Randall. CHAPTER XXXI LANGRIDGE APPEALS While the stage coach in which the players had come from Randall was being gotten ready to take the victorious nine back Tom strolled across the diamond toward the grandstand. He wanted to be alone for a moment and think, for he had many ideas in his mind, and they were not all connected with his recent work in the pitcher's box. A certain bright-eyed girl figured largely in them. "I thought she'd given him up," he said to himself. "Well, of course, it's none of my affair, but----" There generally was a "but," Tom felt. The crowd was nearly gone and he was about to turn back and join his chums. Suddenly he became aware of a girlish figure alone in the big stand. He looked to make sure who it was, for at the first glimpse he had felt that it was she of whom he was thinking. As he did so the girl looked at him. It was Miss Tyler, and Tom noticed that there were tears in her eyes. He saw nothing of Langridge as he hastened toward her. "Why, Madge--Miss Tyler!" he exclaimed, "what is the matter? Have you lost anything? Are you alone? I thought Fred Langridge was going----" She stamped her little foot. "Please don't speak his name to me!" she exclaimed. Tom opened his eyes. "Why--why----" he stammered. "He came over to me in--in no proper condition to escort me home," she went on tearfully. "Oh, Tom, I'm--I'm so miserable!" She acted as though she were going to break down and cry in real earnest, and Tom was on the anxious edge, for he hated to see girls weep. But she mastered herself with an effort. "May I take you back to Haddonfield?" he asked. "Yes," she said, and she came down from the upper part of the stand to join him. They walked off the field, both silent for a time, and Tom was wondering what would be the safest subject to talk about. But Miss Tyler spoke first. "You did fine work," she said. "I'm--I'm glad you got the chance to pitch." "So am I," declared Tom, "but I'm sorry for----" He did not know whether or not to mention his rival's name. But she understood. "So am I--I'm very sorry for him. It's all his horrid money that's doing it. He wants to be what the boys call a 'sport.' But he isn't. He's unfair to himself--to me. But I'm done with him! I shall never speak to him again." Tom was both glad and sorry. "Do you think you will win from Fairview?" asked the girl after a pause. "I think so." "I hope you do. I want to see that game, but I don't----" "Won't you let me take you?" asked Tom quickly. "We are going in a number of autos and there'll be lots of room." "Oh, I didn't mean to hint so broadly," she exclaimed, and her face crimsoned. "I was going to ask you, anyhow," declared Tom. "Will you go?" "Yes," she replied softly. "And help me to pitch to win," added Tom, and he tried to look into her face, but she averted her eyes. There was great celebrating in Randall that night. Some of the boys wanted to light historic bonfires along the river, which blazes were always kindled on great occasions, but Mr. Lighton reminded the lads that they had still to win the contest with Fairview before they would be champions, and he urged that the game was no easy one. So milder forms of making glad were substituted. Tom was the hero of the hour, and he felt that there had been made up to him everything that he had suffered in being kept so long on the scrub. It was dark in the apartments of Langridge. No one had seen him since the game and few cared about him. "He got just what was coming to him," declared Sid vindictively. "He'd have thrown the game for a drink of liquor and a cigarette. Pah! I've no use for such a chap." "Well, maybe he didn't mean to do it," replied Tom, who could afford to be generous. "He may have taken some to steady his nerves and it went to his head." "Rats! It ought to have gone to his pitching arm. But I've got to bone away. Exams are getting nearer and nearer every day, and the closer they come the less I seem to know about Latin. From now on I'm going to think, eat, sleep and dream in Latin." The following Saturday the team went to the Indian school at Carlisle and played a game with the red men. It was a hard-fought battle and the aborigines made the mistake of putting in a lot of substitutes for the first few innings, for they had a poor opinion of Randall. But the visitors rolled up a good score and Tom was a whirlwind at pitching, holding the red men down to a low score. Then the Indians awakened and sent in some of their best players, but the Randalls had the game "in the refrigerator," as Holly Cross said, and took it home with them, despite the war cries of the redskins and their efforts to annex the scalp-locks of the palefaces. The winning of this game against what was generally considered to be a much stronger team than that of Randall did much to infuse an aggressive spirit into the latter players. The trip, too, acted as a sort of tonic. "Boys, I think we're fit to make the fight of our lives a week from to-day," declared Captain Woodhouse as he and the team were on their way back to college. "We'll wipe the diamond up with Fairview and then maybe that banner won't look fine at the top of our flagstaff." "That's what!" cried Phil Clinton. "I'm ready to play 'em now." "Same here!" cried Pete Backus, giving a great jump up into the air, seemingly to justify his title of "Grasshopper." "My uncle says----" began Ford Fenton, but Holly Cross gave such an imitation of an Indian war whoop that what the former coach had said was lost "in the shuffle." "Great work, old man!" cried Phil Clinton to Tom as he linked his arm in that of the new 'varsity pitcher. "That was a fine catch of yours, to return the compliment," said Tom with a laugh. "Don't go forming a mutual admiration society," advised Mr. Lighton. "Play ball--that's the thing to do." "It's queer what's become of Langridge," remarked Tom to Sid when they were in their room a few nights later, talking over the approaching final game with Fairview. "He seems to have dropped out of sight." "That's where he'd better stay," declared Sid. "He'll never be any more account to the team. We'll have a new manager when we whip Fairview." "If we only do!" "Oh, we will. I only hope I can play." "Why, is there any chance that you won't?" "Well, I'm pretty shaky in Latin, and Pitchfork has warned me that if I slump, it's me to the bench for the rest of this term. I'm going over and see Bricktop Molloy. He's a fiend at Latin. Rather study it than eat. He's been coaching me lately, and I want to get the benefit of it. So I'll just go and bone with him a bit." "Go ahead, old man. Wish I could help you, but I've got to look after my own rations. I'm none too safe." Sid went out and Tom was left alone with his books. But somehow he could not study. He took no sense of the printed page. There was an uneasiness in his mind and he could not put his thoughts into form. "Hang it all!" he exclaimed. "I guess I'm thinking too much of baseball." He got up to take a turn in the corridors to change the current of his thoughts when there came a knock at the door. "Come!" he cried, thinking it would prove to be some of his chums. The portal slowly swung and Tom, looking at the widening crack, saw the pale face of Langridge. "May I come in?" asked the former pitcher, and his voice trembled. "Of course," answered Tom heartily. "Where have you been keeping yourself?" "It doesn't much matter. I--I've come to ask a favor of you, Parsons." "A favor of me?" "Yes, and it's a mighty big one." There was a dogged, determined air about him as he stood there facing his rival who had supplanted him, and Tom wondered what was coming next. "Why, I'll do anything I can for you, Langridge, of course." "Wait until you hear what I want. There's no use beating about the bush, Parsons. I've been mighty mean to you. I've played a low-down hand against you, but I'm not going to apologize--not now. I thought it was fair--in war, you know. I didn't want you to pitch in my place, but you've done me out of it." "I think I acted square," said Tom quietly. "Yes, you did. You were white. I wasn't. I didn't play fair about that wire nor yet about sneaking in the dormitory that night. You did. I suppose you know--about the night you were captured--the night of the freshman dinner." "I think you knew it was I before you----" began Tom. "Yes, I knew it was you before I kicked you," went on Langridge, and he spoke as if he was getting through a disagreeable confession. "I--I didn't mean to boot you so hard, though. I thought maybe you'd give up pitching if you got a good crack on the arm, but you didn't." "No, I'm not that kind." "So I see. Well, you've got what you wanted and I got what I never expected. Now I want you to do me a favor." "What is it?" "I want you to refuse to pitch in the Fairview game." Tom wondered whether he had heard aright. "You want me to refuse----" he began. "That's it," went on Langridge eagerly. "Tell Kindlings--tell Lighton you can't pitch--that your arm has given out." "But it hasn't." "Never mind. Tell them. Tell them anything, as long as you don't pitch." "And why don't you want me to pitch? Do you want to see your college lose? Not because I'm the best pitcher that ever happened, but you know there's no one else they can put in at this late day." "Yes, there is." "Who?" "Me! I'll pitch. I want to pitch. I've just got to. You don't know what it means to me. Let me pitch this last game. Please, Parsons! It won't mean much to you and it means everything to me. I can do it. See, I--I haven't touched a drop since--since the Boxer game. I've been getting in shape. I'm as steady as a rock. I can pitch the game of my life. Come, do! Say you won't pitch. They'll give me a chance then. I want to get in the last game--and win. Will you? Will you let me get in this last game in your place?" He was leaning forward, his hands held out to Tom, his rival, begging a boon of him. "Will you resign in my favor?" he asked. "I know it's a big request, but will you, Parsons?" Tom did not know what to answer. CHAPTER XXXII THE FINAL CONTEST Langridge stood before his rival, waiting. It was quiet in the little room, so quiet that the ticking of the alarm clock sounded loud. Outside could be heard the tramp of feet in the corridor, students going to and fro. Langridge glanced nervously at the door. He was plainly afraid lest some one should enter and find him there. It was a hard problem for Tom to solve. The appeal of the lad who had done much to injure him moved him strongly. He knew what it would mean to Langridge not to pitch--that he would be out of athletics for the rest of his college course. If Tom gave way in his favor, it would mean his rehabilitation and for Tom only a temporary loss of prestige. "Will you do it?" asked Langridge softly. Tom did not answer. He paced up and down the room. What ought he to say? He felt that he could afford to sacrifice his own interests--could even forego the high honor of pitching in what was the greatest game of the college year--for the sake of Langridge. If he did not and if Langridge went away disheartened, it might mean that he would plunge deeper into dissipation. Then there came to Tom the thought of the nine. Was it fair to the others, to the college? Something told him it was not, that it was his duty to pitch--to do his best--to win for the sake of the college and the nine. Langridge might possibly do it, but it was doubtful. The former pitcher could not be sure of himself, sure that he had mastered his desire for stimulant. Then Tom decided, not on his own account but for the sake of the team and the college. "I can't do it, Langridge," he replied, and his voice showed the anguish he felt at the pain he inflicted. "Then you'll pitch?" asked his rival. "Yes, I feel that I must. The team depends on me, and--and I can't go back on them." Langridge must have seen that Tom's answer was final, for without a word he turned and left the room. Then Tom felt a wave of remorse sweep over him. After all, had he done right? Had he done the best thing? He was almost on the point of rushing after Langridge and telling him he could pitch in the final game, for the memory of his face haunted Tom. But when his hand was on the knob of the door Sid entered. "What's the matter?" asked Tom's chum, looking curiously at him. "Nothing. Why?" "You look as if you had been seeing ghosts." "Well, I have--a sort of one," answered Tom with an uneasy laugh. "How'd you make out with the Latin?" "Pretty punk, I guess. Bricktop says I've got to put in all my spare time boning. If I slump and can't play that last game, I'll--I'll----" "Don't you dare slump!" cried Tom earnestly. "We can't put a new man on first at this late day. Don't you dare slump, Sid." "Oh, I'll try not to," and Sid dumped himself down in the easy chair and with an air of dogged determination began devouring Latin verbs. The 'varsity had had its final practice against the scrub, with Tom in the box for the first team. He was beginning to take it as a matter of course and acquiring that which he needed most--confidence in himself. The scrub pitcher who had replaced him was good, but he was pretty well batted, while very few hits, and these only one-baggers, were secured off Tom. "Boys," said Mr. Lighton two days before the game, "I think I can see our way clear to the Tonoka Lake League pennant. Now take it easy to-morrow, a little light exercise, be careful of what you eat, don't get nervous, go to bed early and sleep well. Then Saturday afternoon we'll go to Fairview and bring back the banner." "Three cheers for our coach!" called Kerr, and Mr. Lighton, veteran that he was, blushed with pleasure. "I hope we win," remarked Ford Fenton as the team walked to the dressing-rooms. "My uncle says----" But Kerr threw his big catching mitt with such good aim that it struck Fenton full in the face. "Here--huh! ho! What'd you do that for?" he demanded. "I didn't want you to wear out that uncle of yours," was the cool answer. "It's getting warm weather now and you'd better can him so he'll keep until next year." Ford scowled and then laughed, for he was good-natured in spite of his one failing. Sid entered the room where Tom was late that afternoon with a worried look on his face. "What's the matter?" asked Tom in alarm. "Pitchfork has decided to have a special Latin exam to-morrow for my class. Wow! I was counting on it going over, but it won't, and I've got to take it to-morrow." "Well?" "No, not well--bad. If I slump, do you know what it means?" "You can't play against Fairview?" "Exactly. Oh, Tom, I'm as nervous as a girl before her first big party. Here, coach me a bit," and Tom, taking the books, gave Sid what help he could until they were both so tired and sleepy that Tom insisted that bed was the only place for them. The news spread the next day. Sid was the only member of the team who was in the special Latin class, and consequently the only one who had to go through the ordeal. When he went into recitation his mates on the team gathered in silent conclave on the diamond. "If Sid slumps," spoke Captain Woodhouse, "I don't----" "Don't talk about it," pleaded Bricktop Molloy. "If he does, couldn't we play Langridge on first?" suggested Phil Clinton. "He used to practice there." "Langridge is down and out," declared Kerr. "I don't know what's come over him. He won't speak to me any more. I guess he knows he's got to do a lot of studying to pass, and he must be tutoring with some grind. He keeps himself mighty scarce. I don't believe he'd play." "No, we couldn't use him," said Kindlings. "It all depends on Sid. I wish the exam was over. It's like waiting for a jury to come in." The whole team was on tenterhooks. No one felt like talking, and some one would start a topic only to witness it die a natural death. The members of the nine paced to and fro on the diamond. They were waiting for news from Sid. If he did not pass he could not play, and it practically meant a lowering of their chances for the pennant. An hour went by. A few lads began coming from the recitation room where the examination was being held. "Some of them have finished," commented Tom. "Let's ask 'em how Sid's making out." One of the Latin students strolled over toward where the ball players were. "How's Henderson doing?" asked Kindlings. "Sweating like a cart horse," was the characteristic answer. "It's a stiff exam all right." There was a groan in concert and the anxious waiting was resumed. Fifteen minutes passed. Several more students had come from the room. "Where can he be?" murmured Tom. "There he comes!" cried Phil Clinton as Sid appeared, coming slowly toward the group. "I'll bet he failed," said Kindlings solemnly. Certainly in Sid's approach there was not the air of a conqueror. All at once he stopped, bent down to the ground and appeared to be tearing something to pieces. "What's he doing?" asked Tom. "Let's go see," proposed Kerr. They advanced and beheld a curious sight. Sid was tearing up a book and making a little heap of the leaves. A moment later he touched a match to the pile, and the paper began to burn. "What in the world are you doing?" called Tom. "Did you pass?" fairly roared Kindlings. "Sure," replied Sid as calmly as if he had always expected to. "I passed with honors, and now I'm destroying the evidence. I'm applying the torch to Cæsar's Commentaries and I'll never open a book like it again in my life. Come on, fellows, join the festive throng. Tra la la! Merrily do we sing." He began prancing about and the others, with yells of joy, joined in. Sid would cover first base for them in the big game. With a tooting of auto horns, the waving of many flags, shouts, cheers, yells of encouragement, laughter from many pretty girls, the waving of handkerchiefs, renditions of the college yell the ball nine and its supporters started the next day in a long cavalcade for Fairview. Several automobiles had been provided for the use of the team, and in one of these rode Tom and Miss Tyler, whom he had called for at her home that morning. A number of ladies went along as chaperones for the girls of Haddonfield. Dr. Churchill and most of the faculty also went to the game. "Aren't you coming, Professor Tines?" asked the head of the college as he and the other instructors were about to start. "No, I don't care much for baseball. I shall remain here and arrange for another Latin examination for some of the students." Sid groaned and his chums laughed, whereat Professor Tines frowned. "Do you think you'll win?" asked Miss Tyler as she sat next to Tom. "I'm sure of it," he answered promptly. When the Randall team and its supporters arrived they found a big throng present to greet them. Even their opponents sent out a ringing cheer of welcome. The Fairview nine was out on the diamond practicing. "Snappy work," observed Tom critically as the batting and catching was under way. "Oh, we can do just as good," asserted Kindlings. "Don't get nervous now. You've got to pitch your head off." Some one started the Randall college song, "_Aut vincere aut mori_," and as the beautiful strains floated over the diamond when the players poured out from the dressing-rooms the team came to a sudden halt. "That's it, fellows," said Kindlings solemnly, "'Either we conquer or we die!' Play for all that's in you and then some more," and he laughed. Auto horns tooted blatantly, girls cried in their clear, shrill voices, the lady contingent of Fairview rendering some weird yells. Then there were the hoarse voices of the boys, to which answered the cheers of Randall. The grandstand and bleachers were waving geometrical figures of brilliant hues. It was an inspiring sight. No wonder that the players felt nerved to do their best, for on the result of the game depended much. Kindlings missed the call when the coin was spun, and he and his men had to start the hitting. But they did not mind this, and when, in the revised batting order, Kerr went up first, he "poked his stick into the horsehide for a two-bagger," as Holly Cross said. There was a yell that could have been heard a mile and every Randall lad was on his feet shouting: "Go on! go on! go on!" But Kerr stopped at second prudently, for he would have been nabbed at third. This opened the game and the play at once became hot. Randall scored two runs that inning and Tom, giving walking papers to a particularly heavy hitter, managed to come out of the initial ordeal without a hit being registered against him. The Randall boys went wild then and began the song, "When Fairview awoke from her sweet dream of peace," which was repeated again and again. But the next three innings saw only the negative sign chalked up in the frame on the scoreboard given over to Randall, while in the last half of the fourth Fairview secured a run, for one of the players "got the Indian sign" on Tom, to quote Holly Cross, who was an expert in diamond slang, and "bit his initials in the spheroid for a three-bagger." The run would not have been scored, for there were two men out, only Joe Jackson made what seemed to be an inexcusable fumble, and the runner came in. Still it looked safe for Randall until the fatal seventh inning. For some teams this is held to be a lucky one, but it was not for Randall. Tom was doing his best, but in delivering one ball he gave his arm a peculiar wrench, and a sharp twinge of pain in the region where Langridge had kicked him made him wince. After that he could not control his curves so well, and three men made safeties off him, a trio of runs being registered. The score was 4 to 2 in favor of Fairview at the close of the seventh. Kindlings looked grave and Coach Lighton paced nervously to and fro. "What's the matter, old man?" the captain asked Tom. "Nothing much," was the answer. "I gave my arm a little twist, that's all." "Come inside and we'll massage it," proposed Mr. Lighton, who was always ready for emergencies, and he and Kindlings rubbed some liniment on Tom's joint. It felt a little better, and Tom said so, though when he went into the box, following an inning when Bricktop Molloy brought in one run, the pitcher was in considerable misery. He shut his teeth grimly, however, and resolved to do his best, though to deliver his most effective curves meant to give himself much pain. Tom only allowed two hits and one run came in, making the score at the ending of the eighth inning 5 to 3 in favor of Fairview. How the co-eds shouted and cheered then and there was corresponding gloom among the Randallites until once more that grand old song, "_Aut vincere aut mori_," welled forth and gave confidence to an almost despairing nine. "It's about our last chance, fellows," said Kindlings grimly as he walked to the bat. He waited for a good ball, though two strikes were called on him, and then, with a mighty sweep of his strong arms, he sent the sphere away out into the field. "A good hit! Oh, a pretty hit!" yelled Phil Clinton. "Run, old man! Run!" And how Kindlings could run! On and on he leaped, around first base, speeding toward second, while the stands were in a frenzy of excitement. "Third! third!" cried the coach, for the left fielder was still after the ball. Kindlings was running strong, and he had now started home. Would he reach it? The fielder had the ball now. With a terrific heave he sent it to the third baseman, but Kindlings was half way home. Then ensued a curious scene. The baseman was afraid to throw the ball to the catcher, for Kindlings, who was tall and was running upright, was in the way. The baseman started to trail the captain down. There was a race. Kindlings looked back and decided to keep on to home. The catcher was leaping about excitedly. "Throw the ball! throw the ball!" he yelled. But the baseman thought he could outrun Kindlings. He almost succeeded and then, when he saw it was too late, he tossed the ball over the captain's head to the catcher. Kindlings dropped and, amid a cloud of dust, slid home. Like a flash the hand of the catcher holding the ball shot toward him. There was a moment of suspense. "Safe!" howled the umpire, and one more run went to the credit of Randall. Tom brought in another not so sensational, but it counted. He knocked a pretty fly, which sailed over the second baseman's head and the pitcher got to first, stole second and came in with a rush on a swift grounder bunt that Phil Clinton sacrificed on under orders. CHAPTER XXXIII VICTORY "The score is tie! the score is tie!" came the yells. And so it was--5 to 5 in the last half of the ninth inning. From the Randall stand came the chorus of the song, "We have their measure, we'll beat them at pleasure!" The game, however, was far from won. There were a bunch of heavy hitters to come to the bat, and Tom's arm was in poor shape. But he said nothing and walked to the box with a step as light as though he knew he was to win. When he gave two men their bases on balls there was some groaning among the Randallites, but Tom knew what he was doing. Lem Sellig and Frank Sullivan were generally good for safeties, and he could afford to take no chances. He had the measure of the next three men and he took it. Seldom had the devotees of the diamond witnessed such pitching as the exhibition which Tom gave after he had allowed the heavy hitters to walk. No one ever knew what he suffered as he delivered his most effective curves, but the cheering that resulted when he had struck his third man out, without allowing a player to get to third base, must have warmed his heart. "A ten-inning game!" was the cry, for the score still stood tie. Over in the grandstand Ford Fenton, who was cheer leader, called for the "Brace, brace, brace" song and it came in a mighty chorus. "Only one run! only one!" pleaded hundreds of Randall lads. "One run to beat 'em, and then Tom Parsons will strike 'em out!" Tom heard it and smiled. His arm had been given another rubbing, and though it pained him, he went to the bat first in the tenth inning with a confident step. Somewhere on the grandstand he knew a girl was watching him, and he tried to single her out. Could that be she standing up and waving a yellow and maroon flag at him? He hoped so, and he gritted his teeth, resolving to hit the ball for all that was in him. There was a steely look in the pitcher's eye as he delivered a vicious ball to Tom. Tom saw it coming and stepped up to it. He remembered a former experience. His bat got under it and he lifted and hit it outwardly in a long, upward curve. "Too high! too high! He's gone!" murmured Kindlings sadly, but Tom was off for first like a deer. In some unaccountable manner the right fielder muffed the ball and there were groans of anguish. Tom started for second, but was warned back. Later he did manage to "purloin the bag like a second-story man getting away with a diamond necklace," to quote Holly Cross, and went to third on a pop fly by Housenlager, who never got to first. Then, on a sacrifice hit by Kerr, Tom slid home, the dust cloud being so thick that the spectators could not witness the play. "Safe!" declared the umpire, and this meant that a run had been added to the score for Randall, making the tally 6 to 5 in their favor. Tom was pale when he arose. "Hurt?" asked Kindlings anxiously. "No," was the answer, but Tom had to bite his lips to keep back a groan of pain. He had jarred his sore arm badly. Though Randall tried desperately to better the score, it was not to be. Their only hope now lay in keeping their opponents from making a run, and, if they did, they would have the game and the championship. Tom felt as if he would collapse, and his first ball, instead of being a puzzling drop as he intended, went straight over the plate distressingly slow, so that Ted Puder, captain of the Fairview team, hit it mightily. Up and up it went, a black speck against the blue sky, while the youths and maidens of the institute were yelling encouragingly to the runner, who had started for first. "Oh, if he only gets it! If he only can get it!" murmured Kindlings as he watched Phil Clinton race after the ball. It was a long, high fly, and Phil had to sprint well toward the back field to even get under it. He had turned and was racing with all his might. Would he judge it properly? Could he hold it after he got it? He had turned again, and with his eye on the ball was running backward now. He stumbled over a stone and seemed about to fall. There was a groan from the Randallites, but Phil recovered himself. The ball was almost over his head when he saw that he had not gone far enough back. It was too late to take another step, but Phil did the next best thing. He leaped up, and, with his right hand extended as far as it would stretch, he caught the ball. It was a mighty fine play and the yells and applause that followed testified to it. "Runner's out!" decided the umpire. Tom breathed easier. His heart had been in his throat when he saw what had happened to the first ball he delivered. But Phil had made good. "What a magnificent catch!" exclaimed Dr. Churchill as he adjusted his glasses, that had been knocked off in the excitement. "Yes," admitted another member of the faculty who sat near him. "And how Clinton can run! I'd like to see him on the gridiron." "Perhaps you will," went on Dr. Churchill. "The boys will soon organize the eleven." Tom's nerve came back to him. Now he didn't mind the pain in his arm. There was one man out and Tom's team was a run ahead. If he could only strike out two more men the championship would be safe. The next batter was easy, for he was a poor hitter, and Tom soon sent him to the bench. The following player was one of the best stick-wielders Fairview had. "If I can only get him," thought the pitcher. Warily Tom delivered to him an inshoot. It was missed cleanly, but a look in the batter's eye warned the pitcher that another such curve would not fool him. Tom sent in a puzzling drop and the batter struck over it. "Two strikes!" called the umpire, amid almost breathless silence. Kerr signaled for another incurve, but Tom shook his head. He was going to deliver a style of ball he had used but once before that day because it twisted his arm fiercely. It was a sort of "fade-away" ball, made famous by a great professional player. Tom drew his arm back, having gripped the ball strongly. The action made him wince with pain, but there was no time now to stop for that. Out straightened his muscles and the horsehide left his hand swiftly. He knew it was a good ball, but in spite of that he almost feared lest he should hear the fatal "ping" as the bat hit it or listen to the umpire's "ball one." Tom felt that he could not toss another curve. His arm was numb and tingled away up to his shoulder. He saw a black wall looming up before his eyes and there was a ringing in his ears. But above the tumult he heard a voice shouting: "Three strikes! Batter's out!" Oh, what yelling there was! How the handkerchiefs and banners fluttered! How the girls' shrill voices mingled with the deep cheering of the boys! What a stamping of feet on the grandstand! Then out from the tumult came booming that heart-stirring song of Randall: "We have come and we have conquered!" Tom staggered as he pulled off his glove and walked toward the bench. His mouth was parched and dry. "Oh, good old man!" yelled Kindlings, rushing up and embracing him. "Oh, fine! Oh, great! Oh, oh, oh! Wow!" "Up with him, fellows!" called Sid Henderson. "On our shoulders!" "No, no!" protested Tom. But he might as well have talked to the wind. They lifted him up and marched with him around the field, singing again: "We have come and we have conquered!" "Now, fellows, a good round of cheers for Fairview," proposed Kindlings, and the team, gathering in a circle about Tom, who had managed to descend to the ground, raised their voices in a tribute to those over whom they had been victorious. From where they were gathered, downcast but not disheartened at their defeat, the Fairview team sent back an answering cheer. Then came more songs from the contingent of Randall students, and many an "old grad" walked with a prouder step that day, for once more, after many seasons, the bird of victory had come back to hover over the college on the river and the championship banner would float from the flagstaff on the campus. Tom and his chums dispersed to dress. A crowd surrounded the victorious pitcher. "Let me congratulate you, Parsons," said Dr. Churchill, making his way through the throng. "You have brought honor to the college," and he shook Tom's hand heartily. "The rest of them did as much as I," replied Tom modestly. "If it hadn't been for Clinton's run, I'm afraid we'd have lost after all." "You get out!" cried Phil. "May I also congratulate you?" asked a voice at Tom's elbow, and he turned to see Miss Tyler. His face, which was pale from pain, flushed, and as she held out her hand he hesitated, for his was all stained from the dirt of the ball, while hers was daintily gloved. "As if I minded that!" she cried as she saw him hesitate, and she took his hand in both hers, to the no small damage of the new gloves. "I knew you'd do it," she said, while she smiled happily. "Oh, Tom, I'm so glad!" "So am I," he answered, and after that the pain in his arm did not seem so bad. What a triumphant procession it was that wended its way toward Randall that afternoon! How song followed song and cheer was piled upon cheer! Tom sat in the corner of a big auto, with Miss Tyler at his side. He had to put his arm in a sling and he was overwhelmed with questions as to how he felt, while the number of sweaters offered him as cushions would have stocked a furnishing store. "Oh, boy, but you're a daisy!" exclaimed Sid a few hours later when he and Tom, after a good bath, were resting in their room. "As if you didn't cover first base as it never has been covered before," declared Tom. "Oh, well, that was easy for me after I passed that Latin exam. But you and your arm--I don't see how you did it." "And don't forget Phil Clinton. That was one of the greatest runs and catches I ever saw." "Oh, yes, it certainly was great. But did you hear the news? Phil isn't going to play any more, at least for the present." "Why not?" "He is going into training for our football eleven this fall. Some of the older heads think he'll make a great player." "I've no doubt he will," said Tom. "He's built for it." And what Tom said was true, as we shall learn in our next tale, to be called "A Quarter-back's Pluck." In that story we shall meet Tom and Sid and all the boys of Randall College again and also Miss Madge Tyler, and learn the particulars of several fiercely contested games on the gridiron. "No, sir, I don't really see how you did it," repeated Sid, "with such a sore arm as that." "I don't see, either," answered Tom, but he knew that the memory of a certain girl had done as much to keep him up as had his desire to make his team win. Some one knocked at the door. "More congratulatory calls," said Sid as he went to open it. "May I come in?" asked a voice, and Langridge stood in the corridor. Tom arose from the couch where he was lying. "Come on in," he said quietly. "I--I just want to congratulate you, dominie," he said, and he smiled a little, but there was a curious note in his voice. "You did magnificent work. I could never have equaled it in a thousand years. Will you shake hands?" Sid wondered at the queer air of restraint about Langridge, but Tom understood, and there was heartiness and forgiveness in the grip that followed. "I've resigned as manager," went on Langridge. "I--I hope they'll elect you, dominie. We won't be rivals any more." "Are you going to leave college?" asked Sid curiously. "No. I'm going to give up athletics for a while, though, and become a grind. I've been beaten two ways lately," he went on. "Parsons is a better pitcher than I am, and--and----" but he did not finish, though Tom knew he referred to Miss Tyler. Then Langridge went out and Sid and Tom played the game all over again in talk. Suddenly there was a shout out on the campus. Tom looked from the window. "What is it?" asked Sid. "They're getting ready for the procession and the bonfires along the river. Come on." The two chums rushed downstairs, Phil Clinton joining them on the way. Out on the green was a throng of students, every one in the college. "Three cheers for Tom Parsons, the best pitcher that ever tossed a ball!" called some one. How the yells resounded again and again, with innumerable tigers and other wild and ferocious beasts added! "Fall in! fall in! Down to the fires along the river!" commanded Captain Woodhouse. "Oh, but this is a great day!" "That's what," added Ford Fenton. "My uncle says----" But his voice was drowned in the shout that followed, and then came that inspiring song, "_Aut vincere aut mori_." And many fires of victory blazed along Sunny River that night. THE END THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors._ _Price 75 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] _Mr. Chadwick has played on the diamond and on the gridiron himself._ 1. THE RIVAL PITCHERS _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons, a "hayseed," makes good on the scrub team of Randall College. 2. A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK _A Story of College Football_ A football story, told in Mr. Chadwick's best style, that is bound to grip the reader from the start. 3. BATTING TO WIN _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons and his friends Phil and Sid are the leading players on Randall College team. There is a great game. 4. THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN _A Story of College Football_ After having to reorganize their team at the last moment, Randall makes a touchdown that won a big game. 5. FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL _A Story of College Athletics_ The winning of the hurdle race and long-distance run is extremely exciting. 6. THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS _A Story of College Water Sports_ Tom, Phil and Sid prove as good at aquatic sports as they are on track, gridiron and diamond. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE JACK RANGER SERIES By CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _Price 75 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional_ [Illustration] _Lively stories of outdoor sports and adventure every boy will want to read._ 1. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL DAYS _or The Rivals of Washington Hall_ You will love Jack Ranger--you simply can't help it. He is bright and cheery, and earnest in all he does. 2. JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP _or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range_ This volume takes the hero to the great West. Jack is anxious to clear up the mystery surrounding his father's disappearance. 3. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL VICTORIES _or Track, Gridiron and Diamond_ Jack gets back to Washington Hall and goes in for all sorts of school games. There are numerous contests on the athletic field. 4. JACK RANGER'S OCEAN CRUISE _or The Wreck of the Polly Ann_ How Jack was carried off to sea against his will makes a "yarn" no boy will want to miss. 5. JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB _or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail_ Jack organizes a gun club and with his chums goes in quest of big game. They have many adventures in the mountains. 6. JACK RANGER'S TREASURE BOX _or The Outing of the Schoolboy Yachtsmen_ Jack receives a box from his father and it is stolen. How he regains it makes an absorbing tale. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE GREAT MARVEL SERIES BY ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Stories of adventures in strange places, with peculiar people and queer animals._ 1. THROUGH THE AIR TO THE NORTH POLE _or The Wonderful Cruise of the Electric Monarch_ The tale of a trip to the frozen North with a degree of reality that is most convincing. 2. UNDER THE OCEAN TO THE SOUTH POLE _or The Strange Cruise of the Submarine Wonder_ A marvelous trip from Maine to the South Pole, telling of adventures with the sea-monsters and savages. 3. FIVE THOUSAND MILES UNDERGROUND _or The Mystery of the Center of the Earth_ A cruise to the center of the earth through an immense hole found at an island in the ocean. 4. THROUGH SPACE TO MARS _or The Most Wonderful Trip on Record_ This book tells how the journey was made in a strange craft and what happened on Mars. 5. LOST ON THE MOON _or In Quest of the Field of Diamonds_ Strange adventures on the planet which is found to be a land of desolation and silence. 6. ON A TORN-AWAY WORLD _or Captives of the Great Earthquake_ After a tremendous convulsion of nature the adventurers find themselves captives on a vast "island in the air." 7. THE CITY BEYOND THE CLOUDS _or Captured by the Red Dwarfs_ The City Beyond the Clouds is a weird place, full of surprises, and the impish Red Dwarfs caused no end of trouble. There is a fierce battle in the woods and in the midst of this a volcanic eruption sends the Americans sailing away in a feverish endeavor to save their lives. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York _The Boy Hunters Series_ _By Captain Ralph Bonehill_ 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid. [Illustration] FOUR BOY HUNTERS _Or, The Outing of the Gun Club_ A fine, breezy story of the woods and waters, of adventures in search of game, and of great times around the campfire, told in Captain Bonehill's best style. In the book are given full directions for camping out. GUNS AND SNOWSHOES _Or, The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters_ In this volume the young hunters leave home for a winter outing on the shores of a small lake. They hunt and trap to their heart's content, and have adventures in plenty, all calculated to make boys "sit up and take notice." A good healthy book; one with the odor of the pine forests and the glare of the welcome campfire in every chapter. YOUNG HUNTERS OF THE LAKE _Or, Out with Rod and Gun_ Another tale of woods and waters, with some strong hunting scenes and a good deal of mystery. The three volumes make a splendid outdoor series. OUT WITH GUN AND CAMERA _Or, The Boy Hunters in the Mountains_ Takes up the new fad of photographing wild animals as well as shooting them. An escaped circus chimpanzee and an escaped lion add to the interest of the narrative. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE BOB DEXTER SERIES BY WILLARD F. BAKER _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid_ [Illustration] _This is a new line of stories for boys, by the author of the Boy Ranchers series. The Bob Dexter books are of the character that may be called detective stories, yet they are without the objectionable features of the impossible characters and absurd situations that mark so many of the books in that class. These stories deal with the up-to-date adventures of a normal, healthy lad who has a great desire to solve mysteries._ 1. BOB DEXTER AND THE CLUB-HOUSE MYSTERY _or The Missing Golden Eagle_ This story tells how the Boys' Athletic Club was despoiled of its trophies in a strange manner, and how, among other things stolen, was the Golden Eagle mascot. How Bob Dexter turned himself into an amateur detective and found not only the mascot, but who had taken it, makes interesting and exciting reading. 2. BOB DEXTER AND THE BEACON BEACH MYSTERY _or The Wreck of the Sea Hawk_ When Bob and his chum went to Beacon Beach for their summer vacation, they were plunged, almost at once, into a strange series of events, not the least of which was the sinking of the Sea Hawk. How some men tried to get the treasure off the sunken vessel, and how Bob and his chum foiled them, and learned the secret of the lighthouse, form a great story. 3. BOB DEXTER AND THE STORM MOUNTAIN MYSTERY _or The Secret of the Log Cabin_ Bob Dexter came upon a man mysteriously injured and befriended him. This led the young detective into the swirling midst of a series of strange events and into the companionship of strange persons, not the least of whom was the man with the wooden leg. But Bob got the best of this vindictive individual, and solved the mystery of the log cabin, showing his friends how the secret entrance to the house was accomplished. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS New York THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES By _Clarence Young_ [Illustration] _12mo. illustrated_ _Price per volume, 50 cents._ _Postage, extra, 10 cents_ _Bright up-to-date stories, full of information as well as of adventure. Read the first volume and you will want all the others written by Mr. Young._ 1. THE MOTOR BOYS _or Chums through Thick and Thin_ 2. THE MOTOR BOYS OVERLAND _or A Long Trip for Fun and Fortune_ 3. THE MOTOR BOYS IN MEXICO _or The Secret of the Buried City_ 4. THE MOTOR BOYS ACROSS THE PLAINS _or The Hermit of Lost Lake_ 5. THE MOTOR BOYS AFLOAT _or The Cruise of the Dartaway_ 6. THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE ATLANTIC _or The Mystery of the Lighthouse_ 7. THE MOTOR BOYS IN STRANGE WATERS _or Lost in a Floating Forest_ 8. THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE PACIFIC _or The Young Derelict Hunters_ 9. THE MOTOR BOYS IN THE CLOUDS _or A Trip for Fame and Fortune_ 10. THE MOTOR BOYS OVER THE ROCKIES _or A Mystery of the Air_ 11. THE MOTOR BOYS OVER THE OCEAN _or A Marvelous Rescue in Mid-Air_ 12. THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE WING _or Seeking the Airship Treasure_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Illustrated. Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] 1. BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS _or The Rivals of Riverside_ 2. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ 3. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE _or Pitching for the College Championship_ 4. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ 5. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ 6. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ 7. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES _or Pitching for the Championship_ 8. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ 9. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_ 10. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE _or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_ 11. BASEBALL JOE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM _or Bitter Struggles on the Diamond_ 12. BASEBALL JOE CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE _or The Record that was Worth While_ 13. BASEBALL JOE CLUB OWNER _or Putting the Home Town on the Map_ 14. BASEBALL JOE PITCHING WIZARD _or Triumphs Off and On the Diamond_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York SEA STORIES FOR BOYS BY JOHN GABRIEL ROWE _Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Colored jacket_ _=Price per volume, $1.00 Net=_ [Illustration] _Every boy who knows the lure of exploring and who loves to rig up huts and caves and tree-houses to fortify himself against imaginary enemies will enjoy these books, for they give a vivid chronicle of the doings and inventions of a group of boys who are shipwrecked and have to make themselves snug and safe in tropical islands where the dangers are too real for play._ 1. CRUSOE ISLAND Dick, Alf and Fred find themselves stranded on an unknown island with the old seaman Josh, their ship destroyed by fire, their friends lost. 2. THE ISLAND TREASURE With much ingenuity these boys fit themselves into the wild life of the island they are cast upon in storm. 3 THE MYSTERY OF THE DERELICT Their ship and companions perished in tempest at sea, the boys are adrift in a small open boat when they spy a ship. Such a strange vessel!--no hand guiding it, no soul on board,--a derelict. 4. THE LIGHTSHIP PIRATES Modern Pirates, with the ferocity of beasts, attack a lightship crew;--recounting the adventures that befall the survivors of that crew,--and--"RETRIBUTION." 5. THE SECRET OF THE GOLDEN IDOL Telling of a mutiny, and how two youngsters were unwillingly involved in one of the weirdest of treasure hunts,--and--"THE GOLDEN FETISH." _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOMBA BOOKS By ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With colored jacket._ [Illustration] _Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ _Bomba lived far back in the jungles of the Amazon with a half-demented naturalist who told the lad nothing of his past. The jungle boy was a lover of birds, and hunted animals with a bow and arrow and his trusty machete. He had a primitive education in some things, and his daring adventures will be followed with breathless interest by thousands._ 1. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY _or The Old Naturalist's Secret_ 2. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING MOUNTAIN _or The Mystery of the Caves of Fire_ 3. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE GIANT CATARACT _or Chief Nasconora and His Captives_ 4. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND _or Adrift on the River of Mystery_ 5. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE ABANDONED CITY _or A Treasure Ten Thousand Years Old_ 6. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON TERROR TRAIL _or The Mysterious Men from the Sky_ 7. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE SWAMP OF DEATH _or The Sacred Alligators of Abarago_ 8. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE SLAVES _or Daring Adventures in the Valley of Skulls_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOYS' OUTING LIBRARY _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full color._ _Price, per volume, 50 cents. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] =THE SADDLE BOYS SERIES= By CAPT. JAMES CARSON The Saddle Boys of the Rockies The Saddle Boys in the Grand Canyon The Saddle Boys on the Plains The Saddle Boys at Circle Ranch The Saddle Boys on Mexican Trails =THE DAVE DASHAWAY SERIES= By ROY ROCKWOOD Dave Dashaway the Young Aviator Dave Dashaway and His Hydroplane Dave Dashaway and His Giant Airship Dave Dashaway Around the World Dave Dashaway: Air Champion =THE SPEEDWELL BOYS SERIES= By ROY ROCKWOOD The Speedwell Boys on Motorcycles The Speedwell Boys and Their Racing Auto The Speedwell Boys and Their Power Launch The Speedwell Boys in a Submarine The Speedwell Boys and Their Ice Racer =THE TOM FAIRFIELD SERIES= By ALLEN CHAPMAN Tom Fairfield's School Days Tom Fairfield at Sea Tom Fairfield in Camp Tom Fairfield's Pluck and Luck Tom Fairfield's Hunting Trip =THE FRED FENTON ATHLETIC SERIES= By ALLEN CHAPMAN Fred Fenton the Pitcher Fred Fenton in the Line Fred Fenton on the Crew Fred Fenton on the Track Fred Fenton: Marathon Runner _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE WEBSTER SERIES By FRANK V. WEBSTER [Illustration] Mr. Webster's style is very much like that of the boys' favorite author, the late lamented Horatio Alger, Jr., but his tales are thoroughly up-to-date. _Cloth. 12mo. Over 200 pages each. Illustrated. Stamped in various colors._ _Price per volume, 50 cents._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ Only a Farm Boy _or Dan Hardy's Rise in Life_ The Boy from the Ranch _or Roy Bradner's City Experiences_ The Young Treasure Hunter _or Fred Stanley's Trip to Alaska_ The Boy Pilot of the Lakes _or Nat Morton's Perils_ Tom the Telephone Boy _or The Mystery of a Message_ Bob the Castaway _or The Wreck of the Eagle_ The Newsboy Partners _or Who Was Dick Box?_ Two Boy Gold Miners _or Lost in the Mountains_ The Young Firemen of Lakeville _or Herbert Dare's Pluck_ The Boys of Bellwood School _or Frank Jordan's Triumph_ Jack the Runaway _or On the Road with a Circus_ Bob Chester's Grit _or From Ranch to Riches_ Airship Andy _or The Luck of a Brave Boy_ High School Rivals _or Fred Markham's Struggles_ Darry the Life Saver _or The Heroes of the Coast_ Dick the Bank Boy _or A Missing Fortune_ Ben Hardy's Flying Machine _or Making a Record for Himself_ Harry Watson's High School Days _or The Rivals of Rivertown_ Comrades of the Saddle _or The Young Rough Riders of the Plains_ Tom Taylor at West Point _or The Old Army Officer's Secret_ The Boy Scouts of Lennox _or Hiking Over Big Bear Mountain_ The Boys of the Wireless _or a Stirring Rescue from the Deep_ Cowboy Dave _or The Round-up at Rolling River_ Jack of the Pony Express _or The Young Rider of the Mountain Trail_ The Boys of the Battleship _or For the Honor of Uncle Sam_ CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers NEW YORK THE SADDLE BOYS SERIES By CAPTAIN JAMES CARSON 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. All lads who love life in the open air and a good steed, will want to peruse these books. Captain Carson knows his subject thoroughly, and his stories are as pleasing as they are healthful and instructive. [Illustration] THE SADDLE BOYS OF THE ROCKIES _or Lost on Thunder Mountain_ Telling how the lads started out to solve the mystery of a great noise in the mountains--how they got lost--and of the things they discovered. THE SADDLE BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON _or The Hermit of the Cave_ A weird and wonderful story of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, told in a most absorbing manner. The Saddle Boys are to the front in a manner to please all young readers. THE SADDLE BOYS ON THE PLAINS _or After a Treasure of Gold_ In this story the scene is shifted to the great plains of the southwest and then to the Mexican border. There is a stirring struggle for gold, told as only Captain Carson can tell it. THE SADDLE BOYS AT CIRCLE RANCH _or In at the Grand Round-up_ Here we have lively times at the ranch, and likewise the particulars of a grand round-up of cattle and encounters with wild animals and also cattle thieves. A story that breathes the very air of the plains. THE SADDLE BOYS ON MEXICAN TRAILS _or In the Hands of the Enemy_ The scene is shifted in this volume to Mexico. The boys go on an important errand, and are caught between the lines of the Mexican soldiers. They are captured and for a while things look black for them; but all ends happily. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK Transcriber's Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores ( _italics_ ), in bold by equals ( =bold= ), and subscripts by braces ( H{2}O ). --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --Page 231: oe ligature expanded (coelum). 
41206	----	[Illustration: HE SLAMMED IT OUT FOR A THREE-BASE HIT.] BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball BY LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF "THE RIVAL PITCHERS," "A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK," ETC. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK =THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES= 12mo. Illustrated THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK A Story of College Football BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball (Other Volumes in preparation) CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY NEW YORK Copyright, 1911, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BATTING TO WIN Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A STRANGE MESSAGE 1 II SID IS CAUGHT 16 III MISS MABEL HARRISON 27 IV ELECTING A MANAGER 41 V RANDALL AGAINST BOXER 59 VI THE ACCUSATION 75 VII GETTING BACK AT "PITCHFORK" 84 VIII THE ENVELOPE 92 IX A CLASH 100 X SID IS SPIKED 105 XI A JOKE ON THE PROCTOR 114 XII PLANNING A PICNIC 122 XIII A SPORTY COMPANION 131 XIV "MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!" 140 XV AN UNEXPECTED DEFENSE 146 XVI A SERIOUS CHARGE 152 XVII SID KEEPS SILENT 157 XVIII BASCOME GIVES A DINNER 163 XIX FAIRVIEW AND RANDALL 170 XX RANDALL SCORES FIRST 176 XXI RANDALL IN THE TENTH 183 XXII SID DESPAIRS 195 XXIII FINANCIAL DIFFICULTIES 202 XXIV PITCHFORK'S TALL HAT 209 XXV A PETITION 219 XXVI TOM STOPS A HOT ONE 226 XXVII GLOOMY DAYS 233 XXVIII A FRESHMAN PLOT 239 XXIX THE SOPHOMORE DINNER 246 XXX TOM'S LAST APPEAL 255 XXXI THE BAN LIFTED 265 XXXII A PERILOUS CROSSING 275 XXXIII THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME 284 XXXIV BATTING TO WIN 295 BATTING TO WIN CHAPTER I A STRANGE MESSAGE Sid Henderson arose from the depths of an antiquated easy chair, not without some effort, for the operation caused the piece of furniture to creak and groan, while from the thick cushions a cloud of dust arose, making a sort of haze about the student lamp, and forcing two other occupants of the college room to sneeze. "Oh, I say, Sid!" expostulated Tom Parsons, "give a fellow notice, will you, when you're going to liberate a colony of sneeze germs. I--er--ah! kerchoo! Hoo! Boo!" and he made a dive for his pocket handkerchief. "Yes," added Phil Clinton, as he coughed protestingly. "What do you want to get up for and disturb everything, when Tom and I were so nice and quiet? Why can't you sit still and enjoy a good think once in a while? Besides, do you want to give that chair spinal meningitis or lumbago? Our old armchair, that has stuck to us, through thick and thin, for better and for worse--mostly worse, I guess. I say----" "I came near sticking to it, myself," remarked Sidney Henderson, otherwise known as, and called, Sid. "It's like getting out of the middle of a featherbed to leave it. And say, it does act as if it was going to pieces every time one gets in or out of it," he added, making a critical inspection of the chair. "Then why do you want to get in or out?" asked Phil, closing a book, over which he had made a pretense of studying. "Why do you do it, I ask? You may consider that I have moved the previous question, and answer," he went on. "How about it, Tom?" "The gentleman is out of order," decided Tom, a tall, good-looking lad, with the bronzed skin of an athlete, summer and fall, barely dimmed by the enforced idleness of winter. "Sid, you are most decidedly out of order--I think I'm going to sneeze again," and he held up a protesting hand. "No, I'm not, either," he continued. "False alarm. My, what a lot of dust! But, go ahead, Sid, answer the gentleman's query." "Gentleman?" repeated the lad, who had arisen from the easy chair, and there was a questioning note in his voice. "Here! Here! Save that for the amateur theatricals!" cautioned Tom, looking about for something to throw at his chum. "Why did you get up? Answer!" "I wanted to see if it had stopped raining," announced Sid, as he moved over toward one of the two windows in the rather small living room and study, occupied by the three chums, who were completing their sophomore year at Randall College. "Seems to me it's slacking up some." "Slacking up some!" exclaimed Tom. "Stopped raining!" echoed Phil. "Listen to it! Cats and dogs, to say nothing of little puppies, aren't in it. It's a regular deluge. Listen to it!" He held up his hand. Above the fussy ticking of a small alarm clock, which seemed to contain a six-cylindered voice in a one-cylindered body, and which timepiece was resting at a dangerous angle on a pile of books, there sounded the patter of rain on the windows and the tin gutter outside. "Rain, rain, nothing but rain!" grumbled Phil. "We haven't had a decent day for baseball practice in two weeks. I'm sick of the inside cage, and the smell of tan bark. I want to get into the open, with the green grass of the outfield to fall on." "Well, this weather is good for making the grass grow," observed Tom, as he got up from his chair, and joined Sid at the window, down which rain drops were chasing each other as if in glee at the anguish of mind they were causing the three youths. "Aren't you anxious to begin twirling the horsehide?" asked Sid. "I should think you'd lose some speed, having only the cage to practice in, Tom." "I am, but I guess we'll get some decent weather soon. This can't last forever." "It's in a fair way to," grumbled Phil. "It would be a nice night if it didn't rain," came from Sid musingly, as he turned back to the old easy chair, "which remark," he added, "is one a little boy made in the midst of a driving storm, when he met his Sunday-school teacher, and wanted to say something, but didn't know what." "Your apology is accepted," murmured Tom. "I don't know what you fellows are going to do, but I'm going to sew up a rip in my pitcher's glove. I think maybe if I do the weather man will get a hunch on himself, and hand us out a sample of a nice day for us to select from." "Nice nothing!" was what Phil growled, but with the activity of Tom in getting out his glove, and searching for needle and thread, there came a change of atmosphere in the room. The rain came down as insistently, and the wind lashed the drops against the panes, but there was an air of relief among the chums. "I've got to fix a rip in my own glove," murmured Sid. "Guess I might as well get at it," and he noted Tom threading a needle. "And I've got to do a little more boning on this trigonometry," added Phil, as, with a sigh, he opened the despised book. For a time there was silence in the apartment, while the rain on the windows played a tattoo, more or less gentle, as the wind whipped the drops; the timepiece fussed away, as if reminding its hearers that time and tide waited for no man, and that 99-cent alarm clocks were especially exacting in the matter. Occasionally Sid shifted his position in the big chair, to which he had returned, each movement bringing out a cloud of dust, and protests from his chums. The room was typical of the three lads who occupied it. At the beginning of their friendship, and their joint occupation of a study, they had agreed that each was to be allowed one side of the apartment to decorate as he saw fit. The fourth side of this particular room was broken by two windows, and not of much use, while one of the other walls contained the door, and this one Sid had chosen, for the simple reason that his fancy did not run to such things as did Tom's and Phil's, and he required less space for his ornaments. Sid was rather an odd character, somewhat quiet, much given to study, and to delving after the odd and unusual. One of his fads was biology, and another, allied to it, nature study. He would tramp all day for a sight of some comparatively rare bird, nesting; or walk many miles to get a picture of a fox, or a ground-hog, just as it darted into its burrow. In consequence Sid's taste did not run to gay flags and banners of the college colors, worked by the fair hands of pretty girls, nor did he care to collect the pictures of the aforesaid girls, and stick them up on his wall. He had one print which he prized, a representation of a football scrimmage, and this occupied the place of honor. As for Tom and Phil, the more adornments they had the better they liked it, though I must do them the credit to say that they only had one place of honor for one girl's photograph at a time. But they sometimes changed girls. Then, on their side, were more or less fancy pictures--scenes, mottoes, and what not. Much of the ornamentation had been given them by young lady friends. Of course the old chair and an older sofa, together with the alarm clock, which had been handed down from student to student until the mind of Randallites ran not to the contrary, were the chief other things in the apartment, aside from the occupants thereof. Each lad had a desk, and a bureau or chiffonier, or "Chauffeur" as Holly Cross used to dub them. These articles of furniture were more or less in confusion. Neckties, handkerchiefs, collars and cuffs were piled in a seemingly inextricable, if not artistic, confusion. Nor could much else be expected in a room where three chums made a habit of indiscriminately borrowing each other's articles of wearing apparel, provided they came any where near fitting. On the floor was a much worn rug, which Phil had bought at auction at an almost prohibitive price, under the delusion that it was a rare Oriental. Learning to the contrary he and his chums had decided to keep it, since, old and dirty as it was, they argued that it saved them the worriment of cleaning their feet when they came in. Then there were three neat, white, iron beds--neat because they were made up fresh every day, and there was a dormitory rule against having them in disorder. Otherwise they would have suffered the fate of the walls, the rug or the couch and easy chair. Altogether it was a fairly typical student apartment, and it was occupied, as I hope my readers will believe, by three of the finest chaps it has been my lot to write about; and it is in this room that my story opens, with the three lads busily engaged in one way or another. "Oh, I say! Hang it all!" burst out Sid finally. "How in the mischief do you shove a needle through this leather, Tom? It won't seem to go, for me." "You should use a thimble," observed Tom. "Nothing like 'em, son." "Thimble!" cried Sid scornfully. "Do you take me for an old maid? Where did you ever learn to use a thimble?" and he walked over to where Tom was making an exceedingly neat job of mending his glove. "Oh, I picked it up," responded the pitcher of the Randall 'varsity nine. "Comes in handy when your foot goes through your socks." "Yes, and that's what they do pretty frequently these days," added Phil. "If you haven't anything to do, Tom, I wish you'd get busy on some of my footwear. I just got a batch back from the laundry, and I'm blessed if out of the ten pairs of socks I can get one whole pair." "I'll look 'em over," promised the pitcher. "There, that's as good as new; in fact better, for it fits my hand," and he held up and gazed critically at the mended glove. "Where's yours, Sid?" he went on. "I'll mend it for you." Silence was the atmosphere of the apartment for a few minutes--that is comparative silence, though the pushing of Tom's needle through the leather, squeaking as he forced it, mingled with the ticking of the clock. "I guess we can count on a good nine this year," observed Tom judicially, apropos of the glove repairing. "It's up to you, cap," remarked Sid, for Tom had been elected to that coveted honor. "You mean it's up to you fellows," retorted the pitcher-captain. "I want some good batters, that's what I want. It's all right enough to have a team that can hold down Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute, but you can't win games by shutting out the other fellows. Runs are what count, and to get runs you've got to bat to win." "Listen to the oracle!" mocked Phil, but with no malice in his voice. "You want to do better than three hundred with the stick, Sid." "Physician, heal thyself!" quoted Tom, smiling. "I think we will have a good----" He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor. Instinctively the three lads started, then, as a glance at the clock showed that they were not burning lights beyond the prescribed hour, there was a breath of relief. "Who's coming?" asked Tom. "Woodhouse, Bricktop or some of the royal family," was Phil's opinion. "No," remarked Sid quietly, and there was that in his voice which made his chums look curiously at him, for it seemed as if he expected some one. A moment later there came a rap on the door, and then, with a seeming knowledge of the nerve-racking effect this always has on college students, a voice added: "I'm Wallops, the messenger. I have a note for Mr. Henderson." "For me?" and there was a startled query in Sid's voice, as he went to the door. Outside the portal stood a diminutive figure--Wallops--the college messenger, so christened in ages gone by--perhaps because of the chastisements inflicted on him. At any rate Wallops he was, and Wallops he remained. "A message for me?" repeated Sid. "Where from?" "Dunno. Feller brought it, and said it was for you," and, handing the youth an envelope, the messenger departed. Sid took out the note, and rapidly scanned it. "See him blush!" exclaimed Phil. "Think of it, Tom, Sid Henderson, the old anchorite, the petrified misogynist, getting notes from a girl." "Yes," added Tom. "Why don't you sport her photograph, old man?" and he glanced at several pictures of pretty girls that adorned the sides of the room claimed by Phil and himself. Sid did not answer. He read the note through again, and then began to tear it into bits. The pieces he thrust into his pocket, but one fluttered, unnoticed, to the floor. "I've got to go out, fellows," he announced in a curiously quiet voice. "Out--on a night like this?" cried Tom. "You're crazy. Listen to the rain! It's pouring." "I can't help it," was the answer, as the lad began delving among his things for a raincoat. "You're crazy!" burst out Phil. "Can't you wait until to-morrow to see her, old sport? My, but you've got 'em bad for a fellow who wouldn't look at a girl all winter!" "It isn't a girl," and Sid's voice was still oddly calm. "I've got to go, that's all--don't bother me--you chaps." There was such a sudden snap to the last words--something so different from Sid's usual gentle manner--that Phil and Tom looked at each other in surprise. Then, as if realizing what he had said, Sid added: "It's something I can't talk about--just yet. I've got to go--I promised--that's all. I'll be back soon--I guess." "How about Proc. Zane?" asked Tom, for the proctor of Randall College was very strict. "I'll have to chance it," replied Sid. "I've got about two hours yet, before locking-up time, and if I get caught--well my reputation's pretty good," and he laughed uneasily. This was not the Sid that Tom and Phil--his closest chums--had known for the last three terms. It was a different Sid, and the note he received, and had so quickly destroyed, seemed to have worked the change in him. Slowly he drew on his raincoat and took up an umbrella. He paused a moment in the doorway. The rain was coming down harder than ever. "So long," said Sid, as he stepped into the corridor. He almost collided with another youth on the point of entering, and the newcomer exclaimed: "Say, fellows! I've got great news! Baseball news! I know this is a rotten night to talk diamond conversation, but listen. There's been a new trophy offered for the championship of the Tonoka Lake League! Just heard of it. Dr. Churchill told me. Some old geezer that did some endowing for the college years ago, had a spasm of virtue recently and is now taking an interest in sports. It's a peach of a gold loving cup, and say----" "Come on in, Holly," invited Tom, "Holly" being about all that Holman Cross was ever called. "Come on in," went on Tom, "and chew it all over for us. Say, it's great! A gold loving cup! We must lick the pants off Boxer and Fairview now!" Holly started to enter the room, Phil and Tom reaching out and clasping his hands. "Where are you bound for?" asked Holly, looking at Sid, attired in the raincoat. "I've got to go out," was the hesitating answer. "Wait until you hear the news," invited Holly. "It's great! It will be the baseball sensation of the year, Sid." "No--no--sorry, but I've got to go. I'll be back--soon--I guess. I've--I've got to go," and breaking away from the detaining hand of Holly, the strangely-acting boy turned down the corridor, leaving his roommates, and the newcomer, to stare curiously after him. "Whatever has gotten into old Sid?" inquired Holly. "Search us," answered Phil. "He got a note a little while ago; seemed quite put out about it, tore it up and then tore out, just as you saw." "A note, eh?" mused Holly, as he threw himself full length on a rickety old sofa, much patched fore and aft with retaining boards--a sofa that was a fit companion for the ancient chair. It creaked and groaned under the substantial bulk of Holly. "Easy!" cautioned Phil. "Do you want to wreck our most cherished possession?" "Anyone who can wreck this would be a wonder," retorted Holly, as he looked over the edge, and saw the boards that had been nailed on to repair a bad fracture. "Hello!" he exclaimed a moment later, as he picked up from the floor a scrap of paper. "You fellows are getting most uncommon untidy. First you know Proc. Zane will have you up on the carpet. You should keep your scraps of paper picked up." "We didn't put that there," declared Tom. "That must be part of the note Sid tore up." Idly Holly turned the bit of paper over. It was blank on one side, but, at the sight of the reverse the athlete uttered a cry. "I say, fellows, look here!" he said. He held the paper scrap out for their inspection. It needed but a glance to see that it bore but one word, though there were pen tracings of parts of other words on the edges. But the word that stood plainly out was "_trouble_," and it appeared to be the end of a sentence, for a period followed it. "Trouble," mused Holly. "Trouble," repeated Phil. "I wonder if that means Sid is going to get into trouble?" and his voice took a curious turn. "Trouble," added Tom, the last of the trio to use the word. "Certainly something is up or Sid wouldn't act the way he did. I wonder----" "It isn't any of our affair," spoke Holly softly, "that is unless Sid wants our help, of course. I guess we shouldn't have looked at this. It's like reading another chap's letters." "We couldn't help it," decided Phil. "Go ahead, Holly. Tell us about the trophy. Sid may be back soon." "All right, here goes," and wiggling into a more comfortable position on the sofa, an operation fraught with much anxiety on the part of Phil and Tom, Holly launched into a description of the loving cup. But, unconsciously perhaps, he still held in his hand that scrap of paper--the paper with that one word on--"_trouble_." CHAPTER II SID IS CAUGHT "It's this way," began Holly, as he crossed one leg over, and clasped his hands under his recumbent head. "Randall has been looking up in athletics lately. Since we did so well last season on the diamond, and won the championship at football, some of the old grads and men who have such 'oodles' of money that they don't know what to do with it, have a kindlier feeling for the old college. It's that which brought about the presentation of the loving cup trophy, or, rather the offer of it to the winner of the baseball championship of the Tonoka Lake League. The cup will be worth winning, so the doctor says." "How'd he come to tell you?" asked Phil. "I happened to go to his study to consult him about some of my studies----" began Holly. "Yes you did!" exclaimed Tom disbelievingly. "You went there because Proc. Zane made you!" declared Phil. "Well, no matter, if you can't take a gentleman's word for it," said Holly, with an assumed injured air. "Anyhow, I was in the doctor's office, and he had just received a letter from some old grad, honorary degree man, offering the gold cup. Doc asked me if I thought the boys would like to play for it. Has to be won two out of three times before any college can keep it. I told him we'd play for it with bells on!" "Of course!" agreed Tom and Phil. "Now, about the team for this spring?" resumed Holly. "You're captain, Tom, but we've got to elect a manager soon, and we'd better begin talking about it," and then the trio launched into a rapid-fire talk on baseball and matters of the diamond. The three youths were sophomores in Randall College, a well-known institution located near the town of Haddonfield, in one of our Middle Western States. The college proper was on the shore of Sunny River, not far from Lake Tonoka; and within comparative short distance of Randall were two other colleges. One was Boxer Hall, and the other Fairview Institute--the latter a co-educational institution. The three, together with some other near-by colleges and schools, formed what was called the Tonoka Lake Athletic League, and there were championship games of baseball, football, tennis, hockey, golf, and other forms of sport. Those of you who have read the previous volumes of this "College Sports Series" need little if any introduction to the characters who have held the stage in my opening chapter. Others may care for a formal introduction, which I am happy to give them. In the first book, called "The Rival Pitchers," there was told of the efforts Tom Parsons made to gain the place as "twirler" on the 'varsity nine. Tom was a farmer's son, in moderate circumstances, and had come to Randall from Northville. Almost at once he got into conflict with Fred Langridge, a rich student, who was manager of the 'varsity ball nine, and also its pitcher, and who resented Tom's efforts to "make" the nine. After much snubbing on the part of Langridge, and not a few unpleasant experiences Tom got his chance. Eventually he supplanted Langridge, who would not train properly, and who smoked, drank and gambled, thinking himself a "sport." Tom soon became one of the most liked of the sporting crowd, and the especial friend of Phil Clinton and Sidney Henderson, with whom he had roomed for the last term. The three were now called the "inseparables." In the first book several thrilling games were told of, also how Randall won the championship after a hard struggle with Boxer and Fairview, in which games Tom Parsons fairly "pitched his head off," to quote Holly Cross, who was an expert on diamond slang. Langridge did his best to injure Tom, and nearly succeeded, but the pitcher had many friends, besides his two special chums, among them being Holly Cross, Bricktop Molloy, Billy or "Dutch" Housenlager, who was full of horseplay, "Snail" Looper, so called from his ability to move with exceeding slowness, and his liking for night prowlings. Then there was Pete Backus, known as "Grasshopper," from his desire, but inability, to shine as a high and broad distance jumper; "Bean" Perkins, a "shouter" much depended on in games, when he led the cheering; Dan Woodhouse, called Kindlings, and Jerry and Joe Jackson, known as the "Jersey Twins." Of course, Tom and his two chums had many other friends whom you will meet from time to time. Sufficient to say that he "made good" in the eyes of the coach, Mr. Leighton, and was booked not only to pitch on the 'varsity again, but he had been elected captain, just before the present story opens. Phil Clinton was the hero of my second volume, a story of college football, entitled "A Quarter Back's Pluck." Phil was named for quarter back on the 'varsity eleven, but, for a time it looked as if he would be out of the most important games. His mother was very ill in Florida, in danger of death from a delicate operation, and Phil, and his sister Ruth Clinton (who attended Fairview Institute) were under a great nervous strain. Langridge, seeing that Tom was beyond his vengeance, tried his tricks on Phil. Together with Garvey Gerhart, a freshman, Langridge planned to keep Phil out of an important game. They "doctored" a bottle of liniment he used, but this trick failed. Then they planned to send him, just before an important contest, a telegram, stating that his mother was dying. They figured that he would not play and that Randall would lose the contest--both Gerhart and Langridge being willing to thus play the traitor to be revenged on the coach and captain of the eleven. But, with characteristic pluck, Phil went into the game, stuffing the fake telegram in his pocket, and playing like a Trojan, even though he believed his mother was dying. It was pluck personified. After aiding his fellows to win the championship, Phil hurried off the field, to go to Florida to his mother. Then, for the first time, he learned that the message he had received was a "fake"--for his mother was on the road to recovery as stated in a telegram his sister Ruth had received. Of course the trick Langridge and Gerhart played was found out, and they both left Randall quietly, so that the name of the college might not be disgraced. But though Tom, Phil, Sid and their chums lived a strenuous life when sports were in the ascendency, that does not mean that they had no time for the lighter side of life. There were girls at Fairview--pretty girls and many of them. One, in particular--Madge Tyler--seemed to fit Tom's fancy, and he and she grew to be very friendly. Perhaps that was because Tom had rather supplanted Langridge in the eyes of Miss Tyler, who had been to many affairs with him, before she knew his true character. Then there was Ruth Clinton, Phil's sister. After meeting her Tom was rather wavering in his attachment toward Miss Tyler, but matters straightened themselves out, for Phil and Miss Tyler seemed to "hit it off," to once more quote Holly Cross, though for a time there was a little coldness between Tom and Phil on this same girl question. When this story opens, however, Tom considered himself cheated if he did not see Ruth at least twice a week, and as for Phil, he and Miss Tyler--but there, I'm not going to be needlessly cruel. To complete the description of life at Randall I might mention that Dr. Albertus Churchill, sometimes called "Moses," was the venerable and well-beloved head of the institution, and that as much as he was revered so much was Mr. Andrew Zane, the proctor, disliked; for, be it known, the proctor did not always take fair advantage of the youths, and he was fond of having them "upon the carpet," or, in other words, before Dr. Churchill for admonition about certain infractions of the rules. Another character, little liked, was Professor Emerson Tines, dubbed "pitchfork," by his enemies, and they were legion. I believe that is all--no, to give you a complete picture of life at Randall I must mention that Sidney Henderson, the third member of the "inseparables" was a woman hater--a misogynist--an anchorite--a dub--almost anything along that line that his chums could think to call him. He abhorred young ladies--or he thought he did--and he and Tom and Phil were continually at variance on this question, and that of having girls' photographs in the common study. But of that more later. With Holly stretched out on the old sofa, and Phil and Tom in various tangled attitudes in chairs--Phil in the depths of the ancient one--the talk of baseball progressed. "Yes, we must have an election for manager soon," conceded Tom. "But first I want to see what sort of a team I'm going to have. We need outdoor practice, but if this rotten weather keeps up----" "Hark! I think I hear the rain stopping," exclaimed Phil. "Stop nothing," declared Holly. "It's only catching its breath for another deluge." And it did seem so, for, presently, there came a louder patter than ever, of drops on the tin gutter. "Well, guess I'd better be moving," announced Holly, after another spasm of talk. "What time is it by your town clock, anyhow?" and he shied a book at the alarm timepiece so that the face of it would be slewed around in his direction, giving him a peep at it without obliging him to get up. "Here! What are you trying to do?" demanded Tom. "Do you want to break the works, and stop it?" "Impossible, my dear boy," said Holly lazily. "Just turn it around for me, will you, like a good fellow. I don't see how I missed it. I must practice throwing, or I won't be any good when the ball season opens. Give me another shot?" and he raised a second volume. "Quit!" cried Tom, interposing his arm in front of the fussy little clock. "That calls us to our morning duties," added Phil, adding in a sing-song voice: "Oh, vandal, spare that clock, touch not a single hand, for surely it doth keep the time the worst in all the land." "Fierce," announced Holly, closing his eyes and pretending to breathe hard. "It tells you how much longer you can sleep in the morning, I guess you mean," he went on. "The three of you were late for chapel this a. m." "That's because Sid monkeyed with the regulator," insisted Tom. "He thought he could improve it. But, say, it is getting late. Nearly ten." "And Sid isn't back yet," went on Phil. "My bedtime, anyhow," came from Holly, as he slid from the sofa, and glided from the room. "So long. Sid wants to look out or he'll be caught. Proc. Zane has a new book, and he wants to get some of the sporting crowd down in it. See you in the dewy morn, gents," and he was gone. "Sid _is_ late," murmured Tom, as he began to prepare for bed. "Shall we leave a light for him?" "Nope. Too risky," decided Phil. "No use of us all being hauled up. But maybe he's back, and is in some of the rooms. He's got ten minutes yet." But the ten minutes passed, and ten more, and Sid did not come back. Meanwhile Tom and Phil had "doused their glim," and were in bed, but not asleep. Somehow there was an uneasy feeling worrying them both. They could not understand Sid's action in going off so suddenly, and so mysteriously--especially as there was a danger of being caught out after hours. And, as Sid was working for honors, to be caught too often meant the danger of losing that for which he had worked so hard. "I can't understand----" began Tom, in a low voice, when from the chapel clock, the hour of eleven boomed out. "Hush!" exclaimed Phil. Some one was coming along the corridor--two persons to judge by the footsteps. "Is that Sid?" whispered Tom. Phil did not answer. A moment later the door opened, and in the light that streamed from a lamp in the corridor, Sid could be seen entering. Behind him stood Proctor Zane. "You will report to Dr. Churchill directly after chapel in the morning," the proctor said, in his hard, cold voice. "You were out an hour after closing time, Mr. Henderson." "Very well, sir," answered Sid quietly, as he closed the door, and listened to Mr. Zane walking down the corridor. "Caught?" asked Tom, though there was no need of the query. "Sure," replied Sid shortly. "Where were you?" asked Phil, sitting up in bed, and trying to peer through the darkness toward his unfortunate chum. "Out," was the answer, which was none at all. "Humph!" grunted Tom. Then, suddenly: "You must have been hitting it up, Sid. I thought you didn't smoke. Been trying it for the first time?" "I haven't been smoking!" came the answer, in evident surprise. "Your clothes smell as if you'd been at the smoker of the Gamma Sig fraternity," declared Tom. "Oh, shut up, and let a fellow alone; can't you?" burst out Sid, and he threw his shoes savagely into the corner of the room. Neither Tom nor Phil replied, but they were doing a great deal of thinking. They could not fathom Sid's manner--he had never acted that way before. What could be the matter? It was some time before they learned Sid's secret, and the keeping of it involved Sid in no small difficulties, and nearly cost the college the baseball championship. CHAPTER III MISS MABEL HARRISON Neither Tom nor Phil made any reference, the following morning, to the incident of the night before. As usual, none of the boys got up when the warning of the alarm clock summoned them, for they always allowed half an hour for its persistent habit of running fast. As it was, it happened to be correct on this occasion, and they were barely in time for chapel, Tom having to adjust his necktie on the race across the campus. "Well, what's on for to-day?" asked Phil, as, with Tom and Sid, he strolled from the chapel after service. "Baseball practice this afternoon," decided Tom, for the rain had stopped. "It'll be pretty sloppy," observed Phil dubiously. "Wear rubbers," advised the captain. "The fellows need some fresh air, and they're going to get it. Be on hand, Sid?" "Sure. Now I've got to get a disagreeable job over with. Me for the doctor's office," and that was his only reference to the punishment meted out to him. He was required to do the usual number of lines of Latin prose, which was not hard for him, as he was a good scholar. Tom and Sid went to their lectures, the captain, on the way, calling to the various members of the team to be on hand at the diamond in the afternoon. Sid accomplished his sentence of punishment in the room, and after dinner the three chums, with a motley crowd of players, and lovers of the great game, moved over the campus toward the diamond. "Done anything about a manager?" asked Holly Cross, as he tightened his belt and began tossing up a grass-stained ball. "Not yet," replied Tom. "There's time enough. I want to get the fellows in some kind of shape. We won't play a game for a month yet--that is any except practice ones, and we don't need a manager to arrange for them. Whom have you fellows in mind?" "Ed Kerr," spoke Holly promptly. "He knows the game from A to Z." "I thought he was going to play," came quickly from Tom. "We need him on the nine." "He isn't going to play this season," went on Holly. "I heard him say so. He wants to save himself for football, and he says he can't risk going in for both. He'd make a good manager." "Fine!" agreed Tom, Sid and Phil. "Yes, but did you hear the latest?" asked Snail Looper, gliding along, almost like the reptile he was christened after. "What?" demanded several. "There's talk of Ford Fenton for manager," went on Snail. "What, Ford!" cried Tom. "He'd be giving us nothing all the while but 'my uncle says this' and 'my uncle used to do it that way'! No Ford for mine, though I like the chap fairly well." "Same here," agreed Phil. "We can stand him, but not his uncle," for, be it known, Ford Fenton, one of the sophomore students, was the nephew of a man who had been a celebrated coach at Randall in the years gone by. Ford believed in keeping his memory green, and on every possible, and some impossible, occasions he would preface his remarks with "My Uncle says" and then go on and tell something. It got on the nerves of his fellows, and they "rigged" him unmercifully about it, but Fenton could not seem to take the hint. His uncle was a source of pride to him, but it is doubtful if the former coach knew how his reputation suffered at the hands of his indiscrete youthful relative. "Who told you Fenton had a chance for manager?" asked Sid Henderson. "Why, Bert Bascome is his press agent." "Bascome, the freshman?" Phil wanted to know, and Snail Looper nodded. "Guess he didn't get all the hazing that was coming to him last fall," remarked Tom. "We'll have to tackle him again. Kerr is the only logical candidate for manager, if he isn't going to play." "That's right," came in a chorus, as the lads kept on toward the diamond. Tom was doing some hard thinking. It was a new responsibility for him--to run the team--and he wanted a manager on whom he could depend. If there was a contest over the place, as seemed likely from what Snail Looper had said, it would mean perhaps a dividing of interests, and lack of support for the team. He did not like the prospect, but he knew better than to tell his worries to the players now. At present he wanted to get them into some kind of shape, after a winter of comparative idleness. "Here comes Mr. Leighton," observed Phil, as a young, and pleasant-faced gentleman was seen strolling toward the diamond. "Everybody work hard now--no sloppy work." "That's right," assented Tom. "Fellows, what I want most to bring out this season," he went on, "is some good hitting. Good batting wins games, other things being equal. We've got to bat to win." "You needn't talk," put in Dutch Housenlager, coming up then, and, with his usual horse play trying to trip Tom. "You are the worst hitter on the team." "I know it," admitted Tom good naturedly, as he gave Dutch a welt on the chest, which made that worthy gasp. "My strong point isn't batting, and I know it. I can pitch a little, perhaps----" "You're there with the goods when it comes to twirling," called out Holly Cross. "Well, then, I'm going to depend on you fellows for the stick work," went on Tom. "But let's get down to business. The ground isn't so wet." "Well, boys, let's see what we can do," proposed the coach, and presently balls were being pitched and batted to and fro, grounders were being picked up by Bricktop Molloy, who excelled in his position of shortstop, while Jerry and Joe Jackson, the Jersey twins, with Phil Clinton, who on this occasion filled, respectively, the positions of right, left and center field were catching high flies. "Now for a practice game," proposed Tom. "I want to see if I have any of my curves left." Two scrub nines were soon picked out, and a game was gotten under way. It was "ragged and sloppy" as Holly Cross said, but it served to warm up the lads, and to bring out strong and weak points, which was the object sought. The team, of which Tom was just then the temporary captain, won by a small margin, and then followed some coaching instructions from Mr. Leighton. "That will do for to-day," he said. "Be at it again to-morrow, and we'll soon be in shape." The players and their admirers--lads who had not made the team--strolled off the diamond. Tom, walking along with Phil and Sid, suddenly put his hand in his pocket. "Just my luck!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter?" asked Phil. "I'm broke," was the answer, "and I want to get a new shirt. Phil, lend me a couple of dollars. I'll get my check from dad to-morrow." "I'm in the same boat, old man," was the rueful reply. "Tackle Sid here, I saw him with a bunch of money yesterday. He can't have spent it all since, for he isn't in love." "Just the thing," assented Tom. "Fork over a couple of bones, Sid. I'll let you have it directly." "I--er--I'm sorry," fairly stammered the second baseman, for that was the position Tom had picked out for his chum, "I haven't but fifty cents until I get my allowance, or until----" and he stopped suddenly. "Wow!" cried Phil. "You must have slathered it away last night then, when you were out, for I saw you with a bundle----" Then he stopped, for he saw a queer look come over Sid's face. The second baseman blushed, and was about to make reply, when Phil remarked: "I beg your pardon, Sid. I hadn't any right to make that crack. Of course I--er--you understand--er--I----" "That's all right," said Sid quickly. "I was a little flush yesterday, but I had a sudden demand on me, Tom, and----" "Don't mention it!" interrupted Tom. "I dare say I can get trusted at Ballman's for a shirt. I'm going out to-night, or I wouldn't need a clean one, and my duds haven't come back from the laundry." "I didn't know my sister was going out to-night," fired Phil, for Tom had been rather "rushing" Ruth Clinton of late, "rushing" being the college term for accompanying a young lady to functions. "I guess she doesn't have to ask you," retorted the captain. "But I understood you and Miss Tyler----" "Speak of trolley cars, and you'll hear the gong," put in Sid suddenly. "I believe your two affinities are now approaching." "By Jove, he's right!" exclaimed Phil, looking across the green campus. "There's Ruth, and Madge Tyler is with her. I didn't know Ruth was coming over from Fairview." "And they've got a friend with them--there are three girls," said Tom quickly. "Sid, you're right in it. There's one for you." "Not on your life!" cried the tall and good-looking second baseman. "I've got an important engagement," and he would have fled had not Tom and Phil seized and held him, despite his struggles, until Miss Ruth Clinton, Miss Madge Tyler and the third young lady approached. Whereat, seeing that his struggle to escape was futile, as well as undignified, Sid gave it up. "Hello, Ruth!" cried Phil good-naturedly to his sister, but his eyes sought those of Madge Tyler. "How'd you get here?" "Trolley," was the demure answer. "I'm going to the Phi Beta theatrical with Mr. Parsons to-night, and I thought I'd save him the trouble of coming for me. Madge and I are staying in Haddonfield with friends of Miss Harrison." "Good!" cried Tom, as he moved closer to Phil's pretty sister, while, somehow, Phil and Madge seemed to drift together. "Oh, I almost forgot, you don't know Mabel, do you, boys?" asked Madge, with a merry laugh. "Miss Mabel Harrison. Mabel, allow me to present to you Tom Parsons, champion pitcher of the Randall 'varsity nine; Phil Clinton, who made such a good showing on the gridiron last year, he's Ruth's brother, you know, and----" she paused as she turned to Sid Henderson, who was moving about uncomfortably. "Sid Henderson, the only and original misogynist of Randall college," finished Tom, with a mischievous laugh. "He is the only one in captivity, but will eat from your hand." "I'll fix you for that," growled Sid in Tom's ear, but the girls laughed, as did Phil and the captain, and the introductions were completed. Miss Harrison proved to be an exceptionally pretty and vivacious girl, a fit companion for Ruth and Madge. She was fond of sport, as she soon announced, and Phil and Tom warmed to her at once. As might have been expected, Tom walked along with Ruth, Phil with Miss Tyler, and that left Sid nothing to do but to stroll at the side of Miss Harrison. "So you play ball, too," she began as an opener, looking at his uniform. "Yes--er--that is I play at it, sometimes," floundered Sid, conscious of a big green grass stain on one leg, where he had fallen in reaching for a high fly. "Isn't it great!" went on the girl, her blue eyes flashing as she glanced up at Sid. Somehow the lad's heart was beating strangely. "It's the only game--except football," he conceded. "Do you play--I--er--I mean--of course----" "Oh, I just love football!" she cried. "I hope our team wins the championship this year!" "Your team?" and Sid was plainly puzzled. "Well, I mean the boys of Fairview--I attend there you know." "I didn't know it, but I'm glad to," spoke Sid, wondering why he never before thought blue eyes pretty. "Do you live at the college?" "Oh, yes; but you see I happened to come to Haddonfield to stay over night with relatives, and when I found Madge and Ruth were going to a little affair here to-night, I asked them to stay with me. It's such a jaunt back to the college." "Indeed it is," agreed Sid. "You and Miss Tyler and Miss Clinton are great friends, I judge," he went on, wondering what his next sentence would be. "Indeed we are. Aren't they perfectly sweet girls?" "Fine!" exclaimed Sid with such enthusiasm that his companion looked at him in some surprise, her flashing eyes completing the work already begun by their first glance. "I thought you didn't care for--that is--was that true what Mr. Parsons accused you of?" Miss Harrison asked. "Is a misogynist a very savage creature?" she went on demurely. "That's all rot--I beg your pardon--they were rigging you--I--er--I mean--Oh, I say, Miss Harrison, are you going to the Phi Beta racket to-night--I mean the theatricals to-night?" and poor Sid floundered in deeper and deeper. "No," answered the girl, "I'm not going." "Why not?" asked Sid desperately. "Because I haven't been asked, I suppose," and she laughed merrily. "Then would you mind--that is--I have two tickets--but I didn't expect to go. Now, if you would----" "Oh, Mr. Henderson, don't go on my account!" "Oh, it isn't on your account--I mean--that is--Oh, wouldn't you like to go?" and he seemed in great distress. "I should love to," she almost whispered. "Then will you--that is would you--er--that is----" "Of course I will," answered Mabel, taking pity on her companion's embarrassment. "Won't it be lovely, with Madge and Ruth, and her brother and Mr. Parsons. We'll be quite a party." "It'll be immense!" declared Sid with great conviction. Thereafter he seemed to find it easier to keep the conversation going. The little group came to the end of the campus. Phil, Tom, Madge and Ruth waited for Sid and Mabel. "Well, we'll see you girls to-night," said Tom, for he and his chum were anxious to get to their room and "tog up." Then he added: "It's a pity Miss Harrison isn't going. If I had thought----" "Miss Harrison is going!" cried Sid with sudden energy. "What?" cried Tom and Phil together. Then, realizing that it might embarrass the girl, Tom added: "Fine! We'll all go together. Come on, Sid, and get some of the outfield mud scraped away." The girls waved laughing farewells, and Sid, rather awkwardly, shook hands with Miss Harrison. "What's the matter, old chap?" asked Tom of him, when they were beyond hearing distance of the girls. "Are you afraid you'll never see her again?" "Shut up!" cried Sid. "Wonders will never cease," went on Phil. "To see our old misogynist being led along by a pretty girl! However did you get up the spunk to ask her to go to-night, sport?" "Shut up!" cried Sid again. "Haven't I got a right to?" "Oh, of course!" agreed Tom quickly. "It's a sign of regeneration, old man. I'm glad to see it! What color are her eyes?" "Blue," answered Sid promptly, before he thought. "Ha! Ha!" laughed Phil and Tom. "Did you get her photograph?" asked Tom, clinging to Phil, so strenuous was his mirth. "Say, I'll punch your head if you don't quit!" threatened Sid, and then, as he saw Wallops, the messenger, coming toward him, with a letter, there came to Sid's face a new look--one of fear, his chums thought. He read the note quickly, and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he turned, and hastened after the three girls. "Here, what's up?" demanded Tom, for Sid had acted strangely. "I can't go to the theatricals to-night, after all," was the surprising answer. "I must apologize to Miss Harrison. Will you take her, Tom?" "Of course," was the answer, and then, as Sid hastened to make his excuses to the girl who, but a few minutes before, he had asked to accompany him, his two chums looked at each other, and shook their heads. The mystery about Sid was deepening. CHAPTER IV ELECTING A MANAGER Sidney Henderson fairly broke into a run in order to catch up to the three girls. They heard him coming, and turned around, while Tom and Phil, some distance off, were spectators of the scene. "I say!" burst out poor Sid pantingly, as he came to a halt, "I'm awfully sorry, Miss Harrison, but--er--I can't take you to the theatricals to-night, after all. I've just received bad news." "Bad news? Oh, I'm so sorry!" and the blue eyes of the pretty girl, that had been merry and dancing, as she chatted with Ruth and Madge, took on a tender glance. "Oh, it isn't that any one is sick, or--er--anything like that," Sid hastened to add, for he saw that she had misunderstood him. "It's just that I have received a message--I have got to go away--I--er--I can't explain, but some one is in trouble, and I--I'm awfully sorry," he blurted out, feeling that he was making a pretty bad mess of it. "I've arranged for Tom Parsons to take you to the theatricals, Miss Harrison." "You've arranged for Mr. Parsons to take me?" There was no mistaking the anger in her tones. Her blue eyes seemed to flash, and she drew herself up proudly. Madge and Ruth, who had shown some pity and anxiety at Sid's first words, looked at him curiously. "Yes, Tom will be very glad to take you," went on the unfortunate Sid. "Thank you," spoke Miss Harrison coldly. "I don't believe I care to go to the theatricals after all. Come on, girls, or we will be late for tea," and without another look at Sid she turned aside and walked on. "Oh, but I say, you know!" burst out the second baseman. "I thought--that is--you see--I can't possibly take you, as it is, and I thought----" "It isn't necessary for anyone to take me!" retorted Miss Harrison coldly. "It's not at all important, I assure you. Good afternoon, Mr. Henderson," and she swept away, leaving poor Sid staring after her with bewilderment in his eyes. It was his first attempt at an affair with a maiden, and it had ended most disastrously. He turned back to rejoin his chums. "Well?" questioned Tom, as Sid came up. "Is it all right? Am I to have the pleasure of two young ladies to-night?" "No, it's all wrong!" blurted out Sid. "I can't understand girls!" "That's rich!" cried Phil. "Here you have been despising them all your life, and now, when you do make up to one, and something happens, you say you can't understand them. No man can, old chap. Look at Tom and me, here, and we've had our share of affairs, haven't we, old sport." "Speak for yourself," replied the pitcher. "But what's the row, Sid?" "Hanged if I know. I told her I couldn't possibly go to-night----" "Did you tell her why?" interrupted Phil. "Well, I said I had received word that I had to go away, and--er--well I can't explain that part of it even to you fellows. I've got to go away for a short time, that's all. It's fearfully important, of course, or I wouldn't break a date with a girl. I can't explain, except that I have to go. I tried to tell her that; and then I said I'd arranged with you to take her, Tom." "You what?" cried the amazed pitcher. "I told her I was going to have you take her." "Without asking her whether it would be agreeable to her?" "Of course. I didn't suppose that was necessary, as you and Miss Clinton and Miss Tyler were all going together. I just told her you'd take her." "Well, of all the chumps!" burst out Phil. "A double-barreled one!" added Tom. "Why--what's wrong?" asked Sid wonderingly. "Everything," explained Phil. "You ask a pretty girl--and by the way, Sid, I congratulate you on your choice, for she is decidedly fine looking--but, as I say, you ask a pretty girl to go to some doings, and when you find you can't go, which is all right, of course, for that often happens, why then, I say, you coolly tell her you have arranged for her escort. You don't give her a chance to have a word to say in the matter. Why, man alive, it's just as if you were her guardian, or grandfather, or something like that. A girl likes to have a voice in these matters, you know. My, my, Sid! but you have put your foot in it. You should have gently, very gently, suggested that Tom here would be glad to take her. Instead, you act as though she had to accept your choice. Oh, you doggoned old misogynist, I'm afraid you're hopeless!" "Do you suppose she'll be mad?" asked Sid falteringly. "Mad? She'll never speak to you again," declared Tom, with a carefully-guarded wink at Phil. "Well, I can't help it," spoke Sid mournfully. "I've just got to go away, that's all," and he hastened on in advance of his companions. "Don't stay out too late, and get caught by Proc. Zane again," cautioned Phil, but Sid did not answer. Tom and Phil lingered in the gymnasium, whither they went for a shower bath, and when they reached their room, to put on clothes other than sporting ones for supper, Sid was not in the apartment. There was evidence that he had come in, hastily dressed, and had gone out again. "He's off," remarked Tom. "Yes, and it's mighty queer business," remarked Phil. "But come on, we'll get an early grub, tog up, and go get the girls." "What about Miss Harrison?" "Hanged if I know," answered Tom. "I'd be glad to take her, of course, but I'm not going to mix up in Sid's affairs." "No, of course not. Well, come on." In spite of hearty appetites Tom and Phil did not linger long at the table, and they were soon back in their room, where they began to lay out their dress suits, and to debate over which ties they should wear. Tom had managed to borrow a dress shirt, and so did not have to buy one. "I say, Phil," remarked the pitcher, as he almost strangled himself getting a tight fifteen collar to fit on the same size shirt, "doesn't it strike you as queer about Sid--I mean his chasing off this way so suddenly?" "It sure does. This is the second time, and each time he scoots off when he's had a note from some one." "Remember when he came back last night, smelling so strong of tobacco?" "Sure; yet he doesn't smoke." "No, and that's the funny part of it. Then there's the fact of him having no money to-day, though he had a roll yesterday." There was silence in the small apartment, while the clock ticked on. Tom, somewhat exhausted by his struggle with his collar, sank down on the ancient sofa, a cloud of dust, like incense, arising around him. "Cæsar's legions! My clothes will be a sight!" he cried, jumping up, and searching frantically for a whisk broom. "Easy!" cried Phil, "I just had my tie in the right shape, and you've knocked it all squee-gee!" for Tom in his excitement had collided with his chum. They managed to get dressed after a while--rather a long while. "Come on," said Tom, as he took a final look at himself in the glass, for though he was not too much devoted to dress or his own good looks, much adornment of their persons must be excused on the part of the talented pitcher and his chum, on the score of the pretty girls with whom they were to spend the evening. "I'm ready," announced Phil. "Shall we leave a light for Sid?" "I don't know. No telling when he'll be in. Do you know, Phil, it seems rotten mean to mention it, and I only do it to see if you have the same idea I have, but I shouldn't be surprised if old Sid was gambling." "Gambling!" "Yes. Look how he's sneaked off these last two nights, not saying where he's going, and acting so funny about it. Then coming in late, all perfumed with tobacco, and getting caught, and not having any money and--and--Oh, well, hang it all! I know it won't go any further, or I shouldn't mention it; but doesn't it look queer?" Phil did not reply for a moment. He glanced at Tom, as if to fathom his earnestness, and as the two stood there, looking around their common home, marked by the absence of Sid, the fussy little alarm clock seemed to be repeating over and over again the ugly word--"gambler--gambler--gambler." "Well?" asked Tom softly. "I hate to say it, but I'm afraid you're right," replied Phil. "Sid, of all chaps, though. It's fierce!" and then the two went out. Tom and Phil called at the residence of Miss Harrison's relatives for Madge and Ruth. Tom tried, tactfully enough, to get Miss Harrison to come to the theatricals with himself and Ruth, but the blue-eyed girl pleaded a headache (always a lady's privilege), and said she would stay at home. Sid's name was not mentioned. Then the four young people went off, leaving a rather disconsolate damsel behind. Sid was in bed when Tom and Phil returned, and he did not say anything, or exhibit any signs of being awake, so they did not disturb him, refraining from even talking in whispers of the jolly time they had had. There was a strong smell of tobacco about Sid's clothes, but his chums said nothing of this. The next day Sid was moody and disconsolate. He wrote several letters, tearing them up, one after the other, but finally he seemed to hit on one that pleased him, and went out to mail it. Amid the torn scraps about his desk Phil and Tom could not help seeing several which began variously "My dear Miss Harrison," "Dear Miss Harrison," "Dear friend," and "Esteemed friend." "Trying to square himself," remarked Tom. "He's got it bad--poor old Sid," added Phil. "It will all come out right in the end, I hope." But it didn't seem to for Sid, since in the course of the next week, when he had written again to Miss Harrison asking her to go with him to a dance, he received in return a polite little note, pleading a previous engagement. "Well," remarked Tom one afternoon, when he and his crowd of players had thronged out on the diamond, "we're getting into some kind of shape. Get back there, Dutch, while I try a few curves, and then we'll have a practice game." "And pay particular attention to your batting, fellows," cautioned Coach Leighton. "It isn't improving the way it ought, and I hear that Boxer has some good stick-wielders this season." "Yes, and they've got some one else on their nine, too," added Bricktop Molloy. "Have ye heard the news, byes?" for sometimes the red-haired shortstop betrayed his genial Irish nature by his brogue. "No, what is it?" asked Phil. "Fred Langridge is playing with them." "What? Langridge, the bully who used to be here?" cried one student. "That same," retorted Bricktop. "Have they hired him?" inquired Holly Cross. "No, he's taking some sort of a course at Boxer Hall, I believe." "A course in concentrated meanness, I guess," suggested Tom, as he thought of the dastardly trick Langridge had tried to play on Phil during the previous term. "Well, no matter about that," came from the coach. "You boys want to improve your batting--that's all. Your field work is fair, and I haven't anything but praise for our battery." "Thanks!" chorused Tom and Dutch Housenlager, making mock bows. "But get busy, fellows," went on the coach. "Oh, by the way, captain, what about a manager?" "Election to-night," answered Tom quickly. "The notice has been posted. Come on, we'll have a scrub game. Five innings will be enough. There ought to be----" "My uncle says----" began a voice from a small knot of non-playing spectators. "Fenton's wound up!" cried Dutch, making an attempt to penetrate the crowd and get at the offending nephew of the former coach. "Can him!" shouted Joe Jackson. "Put your uncle on ice!" added Pete Backus. "Leave him out after dark, and Proc. Zane will catch him," came from Snail Looper. "Well, I was only going to say," went on Ford, but such a storm of protesting howls arose that his voice was drowned. "And that's the chap they talk of for manager," said Phil to Tom disgustedly. "Oh, I guess it's all talk," remarked the pitcher. "We will rush Ed Kerr through, and the season will soon start." The scrub game began. It was not remarkable for brilliant playing, either in the line of fielding or batting. Tom, though, did some fine work in pitching, and he and Dutch worked together like well-built machines. Tom struck out three men, one after the other, in the second inning, and repeated the trick in the last. Sid Henderson rather surprised the coach by making a safe hit every time he was up, a record no one else approached that day, for Rod Evert, who was doing the "twirling" for the team opposed to Tom's, was considered a good handler of the horsehide. "Good work, Henderson," complimented Mr. Leighton. But Sid did not seem particularly pleased. "Everybody on hand for the election to-night," commanded Tom, as the game ended, the pitcher's team having won by a score of eight to four. There was a large throng assembled in the gymnasium that evening, for at Randall sports reigned supreme in their seasons, and the annual election of a baseball manager was something of no small importance. For several reasons no manager had been selected at the close of the previous season, when Tom had been unanimously selected as captain, and it now devolved upon the students who were members of the athletic committee to choose one. As has been explained, among the players themselves, or, rather, among the majority, Ed Kerr, the catcher of the previous season was favored, but, of late there had been activity looking to the choosing of some one else. There were vague rumors floating about the meeting room, as Tom Parsons went up on the platform, and called the assemblage to order. It was noticed that Bert Bascome, a freshman who was said to be quite wealthy, was the center of a group of excited youths, of whom Ford Fenton was one. Ford had tried for the 'varsity the previous season, had failed, and was once more in line. As for Bascome, he, too, wanted to wear the coveted "R." "Politics over there all right," observed Phil Clinton to Dutch. "Any idea of how strong they are?" "Don't believe they can muster ten votes," was the answer. "We'll put Ed in all right." Tom called for nominations for chairman, and Mr. Leighton, who was in the hall, was promptly chosen, he being acceptable to both sides. "You all know what we are here for," began the coach, "and the sooner we get it over with the better, I presume. Nominations for a manager of the ball nine are in order." Jerry Jackson was on his feet in an instant. "Mr. Chairman," he began. "Are you speaking for yourself or your brother?" called Dutch. Bang! went the chairman's gavel, but there was a laugh at the joke, for Jerry and Joe, the "Jersey twins" were always so much in accord that what one did the other always sanctioned. Yet the query of Dutch seemed to disturb Jerry. "Mr. Chairman," he began again. "I wish----" "Help him along, Joe," sung out Snail Looper. "Jerry is going to make a wish." "Boys, boys," pleaded the coach. "My uncle says----" came from Ford Fenton, indiscreetly. "Sit down!" "Put him out!" "Muzzle him!" "Silence!" "Get a policeman!" "Turn the hose on him!" "Don't believe he ever had an uncle!" These were some of the cries that greeted Ford. Bang! Bang! went the gavel, and order was finally restored, but Fenton did not again venture to address the chair. "Mr. Chairman," began Jerry Jackson once more, and this time he secured a hearing, and was recognized. "I wish to place in nomination," he went on, "a manager who, I am sure, will fulfill the duties in the most acceptable manner; one who knows the game from home plate to third base, who has had large experience, who is a jolly good fellow--who----" "Who is he?" "Name him!" "Don't be so long-winded about it!" "Tell us his name!" "He's going to name Ford's uncle!" Once more the horse-play, led by Dutch, broke out. Bang! Bang! went Mr. Leighton's gavel again. "I nominate Ed Kerr!" sung out Jerry. "Second it!" came from his brother in a flash. "Mr. Kerr has been nominated," spoke the chairman. "Are there any others?" "Move the nominations be closed," came from Tom quickly, but, before it could be seconded, Bert Bascome was on his feet. He had a sneering, supercilious air, that was in distinct bad taste, yet he seemed to have a sort of following, as, indeed, any youth in college may have, who is willing to freely spend his money. "One moment, Mr. Chairman," began Bascome, and so anxious were the others to hear what was coming that they did not interrupt. "When I came to Randall college," went on the freshman, with an air as if he had conferred a great favor by his act, "I was given to understand that the spirit of sportsmanship and fair play was a sort of a heritage." "So it is!" "What's eating you?" "Who's the goat?" came the cries. Bert flushed but went on: "Closing the nominations before more than one name----" "The nominations have not been closed," suggested Mr. Leighton. "Then am I out of order?" inquired Bascome sarcastically. He seemed to know parliamentary law. "No," answered the coach. "You must speak to the point, however. Have you a name to place in nomination? Mr. Parsons' motion was lost for want of a second." "I _have_ a name to place in nomination," went on Bert deliberately, "and in doing so I wish to state that I am actuated by no sense of feeling against Mr. Kerr, whom I do not know. I simply wish to see the spirit of sport well diversified among the students, and----" "Question! Question!" shouted several. "Name your man!" demanded others. "I believe Mr. Kerr is highly esteemed," continued Bascome, holding his ground well, "and I honor him. I believe, however, that he belongs to a certain crowd, or clique----" "You're wrong!" was a general shout. "Mr. Chairman!" shouted Kerr, springing to his feet, his face strangely white. "Mr. Bascome has the floor," spoke Mr. Leighton quietly. "Name your man!" was the cry from half a score of youths. "I nominate Ford Fenton for manager!" shouted Bascome, for he saw the rising temper of some of the students. "Second it," came from Henry Delfield, who was the closest chum of the rich lad. "Move the nominations close!" cried Tom quickly, and this time Phil Clinton seconded it. The battle was on. "Two students have been nominated," remarked Mr. Leighton, when the usual formalities had been completed. "How will you vote on them, by ballot or----" "Show of hands!" cried Tom. "We want to see who's with us and who's against us," he added in a whisper to Phil and Sid. "I demand a written ballot," called out Bascome. "We will vote on that," decided the chairman, and it went overwhelmingly in favor of a show of hands. "We've got 'em!" exulted Tom, when this test had demonstrated how few were with Bascome--a scant score. A moment later the real voting was under way, by a show of hands, Kerr's name being voted on first. He had tried to make a speech, but had been induced to keep quiet. It was as might have been expected. Possibly had the ballot been a secret one more might have voted for Fenton, but some freshmen saw which way the wind was blowing, changing their votes after having declared for a secret ballot, and all of Bascome's carefully laid plans, and his scheming for several weeks past, to get some sort of control of the nine, came to naught. Fenton received nine votes, and Kerr one hundred and twenty. It was a pitiful showing, and Fenton soon recognized it. "I move the election of Mr. Kerr be made unanimous!" he cried, and that did more to offset his many references to his uncle than anything else he could have done. Bascome was excitedly whispering to some of his chums, but when Fenton's motion was put it was carried without a vote in opposition, and Kerr was the unanimous choice. "Well, I'm glad that's over," said Phil with a sigh of relief, as he and his chums drifted from the gymnasium. "Yes, now we'll begin to play ball in earnest," added Tom. "Come on, Sid, I'll take you and Phil down to Hoffman's and treat you to some ice cream." "I--er--I'm going out this evening," said Sid, and he blushed a trifle. "Where, you old dub?" asked Tom, almost before he thought. "I'm going to call on Miss Harrison," was the somewhat unexpected answer. CHAPTER V RANDALL AGAINST BOXER Tom and Phil stood staring at each other as Sid walked on ahead. "Well, wouldn't that get your goat?" asked Tom. "It sure would," admitted Phil. "He must have made up with her, after all." How it came about Sid, of course, would never tell. It was too new and too delightful an experience for him--to actually be paying attentions to some girl--to make it possible to discuss the matter with his chums. Sufficient to say that in the course of two weeks more there was another photograph in the room of the inseparables. Baseball matters began to occupy more and more attention at Randall. The team was being whipped into shape, and between Tom, Ed Kerr and the coach the lads were beginning to get rid of the uncertainty engendered by a winter of comparative idleness. "Have you arranged any games yet?" asked Tom of Ed one afternoon, following some sharp practice on the diamond. "We play Boxer Hall next week," answered the manager. "And I do hope we win. It means so much at the beginning of the season. How is the team, do you think?" "Do you mean ours or theirs?" "Ours, of course." "Fine, I should say," replied Tom. "You know who'll pitch against you when we play Boxer, I dare say," remarked Mr. Leighton, who had joined Tom and Ed. "No. Who?" "Your old enemy, Langridge. He's displaced Dave Ogden, who twirled for them last season. But you're not frightened, are you?" "Not a bit of it! If there's anything that will make our fellows play fierce ball it's to know that Langridge--the fellow who almost threw our football team--is going to play against them. I couldn't ask a better tonic. Will they play on our grounds?" "No, we've got to go there. But don't let that worry you." There was sharp practice for the next few days, and Tom and his chums were put through "a course of sprouts" to quote Holly Cross. They did some ragged work, under the eagle eye of the coach, and things began to look bad, but it was only the last remnant of staleness disappearing, for the day before the game there was exhibited a noticeable stiffness, and a confidence that augured well for Randall. "The batting still leaves something to be desired," remarked Mr. Leighton, as practice was over for the day. "I have great hopes of Sid Henderson, though." "Yes, if----" began Tom. "If what?" asked the coach quickly. "If he doesn't go back on himself," finished the pitcher, but that was not what he had intended to say. He was thinking of Sid's queer actions of late--wondering what they portended, and what was the meaning of his chum's odd absences, for, only the night previous, Sid had gone out, following the receipt of a note, and had come in late, smelling vilely of tobacco. Fortunately he had escaped detection by the proctor, but he offered no explanation, and his manner was disturbed, and not like his usual one. As for Sid, well might his chums be puzzled about him. He seemed totally to have changed, not only in manner but in his attitude toward Tom and Phil. There was a new look on his face. Several times, of late, since his acquaintance with Miss Harrison, and the reconciliation following his little "_de trop faux pas_," as Tom termed it, Sid had been caught day dreaming. Phil or Tom would look up from their studying to see Sid, with a book falling idly from his hands, gazing vacantly into a corner of the room, or looking abstractedly at his side of the wall space, as though calculating just where would be the best spot for a certain girl's picture. It was a most enthralling occupation for Sid--this day dreaming. It was a new experience--a deliciously tender and sweet one--for no young man can be any the worse for thinking and dreaming of a fine-charactered girl, albeit one who is amazingly pretty; in fact he is the better for it. In Sid's case his infatuation had come so suddenly that it was overwhelming. In the past he had either been shy with girls, or had not cared enough for them to be more than decently polite. But now everything was different. Though he had seen her but a few times, he could call to mind instantly the very way in which she turned her head when she addressed him. He could see the slight lifting of the eyebrows as she asked a question, the sparkle that came into the blue eyes, that held a hint of mischief. He could hear her rippling laugh, and he knew in what a tantalizing way a certain ringlet escaped from the coils of her hair, and fell upon her neck. Often in class the lecturer would suddenly call his name, and Sid would start, for he had sent his thoughts afar, and it required a sort of wireless message to bring them back. The day of the Boxer game could not have been better. There had been a slight shower in the night, but only sufficient to lay the dust, and it was just cool enough to be delightful. The Randall players and their supporters, including a crowd of enthusiastic "rooters," a number of substitutes and a mascot, in the shape of a puppy, fantastically attired, made the trip to Boxer Hall in special trolleys, hired stage coaches and some automobiles. Bert Bascome owned an automobile, and he made much of himself in consequence. There was a big crowd in the grand stands when the Randall players arrived, and they were received with cheers, for the sporting spirit between the two colleges was a generous one. "My, what a lot of girls!" remarked Tom to Sid and Phil, as the three chums looked over toward the seats, which were a riot of color. "Yes, all the Fairview students are here to-day," spoke Phil. "Ruth said she and Miss Tyler were coming." "I wonder if----" began Sid, and then he stopped, blushing like a girl. "Yes, Miss Harrison is coming with them," replied Phil, with a laugh. "We'll look 'em up after the game--if we win." "Why not, if we lose?" asked Sid quickly. "I haven't the nerve, if we let Boxer Hall take the first game of the season from us," was the reply. Fast and snappy practice began, and it was somewhat of a revelation to the Randall players to note the quick work on the part of their rivals. In getting around the bases, batting out flies, getting their fingers on high balls and low grounders, Boxer Hall seemed to have improved very much over last year. "We've got our work cut out for us," remarked Phil in a low voice to his two chums. "Say, Langridge has some speed, too. Look at that!" The new pitcher of Boxer Hall was throwing to Stoddard, the catcher, and the balls landed in the pocket of the big mitt with a vicious thud. "Don't worry. Sid, here, will knock out a couple of home runs," said Tom. "Won't you, Sid?" "I only hope I don't fan the air. How are his curves?" "Pretty good, for the first few innings," answered Tom. "After that you can find 'em easy enough. He wears down--at least he did last year." The practice came to an end. The preliminaries were arranged, and, with the privilege of the home team coming last to the bat, Randall went in the initial inning. The two teams were made up as follows: RANDALL COLLEGE Sid Henderson, _second base_. William Housenlager, _catcher_. Phil Clinton, _first base_. Tom Parsons, _pitcher_. Dan Woodhouse, _third base_. Jerry Jackson, _right field_. Bob Molloy, _shortstop_. Joe Jackson, _left field_. Holman Cross, _center field_. BOXER HALL Lynn Ralling, _second base_. Hugh McGherity, _right field_. Roy Conklin, _left field_. Arthur Flood, _center field_. George Stoddard, _catcher_. Pinkerton Davenport, _first base_. Fred Langridge, _pitcher_. Bert Hutchin, _third base_. Sam Burton, _shortstop_. "Now, Sid, show 'em what you can do," advised Mr. Leighton, as Sid selected a bat, and walked up to the plate. He faced Langridge, and noted the grim and almost angry look in the eyes of the former pitcher on the Randall 'varsity. "Make him give you a nice one," called Bean Perkins, who was ready to shout for victory. A ball came whizzing toward Sid, and so sure was he that he was going to be hit that he dodged back, but he was surprised when it neatly curved out, went over the plate, and the umpire called: "Strike One!" There was a howl of protest on the part of the Randall sympathizers, but it died away when Mr. Leighton held up a warning hand. Sid struck viciously at the next ball, and felt a thrill of joy as he felt the impact, but, as he rushed away toward first he heard the umpire's call of "Foul; strike!" and he came back. "Wait for a good one," counseled Phil, in a low voice. "Make him give you a pretty one." Langridge sent in another swift curve and Sid struck at it. Another foul resulted, and he began to wonder what he was up against. The next attempt was a ball, for Langridge threw away out, but Sid saw coming a moment later, what he thought would make at least a pretty one-bagger. He swung viciously at it, but missed it clean, and walked to the bench somewhat chagrined. Dutch Housenlager, with a smile of confidence, walked up next. He was cool, and Langridge, having struck out Sid, seemed to lose some of his anger. He delivered a good ball--an in-shoot--and Dutch caught it on the end of his bat. It seemed to promise well, but Roy Conklin, out on left field was right under it, and Dutch ingloriously came back from first. "Now, Phil, line one out!" pleaded Tom, as his chum selected his bat, and Phil struck at the first ball, sending a hot liner right past the shortstop. Phil got to first, and stole second when Tom came up, making it only by a close margin. "A home run, Tom," begged the coach, and Tom nodded with a grim smile on his face. But alas for hopes! He knocked a fly, which the right fielder got without much difficulty, and the first half of the initial inning was over with a goose-egg in the space devoted to Randall. "Never mind, we're finding him," consoled Tom, as he walked to his box. Lynn Ralling was up first for Boxer Hall, and Tom resolved to strike him out, if it was at all possible. It was his first pitching in a league game that season, and he was a trifle nervous. Still he held himself well in hand, and, though the first two attempts were called "balls" the next three went down as strikes. Ralling refused to swing on two of them, but the last one seemed to him as just right, but Tom had the satisfaction of striking him out. McGherity, the next man up, was a notoriously heavy hitter, and Tom purposely gave him a pass to first. He struck out Roy Conklin, but something went wrong with the next man, Arthur Flood, who knocked a two-bagger. Then George Stoddard got to first on a swift grounder, that, somehow rolled through the legs of Bricktop, much to that hero's disgust. There was some good playing the rest of the inning, George being caught napping on second, and it ended with two runs in favor of Boxer Hall. "We've got to wake up!" decided Mr. Leighton grimly. "Put a little more ginger into it, boys!" "What's the matter with our team?" Bean Perkins demanded to know in his loudest voice. "It's all right," was the response, from scores of throats. "Now for the 'Conquer or Die' song," called Bean, and as Dan Woodhouse went up to the bat in the beginning of the second inning the strains of "_Aut vincere aut mori_," welled out over the diamond. But the inspiring melody that, more than once had been the means of inspiring a faint-hearted team to victory, seemed to be of no effect now. Not a man got further than second, and another goose egg went up to the credit of Randall. But a similar dose was served to Boxer in the same inning, and when Randall opened the third with Holly Cross at the bat, there was much wonder, and not a little disappointment. What would Holly do? He soon showed by knocking a two bagger, but, alas for what followed. Though he managed to steal to third, Langridge pitched so well that those who followed were struck out, and there was another white circle. It was duplicated for Boxer Hall, however, and there began to be talk of a "pitchers' battle." "We'll find Langridge this inning," prophesied Tom, and it was partly justified, for one run came in, which sent the grand stand where the Randallites were gathered wild with delight. "Now, fellows, give 'em that song--'We're going to wallop you now,'" called Bean, and there arose a riot of "melody." In the fifth inning neither side scored, and then came the turn of Captain Tom's men again. They delighted their supporters by pulling down two runs, and making the score three to two in their favor. Then, when Boxer Hall came up for their inning, they hammered out two runs, which sent Randall stock down to zero again with the score of four to three against them. The seventh and eighth innings saw big circles chalked up in the frames of both teams, though Tom and his men worked hard to bring in at least another run. But it was not to be. "Now, fellows, it's our last chance," remarked the coach, as Holly Cross stepped up in the ninth, his teeth fairly gritting together. "Two runs to win--that is if we hold 'em down when they come up." "I'll do that part," guaranteed Tom grimly. From the grand stands there were shouts and yells of encouragement--and otherwise. Bean led his cohorts in, "It's Your Last Chance, Boys--Soak It!" a Randall classic of the diamond. Well, Holly did "soak" it, with the result that he knocked the prettiest three-bagger seen in many a day. Then came Sid's turn. Two strikes were called on him, and then came a foul. "I'm afraid he's going to fan," whispered Tom to the coach. "Watch him," advised Mr. Leighton. There was a reassuring "thump" as the next ball reached Sid. Away sailed the sphere right over the center fielder's head. "It's a beaut! It's a beaut! Run! Run! Run!" yelled the frenzied students. Holly was legging it in from third and my! how Sid was running! Low down, and like the wind! The frantic center fielder was racing for the ball amid the daisies. On and on came Sid! "A home run! A home run!" screamed Tom and his players, jumping up and down and over the bench in their excitement. Around the bases came Sid, following Holly. The second baseman swung around third and started for home, but the ball was on the way. Would he beat it? He did, by about a second, rushing in almost exhausted, over the plate which Holly had just crossed. "Wow! Wow! Wow!" cried Sid's and Holly's mates. "That wins the game!" and they hugged Sid and his chum. "Two Runs!" "The game is not won yet," said the coach, more soberly. "We need more runs." But they couldn't get them. There was a sudden improvement on the part of Langridge, who had begun to weaken, and he struck out the next two men, the third getting out on a bingle. But the score was five to four in favor of Randall, and if Tom could hold them down, and strike out three men, the game was theirs. Could he do it? There was a great strain on everyone as the Randall team went out to the field. From the grand stand came softly the "Conquer or Die" song, and Tom felt a sense of moisture in his eyes. "I'll strike 'em out!" he muttered. How he did it is college history to this day. Calmly he faced the first man, and delivered a ball. "Strike!" howled the umpire, and this time it was Boxer Hall that sent up a groan of protest. But it was silenced, and in two more balls delivered over the plate with faultless precision, but with puzzling curves, Tom had one down. "Only two more," called Phil to him encouragingly. Tom nodded. How he did pitch! The balls sounded like guns when they hit Dutch Housenlager's big mitt, but he held them. "Three strikes--batter out!" yelled the umpire, and the second man threw down his stick and walked disgustedly to the bench. George Stoddard was up next. Tom was afraid of him. He delivered a puzzling slow drop, but Stoddard got under it for a foul. Tom breathed a bit easier. Two more chances. He sent one of his best out shoots, and Stoddard foolishly bit at it. The ball just grazed the bat, and bounded up into the air. Dutch made a desperate effort for it. "Can't get it!" yelled the crowd, as it went over the back grand stand. The umpire threw Tom a new ball. He hated to use it, as the other seemed just right. But the one that had gone over the stand was slow in being returned. Dutch signalled for another drop, but Tom shook his head. He wanted to try a delicate in-curve. It seemed that the players and spectators were scarcely breathing--it was the critical point of the game, yet with two down Boxer Hall could scarcely hope to win. Yet there was a chance. Tom delivered the ball. Stoddard swung at it with such force that he turned completely around. But the new, white ball was safe in the mitt of Dutch Housenlager. Stoddard had struck out--there were three down for Boxer in the ending of the ninth, and not a run. Randall had won--the score being five to four. Then such a chorus of yells as went up! Even Bean Perkins could scarcely be heard. "Wow! Wow! Wow!" cried Dutch, seizing Holly Cross around the waist, and doing a dance with him about the bench. "We did it!" "Great work, boys!" cried the coach. "I congratulate you!" "Three cheers for Randall!" proposed Pinkey Davenport for Boxer Hall, and the yells came with spontaneous enthusiasm. "Three and a tiger for Boxer Hall!" yelled Tom, and his men nearly split their throats. "Come on! Clean up, and then for some fun!" cried Phil. "We'll go hunt up the girls, as soon as we look decent again," he suggested to Tom and Sid, who nodded joyfully. Langridge passed Tom. "It's only one game," growled the defeated pitcher. "We'll do you fellows next time!" "You'll have the chance," retorted Tom good naturedly. A little later the victorious pitcher, and his two chums, having donned their street clothes, were strolling across the field toward a knot of girls. CHAPTER VI THE ACCUSATION "Wasn't it glorious!" cried Madge Tyler, as Tom and his chums came up. "I was just gripping the seat when you threw that last ball, Mr. Parsons." "So was I," admitted Ruth. "Phil, I'm proud of you, even if you are my brother." "Humph!" grunted Phil. "If it hadn't been for Sid's home run we wouldn't have been in it. The fellows who followed him fanned." "You should be very proud, Mr. Henderson," remarked Mabel Harrison, who looked charming in some sort of a soft, clinging dress which I'm not going to describe. "Oh, it was just luck," spoke Sid modestly. "Luck nothing, you old walloper!" cried Tom, thumping his chum on the back. "You just laid for that one, and lambasted it out where the buttercups and daisies grow." "Oh, how poetic!" cried Miss Harrison. "Some ice cream would sound a heap-sight more poetic," decided Phil. "What do you girls say? Will you come and have some?" "Oh, I've provided a little treat for you boys," said Ruth quickly. "By rare good luck Miss Philock, the ogress of Fairview Institute, is away to-day, and I secured permission from the assistant to have a little tea in one of the rooms. We three girls will feed you lions of the diamond, if you promise not to eat up all the charlotte russe and lady fingers I have provided." "Great!" cried Tom. "I haven't the appetite of a butterfly, but----" "Me either," interrupted Sid, with a laugh. "Come on, then," invited Phil's sister. "We are just in time to catch a trolley for Fairview. I have a letter from home for you, Phil," she added. A little later a merry crowd of young people were walking up the campus of the co-educational institution, where the three girls were pursuing their studies. It was Saturday afternoon, and a half holiday for everyone. Ruth, having secured permission, escorted her brother and his two chums to one of the rooms set aside for the use of the girl students in which to entertain their friends. "Why, sis, this is quite a spread!" complimented Phil, as he saw the elaborate preparations in the shape of paper napkins, in the colors of Randall--yellow and maroon--spread about on the table, and as he noted the flowers and the rather more generous "feed" than that indicated when his sister had named lady fingers and charlotte russe. "Yes, we provided this in case you won," replied Ruth, "but if you had lost----" "Well, in case we had lost?" asked Sid, who was close to Miss Harrison. "We were going to eat it all ourselves," finished Madge. "And be ill afterward," interjected Tom. "I'm glad, for more reasons than two, that we won; eh, fellows?" "Yes, but--er--if it's all the same to you, let's eat," suggested Phil, with the freedom of an elder brother. There was a merry time. The fair hostesses had provided coffee and sandwiches, with plenty of ice cream and cake, and when they had been at the table for some time, Phil, with a sigh of satisfaction, remarked: "I'm glad this didn't happen before the game, fellows, or I couldn't have caught even a pop fly." "Ditto here," agreed Tom. "Pass the macaroons, Sid. I see you and Miss Harrison trying to hide them between you." "No such a thing!" retorted the second baseman, while the blue-eyed girl blushed. "Oh, Phil, I promised to get you the letter from home!" suddenly exclaimed Ruth. "I'll run up to my room for it. Excuse me," and she darted off, to return presently with two missives. "Here's one for you, Mabel," she said. "I found it on your dresser. It must have come in after the regular mail." "A letter for me," repeated Miss Harrison in some bewilderment. "I didn't expect any." "Unexpected ones are always the best," ventured Sid, and when Tom whispered "Bravo," at the attempt on the part of his chum to shine in the society of ladies, Sid muttered a threat to punch the captain when they got outside. "Mother is well, and dad as busy as ever," remarked Ruth as she handed her letter to her brother, and passed the other to Miss Harrison. The latter gazed curiously at the missive. "I don't know this writing," she remarked. "I wonder who it can be from." "Better open it and see," suggested Sid. She tore open the envelope, which fluttered to the ground, as she took out a piece of paper. "Why, how funny!" exclaimed Miss Harrison. "There is nothing but a Haddonfield newspaper clipping, and--and--why it seems to be about you, Mr. Henderson," she added. "Why--why!" she stammered. "How odd! Of course it must be some one else. Just listen," and she read: "'During a raid on an alleged gambling house kept by Tony Belato in Dartwell, just outside of Haddonfield on Thursday night, a number of college students, believed to be from Boxer Hall, Fairview or Randall were captured. Several got away, and those who were locked up gave false names, it is believed. One young man, who stated that he was Sidney Henderson, fought the officers, and was not subdued until after a struggle. None of the college boys seemed to know him, but it was stated that he had lost heavily in playing poker. The prisoners were fined ten dollars each, and this morning were discharged by Judge Perkins with a warning.'" There was silence for a moment following Miss Harrison's reading of the clipping. "What's that?" cried Tom at last, and his words seemed to break the spell. "Arrested in a gambling raid--Sid Henderson? Of course it must be some one else! But who sent the clipping to you, Miss Harrison?" "I don't know," was her answer, as she looked full at Sid. "It was a piece of impertinence, at any rate," and she began to tear up the newspaper item. "Of course it wasn't you, Mr. Henderson. I should not have read it. I don't suppose you were within miles of the place where it happened. These newspaper reporters are so careless, sometimes. You weren't there, were you?" she went on. As they all remembered it afterward it seemed strange that Miss Harrison should so insist on her question, but, later, it was explained that her family, as well as herself, had an extraordinary abhorrence of any games of chance, since her brother had once been fleeced by gamblers, and there had been some disgrace attached to it. "You weren't there; were you?" repeated Miss Harrison, and her eyes were fastened on those of Sid. His face was strangely white, and his hands trembled. His chums looked at him in surprise. "I--I wasn't arrested in any raid," he said, and his voice was husky. The girl seemed to catch at the evasion. "Were you there?" she demanded. "I--of course--I have no right to ask you that--but--this clipping, coming to me--as it did--and under the circumstances----" "I wasn't--I wasn't arrested," faltered Sid. "It's all--it's all a mistake!" Almost instantly there came to Phil and Tom at the same time a memory of Sid's queer actions of late--of his strange absences from college--of his hurried departures on receiving notes--of the smell of tobacco on his clothes. "Were you at the gambling place, in Dartwell?" asked Miss Harrison coldly, and it was not until later that the others understood her strange insistence and hatred of games of chance. "Were you there?" "I--I wasn't arrested!" blurted out Sid. "I--I can't explain--I was in Dartwell that night--but--but it is all a mistake--I don't see how my name got in the paper." "Sometimes these matters get out in spite of all that is done to keep them quiet," remarked the girl, and her voice sounded to Sid like the clash of steel. "I tell you I wasn't arrested--I wasn't there--that is, I wasn't gambling--I--I--er--Oh, won't you believe me? Won't you take my word for it?" He was pleading with her now. "I haven't any right to control your actions," said Miss Harrison. "I don't know who sent me this clipping--nor why--I wish I had never seen it," and her eyes filled with tears. "Yet when I ask you if you were there, it seems as if you could say yes or no." "That's it! I can't!" cried poor Sid. "I--I wasn't arrested. I was there--yes, in--in Dartwell that night--but I can't explain--it's a secret--it--Oh, won't you believe me?" Miss Harrison turned and looked full at him. The others were watching the little tragedy that was being enacted before them. "Won't you believe me--I'll--I'll explain--some time," faltered Sid desperately. "I'm sorry, but unless you care to tell me everything, and explain why you were in a gambling house I can't accept your excuses," she said coldly. "I cannot retain the friendship of a person who goes to gambling places. I must ask you to excuse me," and holding her head high, though there were tears in her blue eyes, and a sob in her trembling voice, she turned and left the room. Ruth and Madge looked at each other. "Come on," said Phil to Tom huskily, and they filed out. Sid remained long enough to pick up the envelope that had contained the accusing clipping, and then he followed. None of the three chums spoke until they were out on the campus. Then Phil turned to Sid and demanded: "What in blazes is the matter? If that didn't mean you, and you weren't there, why didn't you say so?" "I--I can't," was the answer. "Oh, fellows, don't go back on me now. I'll explain--some time." "Of course we won't go back on you," declared Tom. "Even if you were playing the ponies or shuffling a deck of cards, it doesn't matter to us. It's your money to lose, if you want to, only I didn't think you cared for such things." "I--I don't!" blurted out Sid. "Then why don't you----" "But I can't explain! Don't desert me now!" "We're not going to," spoke Phil more gently, "only it hurts with a girl like Miss Harrison to have a thing like this come out. She's done with you." "Do you think so?" asked Sid miserably. "Sure," agreed Tom, "but don't worry over that. You've got to bat for us to win, as you did to-day," for he feared Sid would go to pieces, such was the wild look on his face. CHAPTER VII GETTING BACK AT "PITCHFORK" The three chums were not very jolly as they began their return to Randall college, whither the baseball team had preceded them some time before. Sid, Phil and Tom had sent their suits back with some of their friends while they attended the little tea given by Ruth Clinton--the tea which had had such an unfortunate ending. Tom and Phil conversed in low tones about the team and the showing made that day in the first formal game of the season, but as for Sid, he kept to himself in one corner of the electric car, and there was a moody look on his face. "He's taking it hard," observed Phil in a low voice. Tom shook his head. "I can't understand it," he said. Sid stalked into the room ahead of his chums and threw himself down on the old sofa, which creaked and groaned with his weight. "Easy, old man," called Phil good naturedly. "We've had that in the family for three terms, now, and it's a regular heirloom. Don't smash it for us. Remember what a time we had last term, patching it up, and moving it here from our old room?" "Yes, and how Langridge was upset trying to get down stairs past us," added Tom. "Have a little regard for the sofa, Sid." "Oh, hang the sofa!" burst out the lad, and then Tom and Phil knew it was useless to talk to him. Phil crossed the room softly and sat cautiously down in the old armchair. Tom looked at the alarm clock, and exclaimed: "Jove! If it hasn't stopped! Must be something wrong," and he hurriedly wound it, and then started it by the gentle process of pounding it on the edge of the table. Soon the fussy clicking was again heard. "It's all right," went on the pitcher, in relieved tones. "Gave me heart disease at first. The clock is as much of a relic as the chair and sofa. But I've got to mend my glove again. It's ripped in the same place. Rotten athletic goods they're selling nowadays." There came a knock on the door, and Wallops, the messenger, who stood revealed as the portal was opened, announced: "Mr. Zane would like to see you, Mr. Henderson." [Illustration: "MR. ZANE WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU, MR. HENDERSON."] "Me?" inquired Sid. "Yep," was the sententious answer. Saying nothing further, the second baseman got up, and, as the messenger went down the hall, he followed slowly. "He's in for it, I'm afraid," remarked Tom dubiously. "Looks so," agreed Phil. "It's about that item in the paper, of course. Too bad it leaked out." But what took place at the interview with the proctor, Sid's chums did not learn until long afterward. All that became known was that Dr. Churchill was summoned, and that Sid was in the proctor's study a long time. He returned to his room a trifle pale, and with unnaturally bright eyes. Throwing himself on the creaking sofa he stared at the ceiling moodily, while Phil and Tom maintained a discrete silence. "Why don't some of you fellows say something?" burst out Sid finally. "Think this is a funeral?" "We didn't think you wanted to have a talk-fest," observed Tom. "What in blazes am I to do?" asked Sid desperately. "What about?" inquired Phil. "You know--Miss Harrison. I don't want to have her think I'm a gambler. I'm not--I----" "Then why don't you tell her why you were in Dartwell the night of the raid?" suggested the captain. "I--I can't," burst out Sid. "It's impossible!" Tom shrugged his shoulders. "Oh, I know what you mean!" burst out Sid. "It looks as if I wasn't telling the truth. But I am--you'll believe me--some day." "Forget it," advised Phil. "Let's talk about baseball. Have you seen the loving cup trophy?" "It's a beaut!" declared Tom. "I saw it in the doctor's study. We're going to win it, too!" "Hope so," murmured Phil. "If we have a few more games like to-day, we may. But speaking of games----" He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Sid started and leaped up from the sofa. "I'll go," he exclaimed. "If it's a message----" He did not finish, but Tom and Phil looked significantly at each other. Clearly Sid expected another mysterious summons. But, as he opened the portal there stood the Jersey twins. "Hello, fellows," began Joe, "do you want to see some sport?" "Fine sport," added Jerry, who sometimes echoed his brother, a trick that was interchangeable with the twins. "We're always ready for sport," replied Tom. "What is it: baiting a professor, or hazing some freshies?" "Professor," replied Joe. "Pitchfork," echoed Jerry, that name, as I have explained, being applied to Professor Emerson Tines. "What's up now?" asked Phil. "Oh, he's been particularly obnoxious of late," went on Joe. "Some of us had a little smoker the other night, strictly sub-rosa, you understand, but he smelled us out, and now some of us are doing time for it. To-day Bricktop Molloy evolved a little scheme, and we thought we'd let you fellows in on it. Want to come, Sid?" for Sid had gone back to the sofa. "No, I guess not," he answered listlessly. "What's the matter--sick?" inquired Joe, in a whisper of Tom and Phil. They shook their heads, and motioned to the twins not to make further inquiries. "What's the game?" asked Tom. "We'll come." "We're going to get back at Pitchfork," went on Jerry. "Come along and you'll see. I'll just explain, though, that he has quietly been 'tipped off' to the effect that another smoker is in progress, and if he does as we expect him to, he'll try to raid the room." "And if he does?" "Well, he won't find what he expects to. Come on, and keep quiet. What's the matter with Sid, anyhow?" for by this time the four were out in the corridor, leaving the moody one in the room. "Hanged if we know," replied Phil, "except that there's a girl mixed up in it." He refrained from saying anything about the accusation, thinking that would be noised about soon enough. "Oh, if it's only a girl he'll soon be over it," declared Joe with a professional air. "Of course," echoed his brother. "Come on." Phil and Tom soon found themselves in the midst of a number of choice spirits, who moved silently about the lower end of the corridor, near a room that was sometimes used for student meetings, and where, more than once, it was whispered, smokers had been held, in violation of the rules. The reason for the selection of this apartment was that it had an open fireplace, which carried off the fumes of the tobacco. "Did he get the tip?" asked Jerry, as he and his brother, together with Phil and Tom, came up. "He sure did," answered Bricktop. "Reports from the front are that he is on the warpath." "Is everything working all right?" asked Joe. "Fine. Can't you smell it?" Tom and Phil sniffed the air. There was an unmistakable odor of tobacco. "But if there's a smoker going on in there, why was Pitchfork tipped off?" inquired Tom. "Wait an' ye'll see, me lad," advised Bricktop in his rich brogue. "I think he's coming now. Pump her up, Kindlings!" Then, for the first time Tom and his chum noticed that Dan Woodhouse had a small air pump, which he was vigorously working, as he stood in a dark corner. Footsteps sounded down the corridor. There were hasty cautions from the ringleaders, and the lads hid themselves in the dim shadows of the big hall. The footsteps came nearer, and then they seemed to cease. But the reason was soon apparent, for Professor Emerson Tines was now tip-toeing his way toward the door of the suspected room. By the dim light of a half-turned down gas jet he could be seen sneaking up. The only sound from the students was the faint sound of the air pump. Tom and Phil could not imagine what it was for. Professor Tines reached the portal. Then he gave a sudden knock, and called: "I demand to be admitted at once, young gentlemen! I know the nefarious practice that is going on in there, and it must stop at once! Open the door or I shall summon the janitor and have it forced! Open at once!" The professor tried the knob. To his surprise it at once opened the door, and he almost stumbled into the apartment. He uttered an exclamation of delight, probably in the belief that he had caught the students red-handed, but the next moment he gave a gasp of dismay. For, as Tom, Phil, and all the others could see from their vantage points in the shadowy recesses, the room was empty. It was lighted, however, and in plain view on a table in the middle of the floor was a large flask. In the top of this there was a receptacle which contained a pile of burning tobacco, and it was glowing as though some giant was puffing on the improvised pipe. From a glass tube extending from the flask there poured out volumes of the pungent odor, and, as the puffs came, Tom and Phil could hear the air pump being worked. It was a "studentless smoker," the air pump, attached to a rubber hose which exhausted the air from the flask, producing exactly the effect of some one puffing a pipe. The room was blue with the haze of tobacco, and as the astonished professor stood and gazed at the strange sight more smoke arose from the flask. Then, from somewhere in the dark recesses of the corridor came a voice. "Stung!" it ejaculated, and there was a hurried movement as the students fled in the darkness. CHAPTER VIII THE ENVELOPE Plunging on through the darkened corridors Tom and Phil reached their room. They found Sid still on the sofa. "Say, that was great!" cried Tom, venturing to laugh, now that there was no danger of being caught. "You should have been along, Sid. Pitchfork got his to-night, all right. I'll never forget the blank look on his face." "I either," agreed Phil. "That was a smoker as was a smoker. I hope none of us are caught. The twins and Bricktop outdid themselves this trip." Sid began to show some signs of interest, and the trick was told of in detail to him. Of course a faculty inquiry followed, but the hose and air pump had been taken from the school laboratory, and there were no clues to the perpetrators. Professor Tines was furious, and demanded that the guilty ones be dismissed. "Willingly, my dear professor," agreed the venerable Dr. Churchill, "if I can only find them," and there was a twinkle in his deep-set eyes, which he took care that Mr. Tines did not see. Baseball practice went on for several days. One afternoon, as the lads were dispersing, Ed Kerr was seen coming over the diamond, holding in his hand a letter. "We can't play Fairview Saturday," he announced. "Why not?" asked Tom quickly. "They say they're not quite ready to open their season," went on the manager. "They ask me to put the opening game off a week." "Are you going to do it?" inquired several. "Well, what do you fellows say?" asked the manager. "Oh, well, they probably have a good reason. We'll let it go a week," assented Tom. "But can we get another game in place of it?" "Yes, I can fill in with the Layton Preparatory school for this Saturday, and we can go to Wescott University the following Saturday, and then tackle Fairview, if you fellows say so." "Sure," came in a chorus. When Tom and Phil returned to their room Sid was not there. "What do you think about it, anyhow, Phil?" asked the pitcher, and there was no need to be more explicit. "Oh, hang it all, I don't know. It looks funny; about Sid not wanting to tell. And he sure is cut up over Miss Harrison. I wonder who sent her that newspaper clipping?" "Give it up. But I heard that there was a raid all right, and a lot of college fellows were caught. Some of 'em were our chaps, but they managed to keep their identity hidden. I don't see how Sid's got out." "Then you think he was there?" "No, I didn't mean that. But it looks mighty funny. I do hope he isn't going to cut loose, just at the opening of the ball season," and Tom sighed, as though he had the weight of worlds on his shoulders. And, indeed it is no small task to be captain of a lively college team, struggling to win the championship trophy, and the pitcher was beginning to realize this. "Oh, maybe he just wanted a fling," suggested Phil. "Now he's had it he's ashamed to admit it, and wants to cover it up." "But he denies that he was caught," said Tom. "I know it; but what good will that do him, if he doesn't tell where he was that night? He admits that he was in Dartwell, and he must have been somewhere near the place of the raid, or his name would never have gotten in the papers." "Unless some one gave his name out of spite." "By hookey! That's so!" admitted Phil. "I never thought of that. But no--no college fellow would be as mean as that." "Unless it was Langridge or Gerhart. Gerhart is in parts unknown, and Langridge----" "I understand none of the Boxer Hall fellows were in it," went on Phil. "Only some of our boys and a few from Fairview--more fools they! But it sure has put Sid on the blink as far as Miss Harrison goes. Ruth was telling me her family, as well as she, has a horror of gambling in any form. Poor old Sid. I wish we could help him; don't you?" "I sure do," agreed Tom. "We need him on the nine, and we need him in good condition. First thing I know I'll have to put a sub on in Sid's place." "Oh, I hope not. But, say, I've got to do some studying if I'm to play on the team myself. I'm getting to low water mark in Latin and maths. Here goes for some hard boning." It was about a week after this, in which time Randall had met, and beaten, Layton Preparatory school, that Phil, Sid and Tom were taking a trolley ride one evening. "Where shall we go?" asked Phil. "Let's take the Tonoka Lake car," suggested Tom. "Which means let's go to Fairview," asserted Phil. "Well, I don't mind." Sid said nothing. Of course it was only a coincidence, but a little later the three lads were walking down toward the co-educational institution, and of course, I suppose, it was also only a coincidence that Miss Tyler and Miss Clinton should shortly come strolling over the campus. "There's Ruth," announced Phil carelessly, though he was not looking at her, but at Miss Tyler. "That's so," replied Tom, as if it was the queerest thing in the world. "They're headed this way--no use to turn back, I suppose?" asked Phil, as if there was some doubt of it. "No," agreed Tom. "Besides, I want to ask your sister what she thinks of the chances of Fairview beating us." "Oh, she'll tell you her college will win, of course," asserted Phil. "Well, come on," and they walked to meet the girls who had pretended not to notice the approach of the lads. "Oh, why hello, Phil!" called his sister. "Glad to see you; aren't we, Madge?" "Of course," replied Miss Tyler, with a merry laugh. "I'll see you fellows later," murmured Sid, who was very sensitive, and he was about to swing away. "Don't go," urged Tom. "We'll soon be going back." But Sid turned aside. As he did so there came around the corner of the main college building two figures, who strolled over the campus. It needed but a glance to disclose to Tom and Phil who they were--Miss Harrison and Fred Langridge. The couple were chatting and laughing merrily. Instinctively Tom turned to see if Sid had observed them. The second baseman had, and, for an instant he stood staring after the two, who had not seen him. Then, without a word, he kept on his way. "Beautiful evening," remarked Miss Tyler quickly, and she began to talk rapidly about the weather, as if to cover Sid's retreat. As Tom and Phil walked along the corridor leading to their room a little later that night, they saw a light streaming out of the cracks around the portal. "Sid's in there," said Tom. "Yes," agreed Phil, "I wonder----" But he did not finish the sentence. Awkwardly he and Tom pushed in. They started back at the sight of their chum. He was bending over a table on which he had placed a portable electric lamp, the college rooms being illuminated with both gas and the incandescents. Holding a paper in the glow of the bulb, Sid was examining the document with the aid of a magnifying glass. At the same time he seemed to be comparing other pieces of paper with the one he held. "Studying?" asked Tom. "Yes," replied Sid shortly. "Something new?" inquired Phil. "I didn't know you were qualifying for a course in identifying handwriting," for he saw that the papers Sid was looking at contained writing. "Do you see this?" asked Sid suddenly, holding up an envelope. "Why--er--yes," answered Tom. "It's addressed to Miss Harrison, and--but--are you going over with a microscope a letter you've written to her, to see if it will pass muster? She's not as particular as that, you old bat." "I haven't been writing to her," replied Sid coldly. "This is the envelope containing that clipping with my name in it--the report of the gambling raid--I picked up the envelope--that afternoon," and he seemed struggling with some emotion. "What about it?" asked Phil, who did not exactly catch the drift. "This," answered Sid quickly. "Look at this note," and he showed them a missive containing some reference to baseball matters. It was signed "Fred Langridge." "I got that from Langridge last term," went on Sid, "and I saved it, for some unknown reason. I'm glad, now, that I did." "Why?" inquired Tom, who began to see what was coming. "Because, look at that!" and Sid placed side by side the note from Langridge and the envelope that had contained the damaging clipping. He held the magnifying glass first over one and then the other. "Do you notice any similarity?" he asked. "Looks to me as if the same person wrote both," said Tom. "That's right," agreed Phil. "They did!" cried Sid, as he held up the envelope. "Fred Langridge sent to Miss Harrison that lying clipping about me, and to-day he was out walking with her!" CHAPTER IX A CLASH Sid stood facing his two chums, and his breath came quick and fast. He was much worked up over his discovery, as were also his roommates. "From the time I picked up this envelope, after that day when we had lunch with your sister, Phil," he went on, "I've been trying to think in whose handwriting it was. Perhaps I had no right to take the envelope, but I couldn't help it after she--Miss Harrison dropped it. To-night, after I saw him--saw Langridge out walking with her--I came back here, and I had a suspicion. I knew I had an old note of Langridge's somewhere around. I found it, and compared it with the envelope. You see what it shows." "He must have sent her the clipping," agreed Tom. "But why?" "Easy enough to see that," answered Sid. "He was mad because I--er--I happened to go with her a few times, and he is taking this course to give me a bad name, though if she only knew it Langridge is no white-ribboner." "Maybe that was a fake clipping," suggested Phil. "I've heard of such things being done before. Langridge might have hired a printer to set that item up so that it looked as if it was cut from a newspaper." "No," answered Sid quietly. "The item was genuine. I have a similar one I cut from the Haddonfield _Herald_." "But it isn't true?" inquired Tom. "No--that is--well, I can't say anything about it," and Sid looked miserable again. "But I'm glad I found out who sent it to Miss Harrison." "What are you going to do about it?" asked Tom. "I'm going to have it out with Langridge the first time I meet him. I'll punch----" "Better go slow," advised Phil. "Take it easy, old man. Langridge is a slick article. We know that of old. If you try a rough-house he'll have you at a disadvantage." "I can't help it. I'm not going to let him get ahead of me this way." "Oh, forget it and play ball," advised Tom with a laugh, for he felt that the subject was getting too serious, and his heart was wrapped up in his team, despite a certain pretty girl. "I only wish I could--forget it," answered Sid. It was several days after this, and a few days before the game with Wescott University, which was to be played on the latter club's grounds, that Phil, Tom and Sid journeyed to the town of Haddonfield to get some things to take with them on the trip. For it was quite a journey to play Wescott, a college with whom Randall had clashed in football, losing the game because Phil was taken sick and a new quarter back had to go in. It took a day to go and a day to come, and the lads would need to take some baggage with them. The three chums had made their purchases, and were on their way to take a car back to Randall, when Sid grasped the arm of Tom. "There he is!" he exclaimed. "Who?" asked Tom, who was critically examining a new tie he had purchased. "Langridge!" cried Sid. "I'm going to have it out with him." "Don't," begged Phil, but it was too late, for Sid had crossed the street to where the former pitcher for Randall was walking with another chap, as sportily attired as was he. "I want to speak to you!" called Sid to his enemy, as he came up behind him, Tom and Phil following at a distance. "What's that?" drawled Langridge, turning. "Oh, it's you, is it Henderson? Well, I don't know that I care to talk to you. I'm not used to associating with chaps caught in gambling raids!" Sid was fairly trembling with rage, but he managed to take from his pocket a duplicate of the clipping which Miss Harrison had received. "Did you--did you send that to her?" spluttered Sid. "Send it to whom?" asked Langridge insolently. "Miss Harrison? That lying clipping about me? Did you send it, I ask?" "Well, supposing I did? It's a free country; isn't it? Besides, I'm not so sure that the clipping doesn't tell the truth." "Then you sent it!" cried Sid. "You don't dare deny it!" "Dare you deny that you are the person referred to in it? Dare you deny that you were in that gambling hall the night of the raid? Dare you deny that?" fired back Langridge. Sid seemed stunned. "I--I--er--how--how did you----" he was stammering. "I see you don't dare deny it," went on Langridge with a sneer. "Your manner is answer enough. Come on, Perkins. I don't care to prolong this discussion." "But I do!" cried poor Sid, now beside himself. "I'll get even with you for this dirty, sneaking piece of work! You dare send that clipping to her--to her! I'll----" he sprang forward, with clenched fists, and before Tom or Phil could stop him, he had struck Langridge. The latter, with a snarl of rage, jumped toward Sid, but his friend clasped his arm. "Not here! Not here!" implored Perkins. "You can't fight here, Langridge." "No, that's right," admitted the other with a shrug of his shoulders, as he calmed himself with an effort. "And I don't know that I care, after all, for the notoriety of fighting him." He turned aside. Sid was about to spring forward again, his face distorted with rage, but Tom and Phil held him back. "Come on," whispered the pitcher in his ear. "You don't know what you're doing, Sid. You're only making matters worse." With something like a sob in his throat, Sid allowed his chums to lead him away. CHAPTER X SID IS SPIKED "By Jove, but I'm glad we're going out of town for a game," remarked Tom to Phil the next morning. "Why?" inquired the first baseman, as he critically examined his favorite mushroom bat, which he had mended with wire and tape. "Because of Sid. It may put him on his feet again, after this business of Langridge, Miss Harrison, and the newspaper clipping. Hang it all! girls can sure mix things up when they want to, can't they?" "Yes, but it isn't her fault. She merely doesn't care for a fellow that gambles, and Sid can't say that he doesn't." "I don't believe Sid gambles," said Tom quickly. "I was going to add," he went on, "that I'd 'gamble' on that. After the way he acted with Langridge last night, almost coming to a fight, I think there is something more in this than we've thought of." "Probably there is; but why doesn't Sid come out and say he wasn't in the raid, and clear himself? It ought to be easy enough to do, but he doesn't do it." "I know; and yet he may have a reason." "Very likely. But things look suspicious. Mind you, I don't say to us, for I'd stick to Sid, no matter what he did. But there's the fact of him suddenly being broke, being out late several times, going off after getting mysterious notes, and coming in smelling strongly of tobacco. It looks bad, and I don't see why Sid doesn't own up and confess, or else clear himself." "Maybe he can't. But that's neither here nor there. I'm glad he and Langridge didn't fight. Now we're going out of town to play Wescott, and maybe get beaten, for they have a fine nine. But, anyhow, it will do Sid good. He may come back entirely different." "Let's hope so, for there's no fun living with him, as he is now. I was glad when he got so infatuated with Miss Harrison, even going to the length of taking up hammered brass work because she had a fad that way. But since she turned him down poor Sid chucked all his brass stuff out of the window the other day. Well, maybe it will come out all right." "It's got to," declared Tom fiercely. "Well, I'm going down to see Kerr and Leighton, to learn if everything's all ready for the trip." The next day the team started for Wescott University, accompanied by as many of the students as could cut their lectures. It was a day's trip to the big college, one day would be devoted to the game, which was an annual affair, and the return trip would be made the third day. The Randallites were accorded an enthusiastic welcome as they were escorted to their hotel by the Wescott lads. "Remember how sick I was when we were here last year to play 'em football?" asked Phil, as he and his chums went to their rooms. "I sure do. Please don't repeat the experience. We want to beat these fellows if we can." The morning of the game did not prove very auspicious, as it had rained in the night, and was still threatening. But when the two nines went out to the diamond the sun broke through the clouds and it cleared off. "Now, fellows," said Coach Leighton, as he gathered the captain and his men about him, "you've got to play fast, snappy ball to win. We're up against a better team than either Boxer Hall or Fairview, and I want to see what you can do." "If they don't do what's right they'll answer to me," said Tom, with a grim smile. "And if you fellows lose you'll have to walk home," added Manager Kerr. "Sure, then we'll not allow 'em a hit," prophesied Bricktop Molloy. "We'll whitewash 'em," added Dutch Housenlager, as he tried to trip up Joe Jackson, but failed. It was a fast, snappy game from the very start, Tom doing some superb work in the box, but being fully matched by Marshall, the Wescott twirler, who was "a southpaw," or left hander. "He certainly's hard to hit," conceded Holly Cross, when the Randallites came to bat in the fifth inning, with never a run scored, while Wescott had two, one each having been garnered in the second and third innings. "We ought to have some left-handed batters to sort of fool him," remarked Tom. "I can bat left handed," said Sid, who had been unusually quiet during the trip and the game. "Get out! Then it's something new!" exclaimed Mr. Leighton. "Yes," admitted Sid, "and yet it isn't either. I used to bat left handed before I came to Randall, but I gave it up. I've been practicing it on the quiet, lately, and if you like I'll try it now." "It's risky," objected Tom. "Wait until we see what we can do this inning." But they couldn't do anything, and after three men had gone down, one after the other, under the scientific twirling of Marshall, Mr. Leighton, Kerr and Tom, after a consultation decided to let Sid try, as he was to bat first in the next round. Wescott managed to get two more runs, as the players were "finding" Tom, and things began to look black for the visiting team. "See if you can't rap out a home run," begged the captain, as Sid went to the plate in the sixth. There was manifest surprise when he took the left-handed position, and Marshall and Bradshaw, the latter being the Wescott catcher, held a whispered consultation. Whatever line of play they decided on availed them nothing, however, for Sid caught a "beaut" on the end of his bat, selecting the first ball pitched, and he sent it away over in the right field bleachers, easily making a three-bagger of it. He could have come on home, except for ground rules, which allowed only three bases on a ball that went among the spectators, of whom there was an enormous crowd present, almost up to the base lines. "Good!" delightedly cried the Randall supporters, and the record was soon bettered for Holly Cross came up next, and, though he batted right handed, he managed to whale out a two-bagger, which brought in Sid and made the first tally for the visitors. That gave them confidence and they made three runs that inning, coming within one of tying the score. Tom, too, seemed to stiffen in his work, and he struck out three men in quick succession. "Now if we can only do as well this inning," remarked the coach, as Dutch Housenlager came up. Dutch knocked a pretty fly, and was off like the wind to first. He never would have reached it, but for an error on the part of the right fielder who muffed the ball, amid the groans of his fellows. Then, for a time, the Wescott team seemed to go to pieces, until, when the eighth inning opened, the score was tied. Goose eggs were chalked up in the frames of both teams in the eighth, however, the pitchers both working hard. Then came Randall's chance at the bat in the ninth. "One run will beat 'em, if we can only hold 'em down when they come up," muttered Kerr to Tom. "I'll do my part," the nervy pitcher assured him. It fell to Sid again, to do the trick. There were two men out, when he came up, and it looked hopeless, but he again batted left handed, and once more caught a "beaut" on the end of his bat. He got two bases on it, and, by great good luck Holly Cross, next player, whaled out what proved to be a triple, and Sid, as soon as he heard the crack of the ball, started home. As he swung around toward third base the player there perhaps unintentionally got in his way. The baseman pretended that the ball was being fielded to him, in his endeavor to throw Sid out of his calculations, but the nervy Randall second baseman kept on. There was a collision between him and the man covering the bag, and, for an instant, Sid hesitated on third, and almost fell over, seizing his left foot in both hands, and hopping about. "Sid's spiked!" cried Tom. "The third baseman spiked him, just as he had a chance to score! Come on in, Sid. Come on in!" yelled the captain frantically. There was a confusing chorus of yells, so much so that the fielder after the ball, which had gone past him, did not know what to do, after he had the horsehide. But by this time Sid was limping toward home, running fairly well, but with a look of agony on his face. Holly Cross was racing from second now. "Home with that ball, you loon!" yelled the Wescott catcher, who saw Sid coming, for the Wescott fielder was stupidly holding it. Then the fielder woke up, and threw to second, hoping to catch out Holly, who was somewhat undecided. But Sid kept on to home, and tallied the run, though he almost collapsed a moment later, while Holly leaped on to third. "Hurt bad?" asked Tom, as he and several others hurried up to Sid. "I should say so," remarked Mr. Leighton, as he saw the blood running from Sid's shoe. Meanwhile Holly had reached third, though the decision was close. He died there, for the next man struck out, retiring the side, and making the score five to four, in favor of Randall, though with Wescott still to have a chance in the ending of the ninth. The third baseman made all sorts of apologies to Sid, who indeed had a nasty cut, for a spike had gone through the outer, fleshy part of his foot. It was so evidently an accident, however, that nothing unpleasant was said, though Sid could not play, and had to be replaced by Pete Backus. There was a grim look on Tom's face as he took his place in the box, and it was justified, for he struck out two men. The third knocked what seemed was going to be a nice hit, but Pete Backus caught it, though he had to jump well for it, a feat for which his training stood him well in hand. "Wow! We've done 'em!" cried Tom, when he realized that the third Wescott man was out, without a run having been scored by their rivals in the last inning. "We sure have," agreed Mr. Leighton. "Poor Sid, though. He'll be out of it for a few days." "I don't care, as long as we won the game," spoke the plucky lad, as he limped along, his foot having been dressed, and peroxide applied, to prevent blood poisoning. "It was a glorious victory," sang Holly Cross, the others joining in, after cheers had been given for Wescott, and returned by those fine-spirited lads. It was a jolly crowd that journeyed back to Randall next day, with the Wescott scalps hanging at their belts. "It was just what Sid wanted," decided Tom to Phil as he noted the lively look on the second baseman's face, for he was jolly and laughing, in spite of the pain of his injured foot. There was a great celebration in Randall when the victorious team marched up the campus that night, and bonfires galore glared all around. "A feast to-night," decided a crowd of the team's most enthusiastic supporters. "Sid Henderson will be toastmaster, on account of his great work." But Sid, who had limped to his room to change his clothes, shook his head. "Why not?" asked Tom and Phil in surprise. "Because I--I've got to go away to-night," and Sid tried to conceal a letter in his hand--a letter which he had found awaiting him when he returned from Wescott with his chums. CHAPTER XI A JOKE ON THE PROCTOR For a moment neither Tom nor Phil answered. There was an embarrassed silence, but it only affected the three chums, for all about them was a rollicking, shouting crowd of students intent on arranging for a celebration in honor of the nine, and Sid--the player who had done so much to help win. "Have you _got_ to go?" asked Tom, in a low voice. "Can't you put it off, Sid?" "I've got to go. I can't put it off," was the reply, as Sid turned and limped away. "Oh, I say! Where's he going?" demanded Snail Looper. "We want to form a procession and carry him." "Oh, he'll be back--later," answered Phil, for both he and Tom wished to conceal, as long as possible, the growing mystery that seemed to be enveloping their chum. There was no time for longer talk with Sid, as he had hurried off as fast as his injured foot would let him, though Mr. Leighton had advised him to stay in his room for a couple of days. "Where do you s'pose he's going?" asked Tom of Phil. "Give it up, unless he's going to call on Miss Harrison, and it doesn't seem very likely. He'd be more cheerful if it was that. As it is he acts as if he was going to a funeral." "That's right. He got another one of those queer letters, and, as usual, when he does, he scoots off somewhere. Do you know what I think?" "You think of so many things, Tom, I can't be sure." "No joking. I mean we ought to follow him, and see where he goes so mysteriously. Maybe we could help him." "Oh, we couldn't do that, but I'd do anything else to help Sid." "No, of course it wouldn't be fair to play the spy; but, just the same, I wish I knew what was worrying him." A moment later the two players were caught up in a rush of enthusiastic students that involved the whole nine except Sid, and were carried off to an impromptu celebration. Bonfires were blazing, and hastily-organized banquets were in order. "Why, you'd think we'd won the championship to see the way they take on," remarked Holly Cross. "Well, we're in line for it, after the way we beat Wescott," said Tom. "It's the best nine Randall has had in many a year, if I do say it myself," and Tom looked proudly on his team. "My uncle says----" began a voice. "Smother him!" "Into the lake with him!" "Make him eat soft soap!" "Choke him with a double ice-cream cone!" These cries, and many more, greeted the almost fatal announcement of Ford Fenton. Much abashed, he turned aside from the crowd into which he had made his way. "I wouldn't stand for that, if I were you," remarked Bert Bascome to him. "Why don't you go back at 'em." "Oh, I don't know," replied Ford hesitatingly. "You'd have been manager of the team if some of the mollycoddles around here had had any spunk," went on the sporty freshman. "I'm not done yet, either. I'll make the team wish, before the season is over, that Ed Kerr hadn't been manager." "You'll not do anything rash, will you?" asked Ford, who was somewhat afraid of his wealthy chum, who proposed daring pranks sometimes. "I don't know," answered Bascome with a superior air. "If I had some one to help me I know what I'd do. Come over here, I want to talk to you," and he led Ford off to where a number of freshmen of Bascome's crowd were looking on at the celebration in honor of the nine, but taking no part. Tom saw Ford going off with Bascome, the enthusiastic welcome of the players having calmed down for a moment. "I don't like that," he observed to Phil. "Bascome is a chap likely to get Ford into trouble. There's a fast set in the freshie crowd this year." "Yes, we didn't take enough temper out of 'em with the hazing last fall. Have to do the job over again, I guess. But come on, enjoy life while you can," and the two were once more caught up in the happy rush. The celebration went on the better part of the evening, and when Phil and Tom got to their room Sid was not there. He came in later, narrowly missing detection by the proctor, and said little. He was limping quite badly. "How's the foot?" asked Tom. "Not much better," answered Sid. "I shouldn't have gone out to-night, only--I had to." He was dead lame the next day, and for two days after that had to stay in bed, his place on the nine, in practice games, being taken by Pete Backus, who did not do half badly. The game with Fairview was approaching and it was likely to be a severely-contested one. Tom was a little anxious but seemed more at ease when Dr. Marshall, the college physician, gave it as his opinion that Sid could play, his foot having almost healed. "And you've got to bat as you did before too, old sport," insisted Tom, with a laugh. "Why didn't you spring that left-hand racket before?" "Well, you see I wasn't at all sure of it. When I was a kid I always batted left handed. Then I broke my shoulder and I had to bat right handed after it mended, for it was stiff. Then later I found I could bat either way, but I favored right, until lately, when I began practicing left again." "We'll keep you for a pinch hitter," declared Tom. "I must revise the batting order, and get you up first, after this." Sid got into practice a few days before the Fairview game, but was so stiff that it was decided to have some one run for him, after he had gotten to first. The day before the game, when Sid, Phil and Tom were in their room, Sid putting some strips of adhesive plaster on his lame foot, there came a cautious knock at the door. Dutch Housenlager was at once admitted. "Are you fellows game?" was his first question. "For what?" asked Phil. "For a joke on Proc. Zane?" "Oh, we're always ready for that!" exclaimed Sid. "He has caught me once this term, and nearly twice. What's the joke?" "I'll explain," went on Dutch, fairly bubbling over with mirth. "Only you fellows may have to stand for part of it." "How?" asked Tom. "We'll do our share, of course." "We want to use one of your windows for part of the trick. May we?" "Sure," answered Phil. "We'll stand for anything short of setting fire to the college, and we'll throw in a hazing of Pitchfork if it's possible." "Oh, he'll get his some day," replied Dutch, "but just now we're after Zane. Here's a cord. When you hear three tree-toad whistles down below, lower it from your window, and then at two tugs haul up." "You're not going to pull the proctor up here, are you?" inquired Phil in some alarm. "No, but I wish we could. He's been on the job pretty brisk, lately. Just haul the cord, and then I'll be back to explain more," and leaving a stout string in Tom's hands Dutch hurried away. The three chums tried to guess what was to follow, and made all sorts of wild hazards, in the midst of which they were interrupted by hearing from below the cautious imitation of the trill of a tree-toad, thrice repeated. "Lower the cord," whispered Phil, and Tom dangled it from the window. In a few minutes he felt two tugs, which was the signal for hauling up, and he pulled until he had hoisted to his window sill a coil of strong wire. The inseparables were wondering what it was for, when Dutch reappeared. "Anything heavy we can fasten this to?" he asked, as his eyes roved about the room. "There's the alarm clock," replied Sid. "It wakes us out of a heavy sleep, sometimes." "Rotten joke," commented Dutch. "Here, this will do," and he approached the old sofa, holding the coil of wire. "It won't damage it; will it?" cried Phil in some alarm. "Impossible, son! Impossible!" replied Dutch. "I only want to anchor the wire to the sofa. There we are," and he rapidly made a loop in the wire, and strung it around the ancient piece of furniture. Then the other end of the wire was dangled out of the window. It was promptly pulled taut, and seemed to be stretched out for some distance. "That's the stuff!" commented Dutch. "Holly and the rest of the boys are on the job." "But what are you going to do?" asked Tom, much mystified. "You'll soon see," answered Dutch, as he hurried from the room again. CHAPTER XII PLANNING A PICNIC When Dutch returned, after an absence of about half an hour, he seemed in considerable of a hurry. He went directly to the window, out of which there stretched away in the darkness the tight wire, and from the casement dropped a cord. Then he gave a whistling signal, which was answered. Dutch began to haul up on the cord. "Say, look here!" burst out Phil. "What's up, anyhow? Let us in on the joke, as long as you're using our room to work it from." "Sure," agreed Dutch. "It's all ready now, as soon as I get the cord Snail Looper is fastening to this one." He hauled up a thin but strong rope, and once more gave some whistling signals. Then he closed down the window. "Now we'll have to wait about an hour," he explained, "but I'll tell you what's up. You know the proctor has been unusually officious of late, and several of us have suffered." Sid nodded appreciatively. "Well," resumed Dutch, "some of us have rigged up an effigy, in the shape of a student in a dress suit, and at this moment the said imitation student is strung on this wire, which extends from your window across the campus, to the clump of elms just beyond Booker Memorial chapel. The effigy is a sort of trolley car, and this is the wire. This cord, which I just hauled up is also attached to the figure. Now at the proper time, when Proc. Zane goes out to catch some poor chap, who has been off to see his best girl, and has stayed too late, I'll pull this string, the figure will slide along the wire, with the feet just touching the ground, and the proctor thinking it is a student, will rush up to identify him. There will be something interesting when the two meet," and Dutch began to chuckle. "But how can we see it?" asked Tom. "It's as dark as a pocket to-night." "All the better. The fellows hidden in the clump of elms have an automobile search light, which they will turn on at the proper moment. Do you catch on?" "Wow! It's rich!" cried Phil. "All to the mustard and the spoon, too!" decided Tom. "A lallapaloosa!" was Sid's comment. "And not a bit of danger," added Dutch. "As soon as the search light flashes on the scene, and the proctor is made aware of the joke, I'll cut the wire from your window, it will fall to the ground, be hauled in by the fellows in the elms, together with the figure, and not a bit of evidence will remain." "Great!" commented Tom. "But how can you be sure that the proctor will be out there?" "Oh, we've arranged for that. Snail and Holly took pains to converse, rather loudly, in Mr. Zane's hearing to-night, though they pretended not to see him. They intimated that they might try to sneak in about eleven o'clock." "Then the trick comes off then?" asked Phil. "Exactly. We've got half an hour yet." The students sat and talked of many things while waiting, chiefly baseball, until a slight vibration of the wire and a tug of the cord warned them that the time for action had arrived. Dutch explained that he had arranged a code of signals with his chums so that he knew when to haul in on the cord which would pull the stuffed figure along the wire. "There it goes!" he whispered finally. "Now watch the fun!" He began to haul, and the sagging of the wire told of a weight on it. Listening, as they peered from the window into the darkness, Tom and his friends could hear some one running across the campus. Then came a challenge. "Stop, if you please, sir! I see you, and it is useless to try and sneak into college at this hour! I demand your name, sir!" "That's Zane!" whispered Phil. A moment later the wire was violently agitated. "He's caught him!" exclaimed Dutch. "Why don't they turn on the light, so he can see it's only a stuffed scarecrow?" At that instant a dazzling pencil of light cut the air, wavered around uncertainly, and then was focused on a queer sight. The dignified proctor of Randall College held in his embrace the swaying figure of an effigy, attired in full evening dress, but with a caricature of a face. The image swayed from the overhead wire, and the proctor cried out: "It is disgraceful, sir! I believe you are intoxicated! You will be expelled for this!" Then, as the light suddenly became brighter the official was made aware that what he had grasped was only rags and straw in a dress suit. So bright was the light that the amazed anger on the proctor's face was plainly depicted. Suddenly Mr. Zane leaped back from the image, looked up and saw the wire, and darted for the clump of elms, toward which it extended. "Why don't they turn off that light?" demanded Dutch, anxiously, and, as though in answer, it went out. Hurriedly he cut the wire, and closed the window. "It worked like a charm," he said. "Mum's the word now." What happened outside in the darkness Tom and his chums could not see, but later they learned that the image and wire was safely hauled out of sight, and the students escaped from the group of trees before the proctor got there. Of course he made diligent efforts to find out who had played the trick, but it was useless. "That puts us in good humor for the game to-morrow," observed Tom, as, chuckling, he and his chums went to bed. But if they had known what was in store for them on the morrow, they would not have slept so peacefully. For they suffered a severe drubbing at the hands of Fairview Institute when they met that nine on the diamond the next afternoon. How it happened they did not like to think of afterward, but it was mainly due to poor fielding. Tom pitched well, and Sid made some good hits, but his foot went back on him, even in the short spurt to first. Then, too, Dutch and Holly, usually to be depended on, disgraced themselves by making almost inexcusable errors. Nor was Fairview's playing anything to boast of, aside from the work of the battery. It was just one of those occasions when both teams seem to go stale, and probably on the part of Randall the prank of the night before, which kept several members of the team up late, had not a little to do with it. Sufficient to say, that though Tom managed to whip his men into some kind of shape for the last three innings it was too late, and they went down to defeat by a score of 3 to 10. "And the girls watching us, too!" groaned Phil, as they were changing their clothes after the game. "Are you going to see them when we get washed up?" asked Sid eagerly. "I don't feel much like it," grumbled Tom, but, somehow, he and Phil did manage to gravitate to where Madge Tyler and Ruth Clinton were standing. Sid followed at a discreet distance, but when he saw Miss Harrison strolling about the grounds with Langridge, the second baseman took a trolley car for home. Tom and Sid had to stand considerable chaffing on the part of their two pretty companions, but they didn't mind so much, and Tom declared that his team was only practicing, and would eventually win the championship, and the gold loving cup. "Oh, by the way," remarked Phil, at parting, "Ruth, don't you and Miss Tyler want to come to our doings next week?" "What doings?" asked his sister. "See you defeated at baseball again, or go to a fraternity dance?" "Something on the order of the latter," replied her brother, making a wry face. "The sophs are going to have a little picnic on Crest Island, in Tonoka Lake, next Wednesday, and it will be one swell affair. Regular old-fashioned picnic--basket lunches, ants in the butter, snakes under the leaves, and all that. Holly Cross thought it up, and it's great!" "What a wonderful brain he must have," said Miss Tyler, with a delicious laugh. "But it sounds nice. What do you say, Ruth? Shall we go?" "I will, if you will. But--er--Mabel----" She looked questioningly toward her chum, who was strolling with Langridge. "Oh, bring her along," invited Phil. "This is an old-fashioned affair, and no special person will bring any one else. Tom and Sid and I will look after you girls." "But, Phil, you forget that Mr. Henderson and Mabel----" began Ruth. "Oh, hang it all, don't let that matter," spoke Phil. "I dare say Sid won't be around. As soon as he gets in the woods or fields he's always after bugs or animals--he's a naturalist, you know." "I should say so," agreed Tom. "Remember last fall how he went out after a picture of a fox, and got stuck in the bog, and how Zane caught him, all covered with mud, and thought poor Sid was a thief, and how we pretended we didn't know our own chum, when the proctor brought him to our room for identification? Remember that, Phil?" "I should say I did. Well, that's probably what Sid will do this time, so Miss Harrison needn't worry about having to accept him as an escort, though for the life of me I can't understand what's up between her and Sid?" and Phil looked questioningly at his sister. "We don't know, either," answered Ruth, "except that Mabel is very miserable over it." "She can't be taking it very hard, when I see her off with that chump, Langridge," retorted Phil. "Yes, I'm sorry she goes with him," retorted Madge Tyler. "But she won't listen to us. However, to change the subject--are we to go to the picnic, Ruth?" "Oh, I guess so. How will we get there, Phil?" "Tom and I will come for you, we'll go to the summer resort on the west shore of the lake, and row to the island. It will be sport. Now pray for good weather." "And you boys pray that there aren't any snakes," added Miss Tyler. "Nor ants in the butter," went on Ruth, as the boys bade the girls good-by. CHAPTER XIII A SPORTY COMPANION "Where's my blue tie?" cried Tom, tumbling about the things on his bureau. "Have you seen it, Phil?" "Well, I like your nerve! Yes, I used it as a shoe polishing rag," remarked Phil sarcastically. "You'll find it on the blue-tie hook, I should say. Why don't you look there." "Blue-tie hook?" queried Tom. "Yes. You're such an orderly chap," added Phil, as he looked at his chum's disordered side of the room, "that I supposed you had a hook for each tie." "Oh, cut it out," advised Tom, making a perfect shower with a rainbow effect of colored silks, as he looked in vain for the blue article of adornment. "I don't know where in blazes your blue tie is," went on Phil, as he gazed with a puzzled air into a box on his dresser; "but I'd like to know where my garnet cuff buttons are. Have you been sporting 'em, Sid?" "Me? No!" answered the other chum, who was quietly dressing, a task which Tom and Phil seemed to think called for more or less elaborate effort. "But, say, what's getting into you chaps, anyhow? You're togging up as much for the soph picnic as though it was a frat. dance. Are there some damsels in the offing?" "Oh, there are always girls to these affairs," carelessly spoke Tom, as he opened another drawer and began tumbling about his collars and cuffs. "Hang it all, where _is_ that tie, anyhow." "I s'pose nothing but a baby-blue one would suit your fair complexion," remarked Phil, glancing at Tom, who was as brown as an Indian from his out-door life. "It will suit me as well as your cute little garnet cuff buttons will you. I never saw such a fusser! Ah, there's the tie. I remember now, I put it there to hide it away from you chaps," and Tom pulled out a gorgeous affair of silk from inside a cuff. "Speak for yourself, you old fossil!" retorted Phil, who just then discovered his cuff buttons marking a place in his Ovid. "Wonder how in blazes they got there?" he murmured, as he proceeded to put them in his cuffs, while Tom was busy trying to make just the proper knot with the blue tie. "Why are you fellows togging up so?" demanded Sid. "Are you going to take some girls, as well as meet some there?" And, for the first time he seemed to entertain some suspicions of his friends. "Oh, well, Ruth wanted to go," said Phil, as indifferently as he could, "and Tom and I promised to----" "I suppose Miss Tyler is going?" asked Sid quietly. "Yes," assented Tom, his face flushing under its bronze coat, though possibly it was from his exertion in pulling his tie into place. "And so is Miss Harrison," went on Phil, with a desperate effort, as if desirous of getting the worst over. "But you don't need to worry," he added, as he saw Sid sit limply down in a chair. "She probably won't see you, so there need be no embarrassment. I thought it was a pity to have her miss it, especially as Ruth and Madge are going, and she rooms with them. We thought you wouldn't mind, old fellow, but we weren't going to tell you." "So that's what you've been so mysterious about these last few days," commented Sid. "I thought something was up. Of course it's all right. I sha'n't annoy Miss Harrison, only--Oh, what's the use!" and he went on with his preparations. It was the morning of the day of the annual sophomore picnic, and there was much excitement, especially in the ranks of the second-year men, and the more or less numerous fair ones who counted on being taken to the charming little island in the middle of Lake Tonoka. The affair was always held at this season of the year, when there was no danger of an attack from the freshmen students, who, by this time, had settled down into something approaching dignity. "You're not going to back out, because she--Miss Harrison--is coming, are you?" asked Phil, as he saw Sid cease his arrangements for dressing. "No--no--of course not. I was just--just thinking. I'll take my camera and specimen box along, and do a little work in biology and nature study. I need a little freshening up for the final exams. I probably won't see much of you chaps." Phil and Tom departed ahead of Sid, who busied himself with his camera, his specimen box and his cyanide bottle, with which latter he painlessly killed such bugs and butterflies as he captured. "We'll see you later," called Tom, as, with his blue tie very much in evidence, he and Phil went to get the girls. A picnic is pretty much the same the world over, even if it is gotten up by a college crowd, and the one on Crest Island was no exception. There was the usual screaming of the girls when the boats tipped, and the usual strolling in shady nooks by youths and maidens, there was fun galore and happiness on all sides, for the day was perfect. Madge Tyler, Ruth Clinton and Mabel Harrison were walking along with Phil and Tom, having just come in from a ride around the lake in a motor launch. "What shall we do now?" asked Ruth. "We'll soon have the pleasure of seeing some ants do a waltz or a two-step in the butter," announced Tom. "I see the waiters getting the tables ready," for a caterer had been hired by the students to provide luncheon. "How interesting," remarked Madge. "Suppose we go over there in the shade----" She paused suddenly, and with a little gesture to Ruth went on hurriedly: "Oh, no, let's go this way." "That's too sunny," objected Mabel. "I'd rather go over in the shade, and----" She, too, stopped, and then she saw what had made her chum hesitate. Sid Henderson was approaching them on a path which had no turn in it, as they had passed the only one just as Madge tried to branch off. There was no help for it. Sid was creeping up with his camera, intent on getting a picture of a large butterfly that had alighted on a flower, and, as yet, he had not seen the little party. Miss Harrison was at once aware that her two girl chums had endeavored to save her the embarrassment of meeting Sid, but it was too late to turn back gracefully now, and with an admirable assumption of calmness the girl said: "Oh, isn't it interesting! I hope Mr. Henderson gets his picture. I did not know he was a naturalist." Tom and Phil both breathed easier. It seemed that Miss Harrison would not "cut" Sid after all. Perhaps their precautions had been useless. They were not aware that a girl can sometimes, under force of circumstances, assume a part she does not feel. It was this way with Mabel Harrison. She did not want to meet Sid, but she was too cultured to cause his friends sorrow by refusing to notice his presence. So, with somewhat heightened color, she stood in the group composed of her chums, Phil and Tom, and watched the young naturalist coming nearer and nearer. So intent was Sid on getting the picture that he had not, as yet, seen his chums or the girls. There was a click of the camera, and, a moment later, after the exposure had been made, the gorgeous butterfly sailed gracefully off through the air. "Did you get it?" called out Tom, and Sid looked up. "Yes," he replied. "A fine and rare specimen." Then he saw Miss Harrison, and halted in his approach, which he had begun. But, he also, was too proud to turn back now, and came on. The others advanced toward him, and Miss Harrison was just bowing, coolly perhaps, but with a show of cordiality, when from the bushes there stepped a gaily attired youth, whom neither Phil, Tom, nor either of the girls seemed to know. "Hello, Sid, old chap!" greeted the newcomer in easy but rather too loud tones. "I've been trying to pipe you off for ever so long. Looked all over for you. Say, this place is dead slow. Not even so much as a ring-cane game. What makes you college sports come here? It's too dead for me. But I've found a bunch of good things. Come on over and we'll have a little poker, and I'll depend on you to----" The sportily dressed youth paused, for Sid had started back with horror at the sight of him, and had made an unmistakable gesture of caution. "What's the matter?" went on the flashily attired one. "Ain't I good enough to speak to you? Or maybe you think the dames give me the fussers. Not a bit of it. Pleased to meet you, girls," and he made pert bows to the three young ladies, who returned them with mere nods, for they expected to learn that the new arrival was a friend of Sid's, however undesirable he might seem. "How came you here? What do you want?" demanded Sid, and the hand that held the camera trembled. "I came after you," was the answer. "Called up at the brain factory, and they told me the whole bunch of second year boys were off on a chowder party, so I took a boat and came here. I thought I'd have some sport, but it's dead slow. Come on, and I'll show you some fun. I've got a deck of cards and----" Sid was quickly at the side of the sporty one, and uttered something in a hoarse whisper. "Oh, that's all right then, don't mind me," came the answer, and the youth leered at the girls. Tom was with difficulty keeping down his anger, while Phil was hopelessly wondering who on earth Sid's acquaintance could be. Miss Harrison, who had started to greet Sid, drew back and there was a look of disgust on her face. She turned aside, and started back. "Don't go away--I like your style," called the sporty lad. "We need another lady as it is. Don't go away." "Keep quiet!" begged Sid desperately. "I'll go with you. Come on," and, to the surprise of his friends, Sid turned into the woods, and followed the youth, who impudently took off his hat and threw kisses to the girls, as they turned their backs. Miss Harrison had disappeared around a turn in the path. CHAPTER XIV "MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!" For a moment no one knew what to do or say. Tom was nervously kicking at the pebbles in the path, while Phil got out his knife and began whittling a stick furiously. As usual it was the girls who saved the situation. "I suppose he's gone off to get some more pictures," said Madge, with a nervous little laugh. "Come on, Ruth, we mustn't let Mabel go back there all alone. After all, I don't believe we want to go sit in the shade. Isn't dinner almost ready? I'm nearly famished, boys." "Yes, bring on the butter, ants and all," added Ruth. "All right, just as you say," responded Phil, with a quick look at Tom, who rather avoided the glance, for he was sorely puzzled. "I dare say grub is ready. We'll dine beneath the greenwood tree, from whence all care shall banished be." "Bravo!" cried Miss Tyler. "You never told me your brother was a poet, Ruth." "He doesn't know it himself," commented his sister dryly. "Oh, there's Mabel. Wait!" she called, and the girl in advance turned. There was a troubled look in her blue eyes, but otherwise she was calm. "Isn't it perfectly charming in the woods," she remarked. "I wish Fairview College was nearer the lake." "Oh, we'll come over and get you, any time you want to come," said Tom quickly. "Thank you," responded Miss Harrison, with a grateful look at him. She seemed to have recovered control of herself, but there was a pathetic air about her, which did not vanish. Luncheon was a gay affair, as Tom and Phil felt that it was their duty to make up, in a measure, for the strange action of Sid, in going off in company with a flashily-dressed youth who had practically insulted his chums' companions. In the afternoon there was a period of idling beneath the trees, walks along shady and moss-grown paths, and trips about the lake in boats, until the declining sun warned the merry-makers that it was time to depart. Phil and Tom took the three girls to Fairview, but they had no further sight of Sid that afternoon, nor was any mention made of him, though Tom rather hoped the girls would say something that would enable him to defend his chum. For, somehow, in spite of it all, Tom felt that there was something he didn't understand in relation to Sid. He was puzzled over it, grieved deeply, too, yet he could not condemn Sid. But no mention was made of the little incident of the morning, and the two youths left, promising to come over again at the first opportunity. "It was awfully kind of you to bother with me," said Miss Harrison, as she shook hands with Phil and Tom. "I was rather in the way, I'm afraid, and I realize----" "Why, Mabel, what a way to talk!" interrupted Ruth. "If they hadn't taken you with us, we wouldn't have gone with them; would we, Madge?" "Of course not." "It's awfully kind of you," went on Mabel, as she turned into the college, leaving Phil and Tom to say good-by to their friends. "Well, what do you make of it?" asked Phil, when he and Tom were on their way back to Randall. "Hanged if I know what to say. Who was that sporty chap, anyhow?" "Search me. He seemed to take a good deal for granted. The puppy! I felt like punching him one, the way he leered at the girls." "So did I. Would have, too, only for Sid. He seemed to be friendly with the flashy chap." "Yes, and that's the funny part of it. He seemed somehow to have Sid under a spell." "It's just another phase of the mystery that seems to have been enveloping poor old Sid, of late," went on Tom. "I only hope one thing, and that is, that whatever it is that it doesn't interfere with baseball. We've got to depend a lot on Sid this season, as the other fellows aren't batting as I hoped they would, and this includes myself, but I never was much as a hitter. I never could get above two sixty-eight, but Sid won't have any trouble getting to four hundred, and he can bat both ways, placing a ball in either right or left field. But if this thing is going to keep up," and Tom shook his head dolefully, "I don't know what to do." "Losing that game to Fairview didn't do our standing any good," remarked Phil. "I should say not! But we play Dodville Prep school Saturday, and they're easy fruit." "That will help pull our average up some," admitted Phil. They made the rest of the trip back to Randall almost in silence, Tom making an occasional remark about baseball, and Phil replying, but the thoughts of both were more on the events of the day than on the great game. Sid was not in the room when Phil and Tom entered. The latter took off his cherished blue tie, and placed it carefully away, probably in a place he would forget the next time he wanted it, while Phil made a point of sticking his garnet sleeve links in a box that contained everything from fish hooks to waxed ends for sewing ripped baseball covers. "Well, I'm glad to-day's over," remarked Tom, as he threw himself in the old armchair, with a sigh of relief, "but it was lots of fun while it lasted. Still I didn't exactly know what to do when that fellow showed up." "Same here, yet the girls got through all right. Trust them for a thing like that? Girls are queer creatures, anyhow." "You laughed at me when I said that last term," remarked Tom, as Phil stretched out on the ancient sofa, raising a cloud of dust. "Well, to-day is done. I wonder what will happen to-morrow?" "Same old grind. I've got to brush up a bit if I want to pass with honors. Guess I'll do some boning to-night." "Yes, and I've got to arrange for some more baseball practice," went on Tom. "I wonder where Sid is? I didn't like the looks of that chap. And did you hear what he said about playing poker?" "Yes, I'm afraid Sid's in bad, in spite of what he says." There was a moment of silence, broken only by the ticking of the alarm clock. Then Tom resumed: "I wish we could help him. If he's got in with a bad crowd we ought to help save him. Poor old Sid, I wish----" At that moment the door opened, and the chum whose troubles they were discussing walked in. He had heard what Tom had said, and a dull red flushed up under his brown skin. "Were you fellows talking about me?" he asked hotly. "We were just saying," began Phil, "that we couldn't----" "I wish you fellows would mind your own business!" blurted out Sid. "I guess I can look after myself!" and he crossed the room and gazed moodily out of a window, into the darkness of the night, while the tick of the fussy little alarm clock seemed to echo and re-echo through the apartment. CHAPTER XV AN UNEXPECTED DEFENSE There wasn't much said in the room of the chums after Sid had "gone off the handle," as Tom expressed it later. In fact there was not much that could be said. Phil shrugged his shoulders and glanced at Tom in a significant manner, and the captain of the nine shook his head discouragedly. Matters were getting worse, he thought, and he began to fear for the effect of Sid's trouble on the second baseman's ability as a player. But what could be done? Though he did not refer to the scene of the previous evening, when he greeted his chums next morning, Sid, by his manner showed that he realized it. There was a tender gruffness in his words and actions, and he seemed so contrite, and so anxious to make amends that Phil and Tom did not have it in their hearts to stand out against him. "A fine day for practice," observed Tom, as he sprang out of bed, at the first summons of the alarm clock. "Cæsar's battle-axe! What's going to happen?" demanded Phil, lazily turning over. "You're up, Tom." "Sure. I'm behind in my psychology work, and I've got to attend a stiff lecture this morning and stand for a quizz afterward. I'm afraid I'll slump." "I'll help you," came unexpectedly from Sid. "I've been all over that stuff, and I know what Pitchfork will try to stick you on. Get something on, and I'll help you bone." This was unexpected on Sid's part, but Tom was none the less grateful, and soon the two were delving deep into problems of mind and matter, while Phil protested that it was against all rules, and that he wanted to sleep. Tom did well in the "quizz," and this made him more than ever anxious to help Sid in his trouble. But the second baseman made no reference to it, and in practice that afternoon he did better than in several previous days at his stick work. "We'll eat up Dodville," prophesied Tom exultantly. "That's the way to lambast 'em, Sid!" But Randall didn't "eat up" Dodville. They beat the preparatory school nine, as indeed they should have done, but the score was no great showing of the abilities of Randall. For the smaller lads hit Tom rather too frequently, and their fielding was a joy to the heart of their coach and captain. Even Mr. Leighton complimented them on it, and he did not say much to his own men, who, to say the least, were a bit ragged. "Dodville shouldn't have gotten more than one run," declared the coach as the nine was returning, "yet you fellows let them get six." "Yes," added Tom bitterly. "I can see a large, gold-framed picture of us winning that loving cup, when we go up against Boxer Hall and Fairview again." "You needn't talk," declared Sid, somewhat bitterly. "You issued plenty of walking papers to-day, and they found you several times, in spite of your curves." "I didn't muff a ball, and let a man get away from me on second, though," retorted Tom. "Oh, come on, fellows, let's sing," proposed Holly Cross, as a way out of the difficulty, and when some of the old college lays had been rendered the team was in better humor. That evening, when Tom was putting a new toe-plate on his shoe, and Sid was pretending to study in one corner of the room, but scarcely glancing at his book, there came a summons at the door. Sid jumped up at the knock, and there was a look of apprehension on his face, which vanished, however, when Wallops, the messenger, came with word that Phil was wanted on the telephone. The first baseman returned presently, to announce: "My sister wants to see me, over at Fairview." "Anything the matter?" asked Tom quickly, and with suspicious interest. "No, she has a letter from dad, with something in about vacation plans, and she wants to talk to me about it. I'll be back soon. Don't sit up for me--ta-ta," and Phil was gone. It was not quite as difficult for him to gain admission to the young ladies' side of the Fairview institution as it had been for Tom, on one memorable occasion, when he had called to tell Ruth that her brother had been hurt in a football game. Then Miss Philock, the preceptress, seemed to think Tom was going to carry off some of her charges out of hand. "What is it, sis?" asked Phil, when his sister had come down to talk to him. "Oh, it's about where we're going this summer. Dad and Momsey have left it to me. I want to go to Europe awfully, Phil, and if you and I both ask, maybe they'll take us. Will you? That's what I wanted to see you about, and I couldn't wait to write, so I telephoned. Don't you want to go to Europe?" "Not much! I'm going camping with Sid and Tom. No Europe for me! We're going to do Yellowstone Park, and----" "Oh, Phil, and I was so counting on Europe," and Ruth began to argue with her brother. In the midst of it the door of the little reception room opened, and in came Madge and Miss Harrison. "Oh, excuse us, dear," exclaimed Madge. "We didn't know you were here." "Do stay," urged Ruth. "It's only Phil. Perhaps you can help me persuade him to join with me in begging the folks to take us to Europe," and Phil's sister looked knowingly at Madge. "Oh, wouldn't that be fine!" exclaimed Miss Tyler. "I heard mamma and papa talking about making a tour this year, and of course if they went I'd go too. Then we might see each other, Ruth. I don't see why you're so opposed to Europe, Mr. Clinton." "Oh, I'm not," answered Phil quickly, doing some hard thinking before he reversed himself. "In fact I rather like it. Perhaps we will postpone the camping trip and--er--well, I don't care, sis. If you can work the folks for a trip across the pond I'm with you." "Oh, thank you so much!" exclaimed Ruth, and she made a motion as though to kiss her brother, only Phil ducked. "How fortunate you people are to go abroad," spoke Miss Harrison. "I've been longing to go," and they began to talk of many things they wished to see. From that the talk switched to baseball, and before she thought Ruth remarked: "Is Mr. Henderson batting as well as ever?" "Not as well as he might," declared Phil, and he spoke not to disparage Sid, but merely as a lover of his team. "There's something wrong with Sid," he went on, scarcely aware of what he was saying. "He's going down, somehow. I'm afraid he's gotten in with a bad crowd. That sporty chap we met him with isn't doing him any good, and Sid will slump, if he isn't careful. He used to be a steady chap, but I'm afraid he's going to the bad." "Oh, what a shame!" remarked Ruth. "Yes, and he was so steady," added Madge. Miss Harrison was biting her lips. Her face had first flushed, but now was white. "I think it's very mean of you to say such things about him when he isn't here," she burst out. "Sid--I mean Mr. Henderson--doesn't--I mean--I'm sure he wouldn't--anyhow, why don't you be fair to him?" and, before any of the others could answer, she burst into tears and fled from the room. CHAPTER XVI A SERIOUS CHARGE "Well, what do you know about that?" exclaimed Phil, turning to his sister and Miss Tyler. "If that isn't the limit!" "Hush!" begged Ruth. "Poor Mabel! She isn't herself." "I wasn't saying anything against Sid," went on Phil. "I only said it was too bad something seemed to have gotten hold of him lately. Then she flies up----" "How dare you speak about Mabel flying up?" interrupted Ruth, stamping her little foot, and shaking her finger at her brother. "She's nervous and upset, that's all. You'd better go to her, Madge. Perhaps she has a headache." Miss Tyler, with a sympathetic look at Phil, glided from the apartment. "What do you s'pose ailed Miss Harrison?" asked Phil. "I don't know," replied Ruth. "Of course it was rather unexpected when she and Mr. Henderson became such friends. Then came that item in the paper, and his refusal to explain, and then meeting that horrid fellow at the picnic, and then--but I never expected her to break a lance for him in this fashion. I guess she cares more than she shows," and with this philosophical reflection Ruth bade her brother good night, as Miss Philock was marching aggressively up and down the corridor like a sentinel, for the hour of retiring was approaching. "Now don't say a word about this to Sid," cautioned Ruth. "Of course not," growled Phil. "Nor Tom Parsons, either." Phil grunted, but that night he told Tom everything, and the scene further added, in the mind of the pitcher, to the mystery that was enveloping Sid. "Maybe the worst of it's over," suggested Tom, as they were discussing the matter. "Sid hasn't been out late nights for two weeks now, and he's studying hard. He's playing the game, too. We'll beat Fairview the next time we tackle 'em, and wipe up Boxer Hall, likewise." But alas for Tom's hopes. Two nights later, as the three chums were studying in their room, Wallops brought a note for Sid, who showed much perturbation, and hastily went out, saying nothing to his chums. "There he goes again," remarked Tom helplessly, as the door closed on Sid. "Um," grunted Phil. He had nothing to say. Phil and Tom, who were taking up some advanced work in mathematics, spent two evenings a week "boning" with Mellville, a senior, and this was one of the occasions when they went to his room. They had permission to be up beyond the usual hour, and it was rather late when they returned to their own apartment. Mellville had his rooms in a new fraternity house, not far from Booker Memorial Chapel, and to get to their own room, which was in the west dormitory, Phil and Tom had to cross the campus, and go in the rear of the "prof house," as the building was called where Dr. Churchill and the faculty had their living quarters. As the two chums were walking along, they became aware of a figure coming up the campus from another direction--from where the main entrance gates of the college loomed up dimly in the darkness. "Some one's coming in late," murmured Phil. "Likely to get caught," added Tom. "I saw Proc. Zane sneaking around a few minutes ago." "By Jove, that walks like Sid!" whispered Phil, a moment later. "It is Sid," he added. "Yes, and there goes Zane after him!" groaned Tom. "He's caught, sure, unless we can warn him. Poor old Sid!" "Too late," remarked Phil, as he saw the figure of the proctor break into a run. Sid also darted off, but soon he saw he had no chance to escape, and he stood still. "Ah, Mr. Henderson, good evening," greeted the proctor sarcastically. "Out rather late, aren't you?" "I'm--I'm afraid so, sir," answered Sid hesitatingly; his two chums, from their position in the dark shadows of the faculty house being able to hear everything. "No doubt about it," went on the proctor gleefully. He had kept vigil for many nights of late, and his prey had escaped him. Now he had a quarry. "Have you permission to be out after hours?" demanded the official. "No, sir." "I thought not. Report to Dr. Churchill directly after chapel," and the proctor, by the light of a small pocket electric lamp he carried, began to enter Sid's name in his book. As he did so Tom and Phil could see the watch-dog of the college gate gaze sharply at their chum. Then Mr. Zane, putting out his hand, caught hold of Sid's coat. "Are they going to fight?" asked Tom in a hoarse whisper. "Sid must be crazy!" A moment later came the proctor's voice. "Ha, Mr. Henderson, I thought I smelled liquor on you! I am not deceived. What have you in that pocket?" "Noth--nothing, sir," stammered Sid. There was a momentary struggle, and the proctor pulled something from an inner pocket of Sid's coat. By the gleam of the electric lamp, Tom and Phil could see that it was a bottle--a flask of the kind usually employed to carry intoxicants--broad and flat, to fit in the pocket. "Ha! Mr. Henderson, this is serious!" exclaimed the proctor. "Trying to smuggle liquor into the college! Come with me to my room at once. This must be investigated. I will find out who are guilty with you, in this most serious breach of the rules. A bottle of liquor! Shameful! Come with me, sir! Dr. Churchill shall hear of this instantly!" and he took hold of Sid's arm, as if he feared the student would escape. "What do you think of that?" gasped Tom, as the full meaning of what he had seen came home to him. "I give up," answered Phil hopelessly. "Poor, old Sid!" CHAPTER XVII SID KEEPS SILENT Tom and Phil wished they could have been a witness to the scene which took place a little later in the study of Dr. Churchill. Not from mere motives of curiosity, but that they might, if possible, aid their chum. That he was in serious straits they well knew, for the rules of Randall (as indeed is the case at all colleges) were most stringent on the subject of liquor. Poor Sid, led like a prisoner by the proctor, walked moodily up to the faculty residence, while Tom and Phil, with sorrow in their hearts, went to their room. Their grief was too deep and genuine to admit of discussion. "You wished to see me?" inquired Dr. Churchill, coming out of his study into his reception room, as Sid and the proctor stood up to greet him, having previously sent in word by the servant. "Ha, what is it now?" and the venerable head of Randall looked over the tops of his spectacles at the two; the official, stern and unyielding, and the student with a puzzled, worried air, sorrowful yet not at all guilty. Dr. Churchill held a book and his finger was between the pages, as if he hoped soon to be able to go back and resume his reading at the place he had left off. "I regret to announce that I have a most flagrant violation of the rules to report to you, Dr. Churchill," began Mr. Zane. "Another of my boys out late," remarked the doctor, a half smile playing around his lips. "Well, of course that can't be allowed, but I suppose he has some good excuse. He went to see about a challenge for a ball game, or it was so hot in his room that he couldn't study," and the president smiled, then, as he caught sight of a little blaze of logs in the fireplace of his reception room (for the evening was rather chilly), he realized that his latter explanation about a hot room would scarcely hold. And, be it said, Dr. Churchill was always looking for some excuse for indiscreet students, to the chagrin of the officious proctor. "Doubtless a baseball matter took him out," went on the president. "Of course we can't allow that. Discipline is discipline, but if you will write out for me a couple of hundred lines of Virgil--by the way, you play at shortstop, don't you?" and the doctor looked quizzically at Sid. The president had rather less knowledge of baseball than the average lady. "How is the eleven coming on, Mr. Henderson?" The doctor tried to appear interested, but, for the life of him he never could remember whether baseball was played with nine, ten or a dozen men, albeit he attended all the championship games, and shouted with the rest when the team won. He wanted to appear interested now, however, and he was anxious to get back to his reading. "I regret to inform you," went on the proctor (which was not true, for Sid well knew that Mr. Zane took a fiendish delight in what he was about to say), "I regret to state that I caught Mr. Henderson coming in after hours to-night; and I would not think so much of that, were it not for the condition in which I caught him," and the proctor assumed a saintly air. "I don't quite understand," remarked the doctor, laying down his book, but taking care to mark a certain passage. Sid was idly aware that it was a volume of Sanskrit, the doctor being an authority on that ancient language of the Hindoos. "I regret to say that Mr. Henderson is intoxicated!" blurted out the proctor. "I am not, sir!" retorted the second baseman, it being his first remark since entering the room. "I have never touched a drop of intoxicating liquor in my life, sir!" There was a ring in his voice, and, as he stood up and faced his accuser there was that in his manner which would indicate to any unprejudiced person that he was perfectly sober. "Intoxicated!" exclaimed the doctor, for he had a nameless horror of anything like that. "Don't make such a charge, Mr. Zane, unless you are positive----" "I am positive, Dr. Churchill." "I have never touched a drop of liquor," insisted Sid. Dr. Churchill, with a stern look on his rugged face, advanced and took hold of Sid by the arms, not severely, not even tightly, but with a gentle, friendly pressure. He looked into the troubled eyes of the lad--troubled but not ashamed--worried, perhaps, but not abashed. The doctor bent closer. "I am no authority on intoxicants," went on the president grimly, "but I should say you were mistaken, Mr. Zane." "Will Mr. Henderson deny that I took a pint bottle of liquor from him not ten minutes ago?" asked Mr. Zane, as he produced the incriminating evidence. Sid's face turned red under its tan--it had been rather pale before--but he did not answer. Dr. Churchill looked grave. "Is this true?" he asked. "I did have the bottle in my pocket," admitted Sid. "But it was not for myself. I took it----" The president raised a restraining hand. "Wait," he said. "I will send for Dr. Marshall. This is serious." He sighed as he looked at his book. To-night he felt, more than ever, what it meant, to be the head of an institution where several hundred young men--healthy, vitalized animals--were held in leash only by slender cords. Dr. Churchill summoned a messenger, and sent him for the college physician. "Mr. Henderson is no more intoxicated than I am, and I never take a drop, nor give it," declared the physician. "I guess you're mistaken, Mr. Zane." "Is this liquor?" demanded the proctor, extending the bottle. Dr. Marshall looked at the bottle through the light, poured out some of the contents into his palm, and smelled of the liquid. "It seems to be whisky," he said doubtfully, "but I should have to make an analysis to be perfectly sure." "You need not go to that trouble," said Sid quickly. "I have every reason to believe that it _is_ whisky." "And what were you doing with it?" demanded Dr. Churchill sternly. "That is a question which I must decline to answer," and Sid drew himself up haughtily. The venerable president drew back, almost as if he had received a blow. He looked at Sid keenly. "Very well," he remarked quietly, and there was a note of sadness in his voice. "I shall have to inflict severe punishment. The rules call for suspension or expulsion, but, in view of your previous excellent record, I will make an exception. You will be debarred from all further participation in athletics for the remainder of the term--unless," and the doctor paused, "you can make some explanation that will prove your innocence," and he looked almost as a father might at an erring son. "I--I can't make any explanation," answered Sid brokenly, as he turned away, while the doctor, with a shake of his head, took up his Sanskrit book, and went back to his study. CHAPTER XVIII BASCOME GIVES A DINNER Of course, the story was all over college the next day, for those things leak out, through messengers or servants, or in some mysterious manner. But, in this case, the suspension of Sid from further participation in the ball games, had to be made known. "For the love of onions, what are we going to do?" demanded Tom. "We can't do without Sid." He was quite broken up over the affair. "We'll have to play Pete Backus in his place," suggested Phil. "Yes, I know, but Pete----" began the perplexed captain. "He'll have to train harder than he has been," observed the coach, who, with Tom and some friends, were talking over the alarming situation. "Oh, Pete'll do it, if he once makes up his mind to it, and I'll see that he does," agreed Tom. "Does this mean that we'll have to cancel the next game with Fairview?" asked Ed Kerr, who was anxious to know, for, as manager, he would have to shift his dates. "No, we'll play 'em," replied the coach. "It will mean more and harder practice for the next two weeks, though, and we have a game with that Michigan school Saturday. They're hard as nails, too, I hear, but maybe it will do our fellows good to get a few more drubbings. It may wake them up, for there's no denying that the fellows are not playing up to the mark." "I'm sure it's not my fault," began Tom, a bit aggressively. "I didn't say it was," retorted Mr. Leighton, and there was a sharp tone in his words. "Only we've got to play better if we want to win." Tom, with a fierce feeling in his heart, put his men through a hard practice previous to a game with the scrub team, and the men seemed to wake up. Pete Backus surprised his chums and himself by knocking a home run. "That's the stuff!" cried Tom. "Work like that wins games," added the coach, brightening up a bit. Tom and Phil, in tacit agreement with the rest of the athletic set, had avoided mentioning Sid's disgrace, but coming home from practice that afternoon, Tom, seeing his chum, curled up in the old armchair, studying, could not help remarking: "What in the world did you do it for, old man? You've put us in a fierce hole." "I'm sorry," spoke Sid contritely. "Why don't you explain?" asked Phil. "I can't." "You mean there's nothing to explain?" queried Tom. "You can put it that way, if you like. I wish you fellows would let me alone." "That's all right, Sid," went on Tom, "but when we count on you to play on the team--and when we need you--to go back on us this way--it's not----" "Oh, let me alone; will you?" burst out the unfortunate one. "Haven't I got troubles enough? You know it hurts me, as much as it does you, not to play. Don't I want to see Randall win?" "Doesn't look much like it," mumbled Phil. "Say, look here," exploded Sid, "if you fellows don't want me here any longer, just say so, and I'll get out." He sprang to his feet, and faced his chums, a look on his face they had never seen there before. It brought to them a realization of what it all meant, though they could not understand it. "Oh, hang it all, we're getting too serious!" declared Tom. "Of course, we want you to stay here--we wouldn't know what to do if you left us. Only it's tough on the team." "Glad you appreciate my abilities," remarked Sid, with a little softening of his manner. "I'm as much broken up over it as you are. All I can say is there's been a big mistake, and all I ask for is a suspension of judgment." "But if it's a mistake, why can't you tell?" insisted Phil. "I can't, that's all. You'll have to worry along without me. I hear Pete is doing good." "Oh, yes, fair," admitted Tom, "but he isn't as sure a batter as you are. We need you, Sid." "Well, I'm sorry--that's all. It may be explained--some day, but not now," and Sid fell to studying again. "I don't like this," remarked Tom to Phil, a few days later, following some practice the day before the game with Michigan, a team that had won a name for itself on the diamond. "Don't like what, Tom?" "The way some of our team are playing and acting. They seem to think any old kind of baseball will do. They play fine--at times--then they go to pieces. Then, too, there seems to be a sort of clique forming in the nine and among some of the subs. There's too much sporting around, and staying out nights. Too many little suppers and smokers." "Leighton doesn't kick--why should you?" "He doesn't know it, but if it keeps on I'm going to tell him, and have him stiffen up the men. Ed Kerr's got to help, too. Bert Bascome is responsible for some of it. He's got lots of money, and he spends it. Then, with his auto, he's playing old bob with some of the fellows, taking them on joy rides, and keeping them out until, first they know, Zane will have them down on his list." "Oh, it's not as bad as that, I guess." "It isn't, eh? You just watch, that's all," and Tom kept moodily on to his room. On the table were three envelopes, one each for the captain, Sid and Phil. "What's up?" asked Phil. "I wonder if Ruth is going to have a blow-out again, or if Madge----" He opened his missive and began to read it, Tom already having perused his. "There, what did I tell you?" asked the captain. "Bascome is giving a dinner to-night, and he wants the whole 'varsity nine, and the subs, to attend. The little puppy! He gives himself as many airs as if he was a senior. Why doesn't he dine the freshman nine, if he has to blow in his money?" "Are you going?" asked Phil. "Going? Of course not, and none of the nine will, if they have to ask me. It will break them all up for the game to-morrow. I won't stand for it." "What will you do?" "Tell Leighton, and have him officially forbid it." "Isn't that going it pretty strong? We can easily beat Michigan, even if the fellows do have a little fun to-night." "Look how we were fooled on Dodville Prep. I'm going to take no chances. I'll see Leighton," which Tom did, with the effect that the coach kindly, but firmly, forbade members of the 'varsity nine from dissipating at Bascome's dinner. Sid came in a little later, picked up his invitation, and read it. "They say Bascome gives very fine spreads," was his remark. "You're not going, are you?" asked Tom in some surprise, for he likened Bascome to Langridge, though the latter was more of a bully, and he did not believe Sid would take up with the rich freshman. "Why shouldn't I go?" asked Sid, and there was challenge in his tone. "I might as well have the game as the name," and he laughed uneasily. "Why, none of the 'varsity nine are going," said Tom. "Oh," and Sid turned aside, as he put the invitation in his pocket. "Well, I'm not on the 'varsity any longer," and he laughed, but there was no mirth in it. CHAPTER XIX FAIRVIEW AND RANDALL Tom did not reply to Sid's almost sneering allusion to the unfortunate fact that he was barred from playing. There was little the captain could say, and when Sid went to Bascome's dinner, together with a number of the more sporty students, Tom and Phil, who were in bed, did not greet their chum on his return. "What's the matter with you fellows?" demanded Sid, as he entered the darkened room, and proceeded to get ready to retire. "You'd think I'd committed an unpardonable crime. It was a jolly crowd I was with, and nothing out of the way. Bascome isn't half bad, when you get to know him." "Only a little fresh, that's all," remarked Phil, while Tom mumbled a few words that might have been taken for anything. The game with Michigan the next day demonstrated in how poor a condition was Randall, for the contest nearly went by the board, and Tom only pulled it out of the fire by excellent pitching, though he was not in the best of form. "Well, we won, anyhow," remarked Phil that night. "Yes, but nothing to boast of. I'm worried about the Fairview game Saturday," said the captain. "Do we play on their grounds?" "No, they come here." "Well, that's something in our favor. We'll have Bean Perkins and the other shouters with us. We've just got to win, Tom!" "I know it, but----" "There are no 'buts,' old man," declared the genial first baseman. "Just remember that the girls will be on hand, and they mustn't see us go down to defeat twice to a co-ed college." "No, of course not," and Tom turned in. The following days were devoted to practice--practice harder than any yet that term, for Tom and the coach worked the men every spare hour they could devote to the diamond, outside of lecture and study hours. Pete Backus improved wonderfully. He was not Sid's equal, but the best substitute that could be found. "Oh, Sid, but I wish you were going to play," said Tom, with a little sigh, the night before the Fairview game. "So do I," came in sorrowful tones from the second baseman. "But--Oh, well, what's the use of talking?" and he tried to laugh it off, but it was a poor attempt. Fairview was on hand early with a crowd of "rooters" and supporters, both young men and maidens, the next afternoon, when the Randall team fairly leaped out on the diamond. "I wonder if Ruth is here?" said Phil, as he stopped a particularly "hot" ball Tom threw. "Let's take a look," suggested the pitcher, and while the grand stand and bleachers were filling up the two strolled along, scanning the hundreds of faces. "There she is!" cried Tom at length. "Miss Tyler's with her." "And Miss Harrison is up there, too," added Phil. "And see who's with her--Miss Harrison, I mean." "Who?" "Langridge." "By Jove! you're right," agreed Tom. "I guess he came to get a line on us. Well, he'll get it." "Queer place he picked out to see the game from," went on Phil. "Why?" "It'll be sunny there, after a bit," replied Phil, for part of the seating accommodations on the Randall grounds were not of the best, and some grand stands were little better than the bleachers in the matter of shade. "He'll have the sun almost in his face before the game is half over," continued the first baseman. "Well, if it suits him, we oughtn't to kick," said Tom. "No, I s'pose not. Hello, if there isn't Sid, and he's going to sit right down behind Langridge and Miss Harrison." "That's so. Maybe he doesn't see 'em. Rather awkward if he and Langridge have a run-in here. But come on, we'll say how-d'y-do to the girls, and then get at practice," and, after greeting their friends, and assuring them that Fairview would go home beaten, Tom and Phil took their places with the other players. "Now, fellows, we've got to win!" declared Tom emphatically just before the game started. "Last time we played Fairview we lost by a score of ten to three. Don't let it happen again." "No, don't you dare to," cautioned Mr. Leighton. A moment later the Randall players went out in the field, the home team having the privilege of batting last. The umpire took the new ball from its foil cover, and tossed it to Tom. The tall, good-looking pitcher looked at it critically, glanced around the field to see that his men were in position, and then sent in a few practice balls to Dutch Housenlager, who loomed up big and confident behind home plate. Ted Puder, the Fairview center fielder and captain, was the first man up, and was greeted with a round of cheers as he tapped his bat on the rubber. Dutch signalled for an out curve and Tom delivered it, right over the plate. "Strike!" called the umpire. "Wow!" jeered Fairview's friends, for Puder had not swung at it. "Robber!" yelled some one, but the Fairview captain only laughed. "Make him give you a good one, Puder," he said. But waiting availed Puder nothing, for Tom neatly struck him out, and followed it by doing the same to Lem Sellig. Frank Sullivan managed to find Tom's second delivery, and sent a neat little liner out toward Bricktop Molloy, at short. Bricktop seemed to have it fairly in his grasp, even though he had to reach out to one side for it, but his foot slipped, and the ball went on past him. "Run, Frank, run!" screamed a score of voices, and Frank legged it for first, reaching the bag before Joe Jackson in left field could run up and redeem Bricktop's error by stopping the rolling ball. "Never mind, two down--play for the batter," advised Dutch in a signal to Tom, and the pitcher nodded comprehendingly. Ned Williams, who followed Sullivan, knocked two fouls, both of which Dutch tried hard to get, but could not. Then Tom struck him out with a puzzling drop, and a goose egg went up on the score board for Fairview. "Guess they're not finding us as soft as they expected," remarked Holly Cross, as his side came in. "It's early yet," advised Tom. "Wait until about the fifth inning, and then talk." "Do you wish to spank me?" asked Bricktop, as he came up to Tom, looking sorrowful over his error. "Don't do it again, that's all," said Coach Leighton. "Not for worlds," promised the red-haired shortstop. CHAPTER XX RANDALL SCORES FIRST Holly Cross was up first, and he faced John Allen, the Fairview pitcher, with a grin of confidence. He swung viciously at the first ball, and missed it clean. "Make him give you a nice one," called Bricktop, who was coaching from third. "We've got all day, Holly. He'll tire in about two innings. He has no Irish blood in him, as I have," and there was a laugh at Bricktop's "rigging" while the Fairview pitcher smiled sheepishly. But though Holly waited, it availed him but little. Three balls were called for him, after his first strike, though the Fairview crowd wanted to injure the umpire. Then Allen stiffened, and Holly walked back to the bench without even swinging the stick again. "Only one gone. We've got plenty of chances yet," called Bricktop, from the coaching box, and in his enthusiasm he stepped over the line. The umpire warned him back. Dan Woodhouse was up next. "Make kindling wood of your bat," yelled an enthusiastic freshman in the Randall bleachers, but though Dan sent a nice bingle to center, well over the pitcher's head, the second baseman pulled it down, and Dan was out. Bricktop repeated this, save that he flied to Herbert Bower, in left field, and Randall had a zero to her credit. In the second and third innings neither side scored, and when the fourth was half over, with another minus mark for Fairview the crowd began to sit up and take notice. "This'll be a hot game before it's through," prophesied Bert Bascome, who with Ford Fenton, and a crowd of like spirits sat together. "That's right," agreed Ford. "My uncle says----" "Sit down! Sit down!" yelled a score of voices about him, though the unfortunate Ford was not standing. He knew, however, what was meant, and uttered no protest. Though Randall did her best when her chance came in the ending of the fourth, nothing resulted. Backus flied to Sam Soden and Tom Parsons managed to get to first on a clean hit to right field, but Joe Jackson, who followed him, struck out, and, as though emulating his brother, the other Jersey twin did likewise, letting Tom die on second. "Say, when is something going to happen?" asked Holly Cross of Tom, as the home team filed out in the field. "It ought to, pretty soon now," replied Tom, as he kicked a small stone out of the pitchers' box. Bean Perkins, with his crowd of "shouters" started the "Wallop 'em" song, in an endeavor to make things lively, and he very nearly succeeded, for John Allen, who came up first in the beginning of the fifth, rapped out a pretty one to left field. It looked as if Joe Jackson would miss it, but Joe wasn't there for that purpose. He had a long run to the side to get within reaching distance of the horsehide, but, as though to make up for striking out, he made a sensational catch, and was roundly applauded, while Allen walked back disgustedly from first, which he had almost reached. "Pretty catch! Lovely catch!" yelled Bean Perkins. "Now a couple more like that, and things will be all ready for us when our boys come in." Herbert Bower and Sam Soden, the next two Fairview players who followed Allen, were both struck out by Tom, who was doing some fine twirling, having given no player his base on balls yet. "Now, boys, show 'em what you can do!" pleaded a score of Randall "fans," as Tom and his men walked in to the bench for their share of the fifth inning. Dutch Housenlager was up first, and he selected a bat with care. "What are you going to do, me son," asked Bricktop solicitously. "Knock a home run," declared Dutch, and he faced the pitcher with a grim air. He didn't do that, but he did rap out a single, and got to first. Then came Phil Clinton, who made a sacrifice bunt. That is, it was intended for that, but the pitcher fumbled it, and was delayed in getting it to first. Then the throw was so wild that the Fairview first baseman had to take his foot off the bag to get it, and, meanwhile Phil was legging it for the bag for all he was worth, while Dutch went on to second. "Batter's out!" howled the umpire, though it seemed to all the Randall players that Phil was safe. Tom protested hotly at the decision, but it stood, and, though it looked as if there would be trouble, Mr. Leighton calmed things down. "Only one gone," he said, "and Holly Cross is up next. He'll bring in Dutch, and score himself." Holly sent out a beautiful hit to center field, and there was a chorus of joyful cries. "Go on! Go on!" "Make a home run!" "Come on in, Dutch, you old ice wagon!" Dutch legged it from second to third, and started home, but the ball, which the center fielder had managed to get sooner than had been expected, looked dangerous to Dutch, and he ran back to third, after being halfway home. Holly was safe on second, and amid a storm of encouraging yells Dan Woodhouse got up. "Now a home run, Kindlings!" called the crowd, and then Bean and his cohorts began singing: "We've Got 'em on the Run Now." Dan got two balls, and the third one was just where he wanted it. He slammed it out for a three base hit, and Dutch and Holly scored the first two runs of the game, while Tom did a war dance at third, where he was coaching. On a single by Bricktop Dan came in, though he was nearly caught at home, for the ball was quickly relayed in from left field, where the shortstop had sent it, but old Kindlings slid in through a cloud of dust, and Charley Simonson, who was catching for Fairview, dropped the horsehide, so Dan's run counted. "Three--nothing! Three--nothing!" yelled Tom, wild with joy. "Now, boys, we've struck our gait! And only one out!" "Watch his glass arm break!" shouted several in scorn at the Fairview pitcher, but the latter refused to let them get his "goat" or rattle him and kept a watchful eye on Bricktop at first, when Pete Backus came up. "Now, Pete, don't forget what I told you!" shouted Tom, as the lad who was taking Sid's place stepped up, but poor Pete must have had a poor memory, for he struck out, and when Tom himself took up his stick, Bricktop, who had been vainly trying to steal second and who was somewhat tired out, by the pitcher's efforts to catch him napping on first, finally did what the Fairview players hoped he would do--he played off too far, and he couldn't get back, when Allen suddenly slammed the ball over to the first baseman. Bricktop was out, and the Randall side was retired, but with three runs to its credit. "That'll do for a starter," observed Tom, as he put on his pitching glove. "We'll duplicate that next inning." But the sixth saw goose eggs in the frames of both nines, though Tom sent a pretty, low fly out to center, where it was neatly caught by Ted Puder, who had to jump for it. The Jersey twins struck out in monotonous succession, thus ending the sixth. "Now for the lucky seventh!" yelled a crowd of Fairview supporters. "Everybody stand up!" and the big crowd arose to get some relief from sitting still so long. The seventh was destined to be lucky in spite of the efforts of Tom and his men to hold back Fairview. CHAPTER XXI RANDALL IN THE TENTH Lem Sellig, who was up first for Fairview, had what Tom thought was a wicked look in his eye. Whether Tom lost control or whether Lem surprised himself and his friends by finding the ball, in spite of its puzzling curve was not known, but at any rate he knocked a two bagger, and it was almost a three sacker, for the center fielder dropped the ball, and had some time in finding it in the grass before he threw it in just in time to shut off Lem from going to third. This stroke of luck seemed to give Fairview confidence, and Frank Sullivan almost duplicated Lem's trick, bringing in the third baseman, and getting to second himself. "Now we're going to walk away from 'em," declared Lem, as he tallied the first run for his side, and it did look so, for Ned Williams found Tom Parsons for a couple of fouls. But the fatal blow was wanting, and Ned went back to the bench, amid groans. Sullivan stole to third on a ball that managed to get past Dutch at home, and then followed a wild scene when John Allen knocked a pretty fly, bringing in Frank, but getting out himself. This made the score two to three in favor of Randall, and there was a nervous tension when Tom got ready to attend to Herbert Bower, the next man up. "I've got to dispose of him with some style," thought the Randall twirler, "or our fellows will get rattled. Let's see if I can't do it." It looked a bit discouraging when his first two deliveries were called balls, but the next three could not have been better, and Bower was struck out. "All we've got to do is hold 'em down now, and we've got the game," declared Dutch, as he walked with Tom in from the field. "We've got to get some more runs," insisted the captain. But they didn't. Dutch, Phil and Holly went down in one, two, three order. And a zero went up in the seventh frame for Randall. Tom struck out Sam Soden for a starter in the eighth, and then he lost his balance, or something else happened, for he issued a free pass to first for Simonson, amid a chorus of groans from the Randall lads, and jeers from Fairview, who hurled such encouraging remarks at Tom as these: "We've got him going now!" "He's all in!" "We have his goat!" "Talk about glass arms!" Whether it was this jeering, or whether Tom was really tired, did not develop, but, at any rate, Ed Felton, who followed Simonson, placed a magnificent hit just inside the first base line, and with such speed did it go that it sifted down in through the seats of the right field bleachers, and Ed scored the first home run of the game, bringing in Simonson, whose tally tied the score; the homer putting Fairview one run ahead. "Now we've got 'em! They're easy fruit!" yelled the Fairview throng, the girls from the college blending their shrill voices with those of their male companions. Tom was rather shaky when he and Dutch held a little consultation in front of home plate, as Puder walked up with his stick. Puder singled, and Tom was getting worried, but he managed to pull himself together, and struck out Sellig and Sullivan, killing Puder on second, and halting any further scoring by Fairview that inning. "Maybe you'd better put Rod Evert in the box in my place," suggested Tom to Mr. Leighton, as the Randall nine, much dispirited, came up for their turn at the bat, the score being four to three in favor of Fairview. "Nonsense!" exclaimed the coach. "You'll do all right, Tom. This is only a little slump." "I _hope_ this is the end of it," remarked the pitcher. "We can't stand much more." "I'll duplicate Felton's home run," promised Dutch. "That's the way to talk," declared Ed Kerr, who was not feeling very happy over the showing made by the team of which he was manager. But alas for Dutch's hope! He didn't get a chance to bat, for Woodhouse struck out, and Molloy and Pete Backus followed. "If we can hold 'em this inning, and then get two runs, it will do the trick," remarked Holly Cross at the beginning of the ninth. "If," spoke Tom dubiously, for he was beginning to lose heart. However, he gritted his teeth and, after a few warming-up balls before Ned Williams came up, he pitched to such good advantage that Williams was out in record time. John Allen swiped savagely at the horsehide, but it was not to be, and he walked back to the bench, while Bower came out, a smile of confidence on his face. "Here's another home run," he prophesied, but Tom, in his heart, decided it was not to be, nor was it, for Bower struck out. This still left the score four to three, in favor of Fairview at the ending of the first half of the ninth inning. Randall needed two runs to win, but one would tie the tally, and give them another chance. It would also afford another opportunity for Fairview. The big crowd was on edge. Songs and college cries were being hurled back and forth from grand stand and bleachers. "The 'Conquer or Die' song, fellows," yelled Bean Perkins, and the strains of "_Aut Vincere Aut Mori!_" sung in Latin, welled sweetly and solemnly over the diamond. Tom Parsons felt the tears coming into his eyes, as he walked in. "Oh, if we only can win!" he breathed. He was up first, and he almost trembled as he faced the Fairview pitcher. There was a mist in his eyes, but somehow he managed to see through it the ball that was coming swiftly toward him. It looked good to his practiced eye, and he swung at it with all his force. To his delight there followed that most delightful of sounds, the "ping," as the tough mushroom bat met the ball. "Oh! Oh! Oh! A pretty hit! A beaut!" Tom heard the crowd yell, as he tossed aside the club, and started for first like a deer. "Go on! Go on!" yelled Holly Cross. "Keep a-going, Tom!" Tom kept on, swung wide around first, and then legged it for second. The ball had gone well over the center fielder's head, and he was running back toward the daisies after it. "Go on! Go on!" implored Holly. Tom reached third before the ball was fielded in, and he remained there panting, while Joe Jackson took his place at home plate, swaying his bat to and fro. "None gone, Tom on third and Joe at bat," mused Mr. Leighton. "I wish Joe was a better hitter, but maybe he can knock out a bingle that will do the trick." Joe did, though it was more through an error on the part of the second baseman, who muffed the fly, than any ability on Joe's part, that the Jersey twin got to first. Tom came in, amid a burst of cheers and yells, scoring the tying run. Would there be a winning one, or would ten innings be necessary? Jerry Jackson struck out, while his friends groaned, but Joe, with desperate daring, managed to steal second. Then up came Dutch Housenlager, and when he hit the ball a resounding whack the heart of more than one lad was in his throat. But, by a desperate run, the left fielder caught the fly, and Dutch was out, while Joe Jackson was on third. He died there, for Phil, to his great chagrin, struck out. The score stood a tie 4 to 4. "Ten innings! Ten innings!" yelled the crowd. Bean Perkins and his fellows were singing all the songs they knew. So were the Fairview cohorts, and the scene was a wild one. "Hold 'em down, Tom; hold 'em down!" implored the coach as the plucky pitcher went to his box. It looked as if he was not going to do it, for he passed Sam Soden to first, and duplicated the trick for Charley Simonson and with two men on bases, not a man down, and Tom as nervous as a cat, it began to look dubious for Randall. The crowd was on edge. So was Tom, with two lively runners on the first and second bags to watch. Several times he threw to first, hoping to catch Simonson napping, but it was not to be. Suddenly Pete Backus, who was holding down second base, threw up his hand to shield his eyes, and Tom saw a dazzling streak of light flash across from the grand stand. "What's the matter, Pete?" asked the pitcher. "Some girl up there must have bright buttons on, or a hat pin made of diamonds, for they're flashing in my eyes," complained Pete. Then the flash vanished and Tom was about to pitch a ball for Ed Felton, who was up, when, as he gave a comprehensive look at first and second, he again saw the dazzling gleam in Pete's eyes. "We'll have to stop that!" exclaimed the captain. "I'll ask Kerr or Mr. Leighton to speak to whoever's wearing such bright adornments." "Funny it should hit me in the eyes all the while," complained Pete, changing his position, but the beam of light followed him. "Some one's doing that on purpose," declared Tom, and he fairly ran toward the grand stand. But before he got there he saw something happening. The beam of light came from that section of the stand near where Tom had noticed Langridge and Miss Harrison sitting. Then, as he raced on, he also remembered that Sid sat there too. A terrible thought came to him. Could Sid be trying to disconcert the player who was taking his place, by flashing a mirror in his eyes? "Of course he wouldn't do such a dirty trick!" said Tom to himself, a moment after he had entertained the thought. The captain reached the stand, in company with Dutch, who had run back in response to the pitcher's motion, in time to see Sid leap to his feet, reach forward toward Langridge, who sat in front of him, while the deposed second baseman exclaimed: "You mean sneak!" "What's the matter?" asked Langridge coolly, as he turned an insolent stare on Sid. "Mad because I'm with Miss Harrison?" "No, you cur! But I see what you're doing! Hand over that mirror!" and before Langridge could protest Sid had yanked him backward, partly over the seat, and had grasped the right hand of the former Randall student--a hand containing a small, circular mirror. "You were flashing that in the eyes of our second baseman, you sneak!" cried Sid hotly. "I was watching you! You held it down, where you thought no one would see. You ought to be kicked off the stand!" "I did not!" declared Langridge brazenly, yet there was fear in his manner, and the mirror was mute evidence. "I was just going to hand it to Miss Harrison," he went on. "To let her see if her hat----" The girl turned her blue eyes on him, and shrank away from the notice attracted to her escort. Langridge did not complete his lie. "I saw what you were doing," went on Sid. "Wasn't something flashing in Pete's eyes?" he asked, as Tom and Dutch, with some of the other Randall players, stood on the ground, in front of where the scene had taken place. "That's what I came in to see about," declared Tom. "I--I didn't know it was shining in his eyes," stammered Langridge. "Let go of me, Henderson, or I'll make you!" Sid did not want to make a scene, and released his hold of Langridge. Tom, by a motion, signalled to Sid to say nothing more, but it was principally on the score of not wanting to further subject Miss Harrison to embarrassment, rather than to save Langridge from punishment. Then, too, there was only slim proof against Langridge. Sid grabbed the mirror away from the bully, and the latter dared not protest. There were some hisses, and Miss Harrison blushed painfully. Langridge tried to brazen it out, but, with a muttered excuse that he wanted to get a cigar, he left the stand, and the blue-eyed girl, after a frightened glance around, went and sat with Ruth and Madge. Sid looked as if he wanted to follow her, but he did not dare, and after Tom, Ed Kerr and Mr. Leighton had consulted together for a few minutes, it was agreed to take no action against Langridge, who had sneaked off. "He did it, all right," decided Tom. "He wanted to rattle Pete and make us lose to Fairview, but we're not going to do it." "Indeed not," asserted the coach. "Hold 'em down now, Tom. One run will do the trick." There were two men on bases, and none out when Ed Felton resumed his place at home, and Tom was inclined to shiver when he remembered what Ed had done to the ball before. But the pitcher took a strong brace, and struck out Ed, much to that worthy's surprise. Then, by some magnificent pitching, in the face of long odds, Tom retired Puder and Lem Sellig with an ease that he himself marveled at. His arm seemed to have gotten back some of its cunning. A zero went up in the tenth frame for Fairview. "That looks good to me!" cried Holly Cross, dancing about. "If we can't get in one run now, Tom, we ought to be put out of the league." "Well, it's up to you, Holly," remarked Tom. "You're up first." "By Jove, you'll not be ashamed of me!" declared the big center fielder. He rapped out a nice bingle that took him to second base. Then came Dan Woodhouse, and he struck out, amid groans. Bricktop walked up with an air of confidence, amid encouraging comments from his chums. The Fairview pitcher was getting a little rattled, and threw so wild that the catcher, though he jumped for the ball, missed it, and had to run back while Holly, who had stolen to third, came in with a rush. There was a mixup at the plate, as Holly slid in, accompanied by a cloud of dust, but the pitcher, who had run up to assist the catcher, and make amends for his wild throw, dropped the ball, and Holly scored the winning run. There was a moment of silence until the big crowd and the players appreciated what it meant to pull out a victory in the tenth, and that after an exceedingly close game. Then came a burst of cheers, and applause that made the grand stands and bleachers rattle. "Wow! Wow! Wow!" yelled the exultant Randallites, and they capered about in very joy, like wild Indians, slapping each other on the back, punching and being punched, cheering for themselves and for Fairview by turns. CHAPTER XXII SID DESPAIRS "Wasn't it great!" demanded Dutch Housenlager, as he waltzed up to Tom, and tried to lead him out into a dance on the diamond. "Immense, eh? Pulling it out of the fire that way?" "Yes, that's what we did--pulled it out of the fire," agreed Tom, with a smile. "We needed this victory, and I'm glad we won, but we've got to play better--and that includes me--if we're to have the loving cup this year. Our batting and fielding could be improved a whole lot." "Oh, of course," agreed Dutch, "but aren't you a bit proud of us, captain?" "Oh, sure--of course," answered the pitcher heartily. "Let joy be unconfined," and with a yell of pure enjoyment he joined in the impromptu dance. Fairview was glum, but not cast down. They had cheered the winning team, and Ted Puder, the captain, came up to Tom. "You certainly beat us fair and square," he acknowledged. "I hope you don't think we had anything to do with Langridge using that mirror to dazzle the eyes of your second baseman." "Never thought of such a thing," declared Tom with emphasis. "The cad worked that trick up all by his lonesome. I guess he thought maybe Sid was playing there, and he has a grudge against Henderson--yet that couldn't have been it either, for Langridge knows Sid is suspended, and anyhow, Sid was sitting directly back of the sneak, where Langridge could have seen him." "Yes, it's a good thing Sid detected him. Well, we'll beat you next time." "Forget it," advised Tom with a laugh. "Come on, cap," called Phil to him a moment later. "Let's look up Sid, and, incidentally, the girls." "Sure," agreed the pitcher, and a moment later he and Phil were greeting Madge, Ruth and Mabel. But Sid had hurried away. The little group strolled past the grand stand, Tom and Phil excusing themselves while they went in to get on their street garments, the girls promising to wait for them. "Wonder where Sid went?" asked Tom. "Give it up," replied Phil. "Langridge lit out, too; the cad! What a chump he must be to think he could get away with a game like that!" "Yes, it was almost as good to have Sid discover him trying it, as if our old chum had held down the second bag," declared the captain. "A flash at the right moment would have confused Pete, and might have cost us the game." "That's right. Come on, hurry up, or the girls will get tired of waiting." The two went out, in time to see Langridge approaching the three young ladies. The Boxer Hall pitcher was striding over the grass toward Miss Harrison, who stood a little apart from her two friends. "I'm awfully sorry to have kept you waiting, Miss Mabel," began Langridge. "The truth was, I had an important engagement, that I came near forgetting." "You haven't kept me waiting," was the cool answer. "No? Well, I'm glad of it. Now, if you're ready we'll trot along. I met a friend of mine, Mr. Bascome, of Randall, and he will take us back to Fairview in his auto." "Thank you, I don't care to go," replied Miss Harrison. "What? Don't you like rides in the gasolene gig?" asked Langridge, with a forced laugh. "Oh, I didn't exactly mean that," went on Miss Harrison. "It's the company I object to." "You mean Bascome? Why he's all right. Maybe he's a little too----" "I mean you!" burst out the girl, flashing a look of scorn on him from her blue eyes. "I don't care to ride with a person who seeks to take unfair advantage of another in a ball game." "You mean that mirror? That was all an accident--I assure you it was. I didn't intend anything--honestly." "You will favor me by not speaking to me again!" came in snapping tones from the indignant girl. "I shall refuse to recognize you after this, Mr. Langridge." "Oh, but I say now----" protested the bully, as he took a step forward. But Mabel linked her arm in that of Ruth, and, as Tom and Phil came along just then, Langridge, who was aware that they had heard the foregoing conversation, slipped hastily away, with a very red face. "Sorry to have kept you waiting," began Tom, unconsciously repeating the remark of Langridge. Miss Harrison seemed a little ill at ease, and Phil blurted out: "Oh, come on! Let's hurry, or there won't be any ice cream left at Anderson's. It's a hot day and the crowd must be dry as a bone. I know I am. Come on, girls." They had a merry little time, until it was necessary for the girls to return to Fairview, whither Tom and Phil escorted them. "Did you say any more to Langridge, old man?" asked Tom of Sid, that night in the room of the "inseparables." "No, it wasn't necessary." "You should have heard Miss Harrison lay him out," exulted Phil. "She certainly put it all over him!" "How?" demanded Sid eagerly, and his chums took turns telling him how the blue-eyed girl had given Langridge his "walking papers" in a manner very distasteful to that individual. "No! You don't mean it!" exclaimed Sid joyfully. Then, as a look came into his eyes that his chums had not seen there since the first happy days he had experienced with Mabel Harrison, Sid went on: "Say, what's the date of the Junior racket? I've mislaid my tickets." "Why?" asked Tom mischievously, though he well knew. "None of your affair," retorted Sid, but there was no sting in his answer. "It's next Friday," put in Phil. Sid tossed aside the things on his desk, and made a great fuss about writing a letter, while Phil and Tom casually looked on, well knowing to whom the epistle was addressed. Sid made several false starts, and destroyed enough paper to have enabled him to compute several problems and tore up a lot of envelopes before he finished something that met with his approval, and then he went out to post it. "He's asked Miss Harrison to go to the Junior affair with him," said Phil. "Of course," agreed Tom. "I hope she goes." Sid lived in an atmosphere of rosy hope for several days, but, when no reply came, he began to get uneasy. He eagerly accepted an invitation extended to him a few days later, to accompany Phil and Tom on a trip to Fairview, Ruth again having asked her brother to call to talk about the proposed trip to Europe. The three chums found the three girls in the reception room, and Miss Harrison showed some embarrassment when Sid entered. With a view to dispelling it Ruth, with a rapid signal to her brother, Tom and Madge, left the room, they following, leaving Miss Harrison and Sid alone there. "Lovely weather," remarked Sid desperately. "Very," answered Miss Harrison, uncertain whether to be amused or angry at the trick played on her by her chums. "Are you going to the Junior dance Friday night?" went on Sid. "I wrote and asked you--you got my letter, didn't you?" "Yes, Mr. Henderson, and I should have answered before, but I was uncertain----" "Won't you let me take you?" pleaded Sid. "I would like--won't you--can you explain a certain matter which I wish to know about?" she asked. "You know what I mean. Believe me, I'm not prudish, or anything like that, but--if you only knew how I feel about it--won't you tell me about that--that item in the paper accusing you?" she stammered. "If you weren't there, why can't you say so?" and she leaned eagerly forward, looking Sid full in the face. He scarcely seemed to breathe. There was a great struggle going on within him. He looked into the blue eyes of the girl. "I--I can't tell you--yet," he said brokenly. "Then I can't go with you to the dance," she replied in a low voice, and she turned and left the room, going back to the den she shared with Ruth and Madge, while Sid went out the front door, and across the campus; nor would he stay, though Phil and Tom called to him, but walked off, black despair in his heart. CHAPTER XXIII FINANCIAL DIFFICULTIES Tom and Phil went to the Junior dance, taking Madge and Ruth, and, though they enjoyed it thoroughly, there was a little sorrow in the hearts of the two lads that Sid was not there to share the pleasure with them. "I wonder why he didn't come?" asked Phil of Ruth, as the four stood chatting about his absence, over an ice, during an intermission. "You ought to be able to guess," replied his sister. "Why?" persisted Phil. "Because a certain person with blue eyes didn't." "Oh, you mean----" and Phil would have blurted out the name, had not Miss Tyler laid a pretty hand over his mouth. "Hush," cautioned Madge. "No names out in company, if you please." "Oh!" exclaimed Tom comprehendingly. "How is she?" "Rather miserable," answered Ruth. "She wouldn't come with us, though we knew you boys wouldn't object." "Of course not," spoke Phil quickly. "And she stayed there in the room, moping." "Just like----" began Phil, and again the pretty fingers spread themselves across his lips. "It's too bad," resumed Tom. "If he only would explain then----" "Then everything would be all right," finished Ruth. "But he won't. Talk about women having a mind of their own, and being stubborn! I know a certain young man very much that way." "Oh, you mustn't talk so about him," expostulated Phil. "He's all right. There's something queer at the bottom of it, and I shouldn't be surprised to learn that Langridge had had a hand in it." "By Jove, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Tom. "Maybe you're right. I wonder if we could do anything to help?" "Better not meddle," cautioned Ruth. "Madge and I tried to use our influence, and were roundly snubbed for our pains. It's too bad, but maybe things will come right after a while. Oh, there's a lovely waltz! Isn't it perfectly grand!" and her eyes sparkled in anticipation as Tom led her out on the floor while the music welled forth in dreamy strains. Back in the "den of the inseparables" Sid sat in gloomy loneliness, making a pretense of studying. "Oh, hang it all!" he cried at length, as he flung the book from him, knocking down the alarm clock in its flight. "What is the use? I might as well give up." Then, as he noted the cessation of the fussy ticking of the timepiece he crossed to where it lay on the ragged rug, and picked it up. "Hope it isn't damaged," he murmured contritely. He shook it vigorously, and the ticking resumed. "It's all right," he added, with a breath of relief, "you couldn't hurt it with an axe. Guess I might as well turn in. But I wish----" he paused, shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and did not finish. There came a knock at the door, and Sid started. He flung open the portal, and Wallops, the messenger, stood in the hall. "A note for you, Mr. Henderson," he said. "A fellow just brought it." Sid snatched it eagerly, a hopeful look showing on his face. Then, as he saw the writing, there seemed to come into his eyes a shadow of fear. "All right, Wallops," he replied kindly, and he closed the door. "Again," he exclaimed. "Oh, will this never end? Must I carry this secret all through college?" and he tore the note to bits. Then he slipped on another coat, pulled a cap down over his eyes and went out. "Why, Sid isn't here!" exclaimed Phil, when he and Tom, bubbling over still, with the spirit of the dance, came back to their apartment, after having escorted the girls home. "That's right," agreed the pitcher, "and he's not allowed any more passes since that affair with the pocket flask. He's taking chances to slip out. Zane will be almost sure to catch him, and a few turns like that and Sid will be expelled. I wonder what's gotten into him lately?" "Give it up," responded Phil. "Let's hope that he won't be nabbed." It was a vain hope, for Sid, coming into college about three o'clock that morning, was detected by the proctor. There was quite a stir over it, and Sid came mighty near expulsion. Only his fine scholarship saved him, but he was warned that another offense would be fatal to his chances. Sid said nothing to his chums, but maintained a gloomy reserve, which wore off in a few days, but still left a cloud between them. Meanwhile Tom was kept busy with his studies and his interest in the nine, while Phil was "boning" away, seeking a scholarship prize, and devoting as much time as he could to practice on the diamond. Sid, barred from participation in regular games, was, however, allowed to practice with the 'varsity, and play on the scrub as suited his fancy, and Tom was glad to have him do either, for he cherished a secret hope that the ban might be removed before the end of the term, and he wanted Sid to keep in form. As for the second baseman he was becoming a "crackerjack" wielder of the stick, and at either right or left hand work was an example to be looked up to by the younger players, and his average something to be sighed after. It happened one afternoon, a few days prior to an important out-of-town game Tom's nine was to play, that the captain came upon Ed Kerr, the manager, busy figuring, in a corner of the gymnasium, his brow as wrinkled as a washboard. "What's the row?" asked Tom. "Conic sections or a problem in trig, Ed?" "It's a problem in finance," was the response. "Ferd Snowden, the treasurer, has just handed me a statement of how the nine's finances are, and, for the life of me I can't see how it happened." "How what happened." "The shortage." "Shortage?" and there was a frightened note in Tom's voice. "Yes, shortage. I thought we were running along pretty well, but according to Snowden we're in debt to him about ten dollars, for money he's advanced from his own pocket. He says he can't afford any more, and--well, it means we can't play Richfield Saturday." "Why not?" "Because we haven't money enough to take the team out of town, and back again. Besides, Dutch needs a new catching mitt. I don't see how it happened. I thought we were making money." "So did I. Let's go have a talk with Snowden." The treasurer of the nine could only confirm his statement. He showed by figures that the amount of money taken in had not met the expenses, so far. "The crowds haven't been what they ought to have been," Snowden explained. "Randall isn't drawing as it used to." "We're playing better ball," fired Tom at him. "That may be. I'm only talking from a money standpoint. We're in debt ten dollars. Not that I mind, for I don't need the money, but I thought Kerr ought to know. I can't advance any more, and the team can't go to Richfield without cash for railroad fare." "That's right," agreed Tom, scratching his head. "Well, the only thing to do is to call a meeting and ask for subscriptions. The fellows will easily make up the deficit, and give enough over to provide for traveling expenses. Dutch can use his old glove for a few games yet, and we ought to get enough out of this Richfield game to put us on our feet. After that we have a number of contests that will draw big crowds. Then comes the final whack at Boxer Hall, and that is always a money-maker. We'll come out right yet, Ed. Don't worry." "I'm not, only it looks as if I hadn't managed things right." "Nonsense! Of course you have. The fellows will go down in their pockets. I'll call a meeting for this afternoon." CHAPTER XXIV PITCHFORK'S TALL HAT There was a buzz of excitement among the college students when the notice had been read, calling for a meeting of the athletic committee, to straighten out a financial tangle. There were various comments, and, though some remarked that it was "always that way," and that a "few fellows had to be depended on for the money," and like sentiments, the majority of opinion was that the sum needed would quickly be subscribed. "Why don't they make the ball nine a stock concern?" asked Mort Eddington, whose father was an "operator" in Wall street. "If they sold stock, lots of fellows would be glad to buy." "Yes, considering that the nine has made a barrel of money every year, it would be a paying proposition," added Holly Cross. "But we don't do business that way, Eddington, as you'll learn when you've been here more than one term. What money we have left over at the end of the season goes to help some college club, or a team that hasn't done so well. We're not stock jobbers in Randall." "That's all right. Maybe you'll be glad of some money you could have from selling stock, before you're through," sneered the "operator's" son. "Oh, I guess not," responded Dutch. "The fellows will toe the mark with the rocks all right." "My uncle says it's all in how a team is managed," began a voice, and Ford Fenton strolled up. "My uncle says----" "Get out of here, you shrimp!" cried Holly Cross, making a rush at Ford. "If your uncle heard you, he'd take you out of this college for disgracing him." "That's right," agreed Dutch, making a playful attempt to trip up Ford, which the much-uncled youth skillfully avoided. "You're right, just the same," declared Bert Bascome, who came up at that juncture. "The team hasn't been managed right, and I'm going to have something to say about it at the meeting." The session called by Tom to consider financial matters was well attended. Tom, by general consent, was made chairman. "You all know what we're here for," began the captain, who was not fond of long speeches. "The nine needs money to help it out of a hole." "Who got it in the hole?" asked Bascome with a sneer. "Bang!" went Tom's gavel. "You'll have a chance to speak when the time comes," said the pitcher sharply. "I'll be through in a minute." Bascome sat down, muttering something about "manager" and "money." "We need cash," went on Tom, "to carry us over a certain period. After that we'll have plenty. We haven't made as much as we expected. Now we'd like subscriptions, and if any fellow feels that he can't afford to give the money outright, don't let that stand in his way. We'll only borrow it, and pay it back at the end of the season. Of course, if any one wants to give it without any strings on it, so much the better. I've got ten dollars that goes that way." "So have I!" "Here too!" "Put me down for fifteen!" "I've got five that isn't working!" These were some of the cries that greeted Tom's closing words. "I'll let the treasurer take it," announced the chairman. "Get busy, Snowden. We've got enough now to take the team out of town." Phil, who was sitting near Sid, looked at his chum, and remarked: "You're going to help us out, aren't you, Sid? Seems to me I saw you with a fair-sized roll yesterday." "I--I'd like to help, first rate," answered Sid, in some confusion, "only I'm broke now." Phil did not reply, but there was a queer look on his face. He was wondering what Sid had done with his money. This was the second time he had unexpectedly "gone broke." Subscriptions were pouring in on Snowden, and it began to look as if Tom's prophecy would hold good, and that the boys only need be told of the needs of the nine to have them attended to. Bert Bascome, who had been whispering with Ford Fenton, and some of his cronies, suddenly arose. "Mr. Chairman," began Bascome. "Mr. Bascome," responded Tom. "I rise to a question of personal privilege," he went on pompously. "What is it?" asked Tom, trying not to smile. "I would like to know why it is that the nine hasn't made money enough to carry itself so far this season, when it has played a number of games, and won several?" went on Bascome. "One reason is that the attendance was not large enough to cover expenses, and leave a sufficiently large sum to be divided between our team and the ones we played," stated the captain, wondering what Bascome was driving at. "I would like to inquire if it is not because the team was not properly managed?" shot out Bascome. "I believe that if Ford Fenton had been elected we----" "Drop it!" "Dry up!" "Put him out!" "Treason!" "Fresh! Fresh!" A score of lads were on their feet, shouting, yelling, demanding to be recognized, shaking their fists at Bascome and uttering dire threats. "Mr. Chairman, may I spake wan wurd!" cried Bricktop Molloy, in his excitement lapsing into a rich brogue. Tom was banging away with his gavel, but he managed to make his voice heard above the tumult. "Mr. Bascome has the floor!" he cried. "Put him out!" "Who is he, anyhow?" "Whoever heard of Bascome?" Again the cries; again the banging of the gavel, and at last Tom succeeded in producing quiet. "Mr. Bascome has the floor," the chairman announced. "Do I understand that you ask that as a point of information?" and Tom gazed at the wealthy freshman, who, through all the tumult, had maintained his place, sneeringly indifferent to the threats made against him. "That's what I want to know," he stated. "I'll let the entire college answer that if necessary," declared Tom. "Mr. Bascome has asked a question----" "Don't answer him!" yelled Dutch. Bang! went the gavel. From his corner where he had been seated, doing some figuring, Ed Kerr arose--his face white. "Mr. Chairman! A question of personal privilege!" he cried. "Go on!" answered Tom, forgetting his parliamentary language. "I beg to tender my resignation as manager of the Randall baseball nine!" cried Ed. "No! No!" "We won't take it!" "Make him sit down!" "Don't listen to him!" "Let's haze Bascome!" "Fellows, will you be quiet?" begged Tom. "I won't recognize anyone until you're quiet!" and he banged away. Gradually there came a hush, while both Bascome and Kerr remained on their feet. "There is a question before the house," went on the captain, "and until that is settled I can't listen to anything else. Mr. Bascome wants to know whether the present financial trouble of the nine is not due to the manager. How do you answer him?" "No! No! No!" came in a great chorus. Tom turned to Ed Kerr. "Are there any who think otherwise?" asked the chairman. "Yes," called Bascome, and he was supported by half a dozen, including Ford Fenton. There were groans of protest, but Tom silenced them. "I think Mr. Bascome has his answer," declared the chairman. "You have an almost overwhelming vote of confidence, Mr. Manager, and I congratulate you. Is there any further business to come before the meeting. Oh, yes, I almost forgot. How are you making out, Mr. Treasurer?" "Fine!" cried Snowden. "All we need and more, too." "Good! Then the meeting is adjourned. We don't need any motion," and Tom started to leave the little platform. "Look here!" blustered Bert Bascome, "I'm a member of the athletic committee, and you can't carry things in this high-handed manner. I move that we go into executive session and consider the election of a new manager. Mr. Kerr has resigned, as I understand it." "Forget it!" advised Dutch Housenlager, and he stretched out his foot, and skillfully tripped up the noisy objector, who went down in a heap, with Ford Fenton on top of him. "Here! Quit! I'll have you expelled for that!" spluttered Bascome, rising and making a rush for Dutch. But he was surrounded by a mass of students, who laughed and joked with him, shoving him from side to side until he was so mauled and hauled and mistreated that he was glad to make his escape. "Little rat!" muttered Holly Cross, as he saw Bascome and Ford going off together. "That's all they're good for--to make trouble." "Yes," agreed Tom, "Bascome's been sore ever since he couldn't have his way about electing Ford Fenton manager. But I guess we're out of the woods now. Get in good shape for the Richfield game Saturday, fellows." The crowd rushed from the gymnasium, laughing and shouting, and refusing to listen to Kerr, who still talked of resigning, though he was finally shown that the objection to him amounted to nothing. It was still light enough for some practice, and most of the lads headed for the diamond. Tom, Phil and Sid walked along together. As they passed under the side window of the East Dormitory, where the freshmen and seniors roomed, Phil spied, hanging from a casement, a tall, silk hat. "Get on to the tile!" he cried. "Some blooming freshman must have hung it there to air, ready for a shindig to-night. Bet you can't hit it, Tom. Two out of three. If you do I'll stand for sodas for the bunch." "It's a go!" agreed the pitcher. "Here's a ball," remarked Sid, handing Tom one. "Let's see what you can do." Tom fingered the horsehide, glanced critically at the hat, which hung on a stick out of the window, and then drew back his arm. "Here goes!" he cried, and, an instant later the ball was whizzing through the air. Straight as the proverbial arrow it went, and so skillfully had Tom thrown, that the spheroid went right into the hat--and, came out on the other side, through the top of the crown, making a disastrous rent. Then ball and hat came to the ground together. "Fine shot!" cried Phil admiringly. "That hat won't do duty to-night," observed Sid. "You knocked the top clean out, Tom," and he ran forward to pick it up. As he did so he was aware of an indignant figure coming from the dormitory. So, in fact, were Phil and Tom. A moment later, as Sid held the ruined silk hat in his hands, Professor Emerson Tines confronted the lads. "May I ask what you young gentlemen are doing with my hat?" he asked in frigid tones. "Your--your hat?" stammered Tom. "My hat," repeated the stern teacher. "I was a witness to your act of vandalism. You may come with me to Dr. Churchill at once!" CHAPTER XXV A PETITION Phil, Tom and Sid stood staring blankly at one another. Sid still held the broken hat, until Professor Tines came up and took it from him. "Ruined, utterly ruined!" murmured the teacher. "My best hat!" "We--I--that is I--didn't know it was your hat," stammered Tom. "I threw the ball through it." "You didn't know it was my hat?" asked Professor Tines, as if such ignorance was inexcusable. "Whose did you suppose it was, pray?" "Some galoot's--I mean some freshman's," stammered Phil. "You see, it was hanging from a window in the freshmen's dormitory, and----" "It was not hanging from the window of any student in the first year class," declared the instructor pompously. "I had sent my silk hat to one of the janitors, who makes a practice of ironing them. He had finished it, and hung it out to air, when you--you vandals came along. I distinctly saw you throw at my hat, sir," and Professor Tines shook his finger at Tom. "I--I know it, sir. I admit it," confessed the captain. "Only--only----" "We didn't know it was your hat, sir," went on Sid. "I'm afraid it's quite--quite unfit to wear, sir," and Sid tried to put the flapping piece back into place, for the professor had dropped the tile, and Sid had picked it up. "Unfit to wear! I should say it was. Fit to wear! Why I intend delivering a lecture on 'The Art of Repose as an Aid to High Thinking' and now, sir--now, you young vandals have ruined the hat I was going to wear! It's infamous--infamous! I shall have you expelled! I shall let your parents know of your shameless conduct! I shall have you dismissed at once!" and the irate professor shook his fist first at Tom, then at Sid and then at Phil. "Your conduct is a disgrace to the school!" he went on. "Here, give me my hat!" and he fairly snatched it from Sid. "Come with me at once to Dr. Churchill. He shall know about this outrage!" "If you please, Professor Tines, we didn't know it was your hat," was about all Phil could think of to say. "So much the worse. You thought it belonged to some defenseless student, and that you could ruin it with impunity. But I shall soon show you how mistaken you were. Come with me at once!" and Professor Tines, holding his hat in one hand, seized Tom's coat sleeve in the other, and led him toward the president's office, followed by Phil and Sid. "I--I have a tall hat, which I'll give you, until you can have this one fixed," spoke Sid, as they walked along. "Until I get this one fixed? It is beyond fixing!" declared Mr. Tines wrathfully. Good Dr. Churchill looked pained when the three culprits were ushered into his presence. "Look here, sir! Look here!" spluttered Professor Tines, his voice fairly trembling as he thrust the battered hat close to the president, who was near-sighted. "Just look at that, sir!" "Ha! Hum!" murmured the doctor. "Very interesting, I should say. Very interesting." "Interesting?" and Mr. Tines stood aghast. "Yes. I presume you have been illustrating to your class the effect of some explosive agent on soft material. I should say it was a very complete and convincing experiment--very complete, convincing and interesting. I congratulate you." "Congratulate! Interesting experiment!" gasped the irate "Pitchfork." "Yes. It was very well done. My, my! The crown of the hat is almost completely gone. Almost completely," murmured the doctor, looking interestedly at the dilapidated tile. "What sort of an explosive did you use, Professor Tines? I trust your class took careful notes of it." "Explosion!" burst out Professor Tines, looking as if he was likely to blow up himself. "That was no explosion, sir! My best hat was ruined by a baseball in the hands of these vandals, sir! I demand their expulsion at once." "Baseball?" queried Doctor Churchill. "I threw it, sir," declared Tom quickly. "I'm very sorry. I did not know the hat belonged to Professor Tines, and I will pay for it at once," and the captain made a motion toward his pocket. "Let me have the whole story," requested the president, and Tom thought there was a twinkle in his eyes. Professor Tines related most of it, in his usual explosive fashion, and the lads could only plead guilty. The owner of the hat ended by a demand for their dismissal, and Dr. Churchill said he would take the matter under advisement, but there was that in his manner which gave the culprits hope, and when he sent for them a little later, it was to pass the sentence that the three of them must go shares in buying a new hat. Tom wanted to stand all the damage, but Dr. Churchill, with a half-laugh, said he must mete out punishment all around. "I say, will you lend me my share of the money, for a few days?" asked Sid, of Tom, when they were on their way back to the room. "Sure!" was the answer. "Say, what do you do with all your cash, Sid?" for Mr. Henderson was known to be well off. "I--er--Oh, I have uses for it," replied Sid, and he hurriedly turned the conversation. The nine played Richfield, a strong college team, on Saturday, and was nearly beaten, for just when some good hitting was needed, Pete Backus, who was filling Sid's place, went to the bad. Randall did manage to get the lead of a run, and kept it, due mainly to Tom's magnificent pitching, but the final score was nothing to boast of, though Randall came home winners. "We certainly do miss Sid," remarked Tom, as he was sitting beside Phil, in the train on the way back. "If there's anything that's going to make us win or lose the championship this year it's batting, and that's Sid's strong point. I wish we could get him back on the team." "Maybe we can." "How?" "By getting up a petition, and having all the fellows sign it. Maybe if the faculty understood what it meant they would vote to rescind the order not allowing Sid to take part in games." "By Jove, it's worth trying!" cried Tom. "We'll do it! I'll go talk with Ed Kerr and Mr. Leighton." The manager and coach thought the plan a good one, and a few days later a petition was quietly circulated. Nothing was said to Sid about it, for fear he would object. The students were anxious to get their names down, and soon there was an imposing list. "I want to get the freshmen now," decided Tom, one afternoon, when the petition was nearly ready for presentation. "I'm making a class affair of it, each year's students by themselves, and I let the freshmen go until last. I'll see Bascome, who is the class president, ask him to call a meeting, and have his fellows sign." Tom sought out Bascome a little later, and explained what was wanted, asking the freshman to call a session of his classmates. "In other words you want me and my friends to help you out of a hole?" asked Bascome, and he was sneering. "That's about it," answered Tom, restraining a desire to punch the overbearing freshman. "We want to strengthen the nine, and we can do it if we can get Henderson back on it." "Then you'll never get him back with my signature nor that of my friends!" cried Bascome. "I'll get even with you fellows now, for the way you've treated me!" He was sneering openly. Tom looked him full in the face. "You sneaking little cad," was what he said, as he turned away. CHAPTER XXVI TOM STOPS A HOT ONE There was much excitement of a quiet sort when it was known what stand Bascome had taken. He was roundly condemned by the sophomores, juniors and seniors, and even by a number of the freshmen students. But Bascome remained firm, and he carried the class with him. Only a few freshmen put their names down on the petition, and they resigned from the exclusive freshman society to be able to do so. For there was, that year in Randall, a somewhat bitter feeling on the part of the whole freshman class against the sophomores, on account of some severe hazing in the fall. It had created trouble, had engendered a sense of injury, and there was lacking a proper spirit in the college. This had its effect, and the freshmen were almost a unit against the nine, which (and this was perhaps unusual) happened to be composed mainly of sophomores that season. "What do you think of the dirty sneak?" asked Tom of Phil, to whom he narrated the refusal of Bascome. "Think of it? I'd be ashamed to properly express myself, Tom. It's rotten, that's what it is. But I guess we've got enough names as it is." "Hope so, anyhow. I'm going to send it in, at any rate." The petition was duly delivered to Dr. Churchill, and a faculty meeting was called. A unanimous vote of the corps of instructors was needed to reinstate a student suspended from athletics for a violation of the rules, such as Sid had been accused of, this being one of the fundamental laws of the college since its inception. Now the absence of the names of the majority of the freshman class tended to operate against the petition being accorded an unprejudiced hearing, but what did more to keep Sid out was the vote of Professor Tines. The latter could not get over the destruction of his silk hat, though a new one had been purchased for him, and when the final vote was taken he barred Sid from getting back on the nine. "I have reason to believe that Mr. Henderson is inclined to too much horse-play," he said, "as indicated by what he did to my hat. Again, if he were a popular student the freshmen would have joined in the request. They did not, as a class, and so I am constrained to vote as I do." None of the faculty--even Professor Tines--knew the real reason why the freshmen names were not down, and no one cared about mentioning it, for it was not a thing for students to discuss with the teachers. Mr. Leighton did his best, in a delicate way, but it was of no use. The petition failed, and not a few members of the faculty were deeply grieved, for they wanted to see a championship nine in Randall. Still they would not argue with Professor Tines. And the chances of Randall winning the championship and the loving cup seemed to be diminishing from day to day, in spite of the strenuous efforts of Tom, Ed Kerr and Mr. Leighton. There was something lacking. No one could just say what it was, but there was a spirit of uncertainty, and a sense of worriment in the nine, that did not operate for perfect team work. Tom threatened and pleaded by turns, but his words had little effect. The men showed up well in practice, and played a fast and snappy game with the scrub, but when it came to going out on the diamond there was a lack of batting ability and an absence of team work, that had a bad effect, and several games were won only by narrow margins, while some, that should have been won, were lost. "We play Boxer Hall, Saturday," observed Tom, in his room with Phil and Sid one evening. "I wonder how we'll make out." "It isn't the last game, is it?" inquired Sid. "No, there's one more, and another with Fairview. But I'm not worrying much about the co-eds. It's Boxer that has me guessing. Oh, Sid, but I wish you were with us." "So do I," and Sid turned his face aside. "Can't you get back?" asked Phil. "Can't you go to Dr. Churchill, and explain--about that bottle of liquor--you know." "No," answered Sid gently, "I can't." "The nine may lose," declared Tom. "I'm--I'm just as sorry as you are, Tom," said the second baseman earnestly, "but it's out of the question. I can't explain--just yet." "Can you ever?" demanded Phil eagerly. "Perhaps--soon now. I am hoping every day." "Have you given a--a sort of promise--to some one?" asked Tom gently. "Yes," replied Sid in a low voice. "It's a promise, and a great deal depends on it--even more than the championship of Randall college." And that was all Sid would say for the time being. The game with Boxer Hall was a hard one. Tom and his men had to work for everything they got, for Langridge seemed to have improved in his pitching, and the fielding of Randall's enemy was a thing to rejoice the heart of her captain and coach. The game ran along to the seventh inning with some sensational plays, and the score was 6 to 4 in favor of Boxer. Then Langridge grew a bit wild, and issued several passes until the bases were full, when a three bagger which Holly Cross knocked brought in three runs, and put Randall one ahead. There was wild delight then, and as none were out it looked as if Randall would be good for at least two more runs. But Langridge got control of the ball, and struck out three men, and the next inning Boxer put in a new pitcher--a semi-professional it was whispered, though Tom and his fellows decided to take no notice of the talk. Then began a desperate effort on the part of Boxer Hall to get in two more runs in the remaining two innings. They adopted unfair tactics, and several times the umpire warned the men on the coaching line that they were violating the rules. Tom managed to stiffen his work in the eighth, and, though two men got walking papers, no runs came in, for the next three batters went down and out under the influence of Tom's curves. But that inning saw no runs for Randall, either, and when her men came in for their last chance Tom pleaded with them to get at least one more to clinch the victory that was held by such a narrow margin. It was not to be, however, and a zero went up in the Randall space on the score board. The score was 7 to 6, in favor of Randall, when Boxer Hall came up for the ending of the ninth inning. "If we can only hold 'em there," thought Tom wearily, for his arm ached. Still he would not give up, though Rod Evert was anxious to fill the box. Tom struck out the first man, gave the next one a pass, and was hit for a single by the third batter. Then the Randall captain knew he must work hard to win. He struck out the next batter, and as Dave Ogden, who followed, was a notoriously hard hitter, Tom was worried. A three bagger, which was Ogden's specialty, would bring in two runs, and win the game for Boxer. Dutch signalled for a drop, but Tom gave the negative sign, and indicated that he would pitch an out. As the ball left his fingers he was aware that it had slipped and that Ogden would hit it. He did. There was a resounding "whack" and the ball, a hot liner, came straight for Tom. The Boxer Hall crowd set up a yell, thinking their man had made good, and that two runs, at least, would come in. For no one expected to see Tom stop the ball. But he did. It was well over his head, and passing him on the right side. He leaped into the air, and with his bare hand caught the horsehide. The impact on his unprotected palm was terrific, and he was at once aware that he had split the skin. But though a pain, like a red hot iron, shot down his arm, he held on. [Illustration: HE LEAPED INTO THE AIR AND WITH HIS BARE HAND CAUGHT THE HORSEHIDE.] "Batter's out!" cried the umpire. Then, amid the wild and frenzied shouting of his chums, Tom dropped the ball, and walked in, his arm hanging limply by his side, while Dutch and Mr. Leighton ran anxiously toward him. But what did Tom Parsons care for an injured hand? He had saved Randall from defeat, for that ended Boxer's chances, two men died on bases, and the game was over, the score being 7 to 6 in Randall's favor. CHAPTER XXVII GLOOMY DAYS "Much hurt?" inquired Mr. Leighton anxiously, as he reached Tom's side. "Oh, nothing to speak of," replied the plucky pitcher carelessly, but when he held up his hand a few drops of blood trickled from it, and there was a thin, red line across the palm. "You shouldn't have stopped that ball!" exclaimed Dutch, half savagely. "I shouldn't? Do you think I was going to stand there and let it go by, and lose us the game?" demanded Tom. "I guess not--not for two sore hands!" "But, it's your pitching hand," expostulated Dutch. "We need you the rest of the season, and the championship is far from won--in fact it's almost as far off as the stars," he added in a low voice, for he, too, had noted the lack of team work in the present game, and some that had preceded. "Oh, don't be a croaker," advised Tom, trying to speak lightly though he was in considerable pain. "I'll be all right in a week. We haven't any hard game until then, and we'll go in and clean up all the roosts around here before the season closes." "I hope so," remarked Mr. Leighton in a low voice. "You had better let the doctor look at that hand, Parsons. No use taking any chances." The injury was temporarily bandaged and Tom, with a queer feeling about him, that was not at all connected with his wound, changed his uniform for street clothing and returned to Randall with the nine. Dr. Marshall, later, dressed the hurt, and decided that Tom must refrain from playing ball for at least a week--perhaps longer. "I'll have Evert warming up all this week," decided the coach. "We play the Branchville nine Saturday, and ought to win easily. Then I think you'll be ready for Fairview the following week, and Boxer Hall after that." "The last two big games," murmured Tom. "We've got to win them both if we want the championship, and I'm afraid----" "Oh, cheer up!" advised Phil. "I know I played rotten to-day, but I'll do better next time. Please forgive me?" and he assumed a mocking, contrite air, at which Tom could not help laughing. "Get out!" exclaimed the captain. "You know I wasn't referring to you. But, seriously, Phil, something's got to be done. Think of it! We pulled through by the skin of our teeth to-day----" "By the skin of your hand, you mean." "Well, have it that way, but consider. Next Saturday will be an easy contest. Then comes Fairview and Boxer, both after our scalps. As it stands now we have played a number of games besides those with our two big enemies and are tied with Boxer for first place, and the possession of the loving cup. If we lose the Fairview game, and Boxer beats Fairview we will still have a show, by beating Boxer ourselves, but if it goes the other way we're out of it. Our only hope is to do up both Fairview and Boxer, in succession, and how we are going to do it is more than I can tell." "Oh, we'll do it--somehow," declared Phil. Matters, as regarded the baseball nine, did not improve much in the next few days, and Tom was filled with gloomy thoughts and dire forebodings. Though he was on hand at every practice the lads missed his sure arm in the pitching box, though Evert did fairly well. The game with Branchville proved fairly easy, though Randall did not shine with any unusual brilliancy. "Hang it all, something's got to be done!" declared Tom on the night after the game. He was nervous and irritated, for his hand pained him, though it was nearly healed, and he was going to pitch in practice on Monday. "What can be done?" inquired Phil, who was critically examining a new glove he had purchased. "Sid, we might as well have it out," went on Tom, and he squared his shoulders as if for a fight, as he confronted the deposed second baseman. "Are you or are you not going to play with us again this season? You know we need you. We want you to help us to bat to win. Are you going to do it?" "Why, it doesn't depend on me," answered Sid, in apparent surprise. "If the doctor says the word I'll jump right in, and do my best. You know that. It's up to the faculty. If they remove the ban----" "No, it's not up to the faculty!" declared Tom vigorously. "It's up to you, and you know it. It's up to you to save the Randall 'varsity nine!" "Up to me?" Sid had arisen from his seat near the window, and stood in the middle of the room. "Up to you," repeated Tom. "You know, as well as I do, that you weren't guilty when Zane caught you with the liquor. You had that for some one else, and you're trying to shield him. You never use it--you had no use for it, yet you kept still when they accused you, and didn't tell. Now it's time to tell--it's time to say you were innocent--it's time to come out and end this mystery. The team needs you! All you've got to do is to tell the truth, instead of keeping silent, and you know the faculty will exonerate you. Then the ban will be removed, and you can play. That's why I say it's up to you. Isn't it now? Own up, Sid; did you have that liquor for yourself? If you told the truth about it couldn't you get back on the team?" Tom was fairly panting from the force of his appeal. Sid's face was strangely white, as he turned to look the captain full in the eyes. For a moment he did not reply, and the breathing of the three chums could plainly be heard, for Phil was as much agitated as either of the others. "Answer me, Sid," pleaded Tom. "I can't answer everything you ask," spoke Sid, in a low voice. "As I told you before, I gave a promise, and, until I am released from it, I can't speak--my lips are sealed." "But you didn't have that liquor for yourself," persisted Tom. "Did you, now?" "I'm not going to answer that," and Sid's hands were gripped on the back of a chair, until his knuckles showed white with the strain. "Sid Henderson, will you--dare you say that if you told the truth about this miserable business you would not be reinstated and allowed to play?" went on the captain relentlessly. "If you told the whole story, couldn't you get back on the team?" "I'm not going to tell," said Sid slowly. "Then you don't want to get back on the team?" fired Tom quickly. "More than you know--more than you know," was Sid's answer, as he went out of the room. CHAPTER XXVIII A FRESHMAN PLOT Tom stood staring at the door which closed after Sid--staring as if he could not believe what he had heard. He was roused from his reverie by Phil's voice. "I'm afraid you've only made matters worse, Tom." "Made 'em worse? They can't be any worse," was the testy reply. "Hang it all! We're about as bad off now as we well can be. I wanted to get Sid back on the team, and--and----" "There's something we can't get at," declared Phil. "It is something pretty strong, or Sid would never keep quiet and see the college lose." "Not unless he's altogether different from what he was last term," agreed Tom, with a puzzled air. "He once said he hoped he would be able to tell us what his secret was--soon--I only wish the time would come--soon--we need Sid's stick work on the team. I wonder if it has anything to do with a girl--Miss Harrison?" "She's only one factor in the game. I fancy that was what Sid meant when he said he wanted to get back on the team more than we realized--he meant that it was so Miss Harrison would be friends with him again, for the same thing that caused the disagreement between them, got Sid into trouble with the proctor. And, if what Ruth says is true, Miss Harrison cares a lot for Sid." "Oh, you can't tell much about girls," retorted Tom, with an air of a youth who was past-master in the art of knowing the feminine mind. "Of course that's not saying that Ruth doesn't mean what she says," he added hastily, for Phil was her brother. "But look at how Miss Harrison went with Langridge." "Only a couple of times, and I fancy she didn't know his true character. She gave him his quietus soon enough after the trick he tried to play with the mirror." "That's so. Well, I wish this tangle would be straightened out somehow. It's getting on my nerves." "A baseball 'varsity captain shouldn't have nerves." "I know it, but I can't help it. Hello, some one's coming. Maybe it's Sid." "No, it's Dutch Housenlager, by his tread," and Phil's guess was right. "Glad I found somebody in," remarked Dutch, as he was about to throw himself with considerable force on the old sofa. Tom grabbed the catcher, and shunted him off to one side so violently that Dutch sat down on the floor, with a jar that shook the room. "Here, what's that for?" he demanded, somewhat dazed. "It was to save our sofa," Tom explained. "You were coming down on it as if you were making a flying tackle. It would have been broken like a half-sawed-through goal post if you had landed. I side-tracked you, that's all." "Oh," answered Dutch, as he slowly arose. "Next time I wish you'd serve notice on me when you're going to do a thing like that, and I'll wear my football suit," and he rubbed his back gingerly. "Would you mind translating your remark about being glad you found somebody in?" requested Phil. "With pleasure, son. I've been to about sixteen different domiciles this evening, and every one was vacant. I've got something to talk about. Where's Sid?" "He went out a while ago," answered Tom, uneasily. "Seems to me you fellows aren't as chummy as you once were," remarked Dutch, taking a seat in the old armchair, after a questioning look at Tom, who nodded a permission. "Oh, yes, we are," exclaimed Phil quickly. "Isn't it fierce that Sid's off the team." "Rotten--simply rotten," agreed Dutch. "Just when we need him most. Why didn't you chaps keep him in the straight and narrow path that leads to baseball victories?" "We tried," came quickly from Phil. "But Sid----" "Oh, it'll be all right," interrupted Tom. "I think things will straighten themselves out." In his heart he did not believe this, but he did not want Dutch to go away with the idea that there was a cloud hanging over the "inseparables." That would never do. "I have an idea that the faculty will relent at the last minute," went on the captain. "Especially when they know that the championship depends on it. Then they'll let Sid play. If they don't we'll get up another petition, and make Bascome and his crowd sign, or we'll run 'em out of college." "Speaking of the freshmen brings me to what I came here for," declared Dutch, and Tom gave a sigh of relief, that their visitor was away from the delicate subject. "What are we going to do to fool the first years, and keep 'em away from our spring dinner?" demanded Dutch. "That's what I called about. The dinner is to be held next week, a few days before our game with Fairview, and, naturally, the freshies will try to break it up." "I've been so busy with getting ready for the exams and baseball, that I haven't given the dinner much thought," declared Tom. "Of course we've got to have it, and we must fool the freshies." "Sure," agreed Phil. "Let's go have a talk with Holly Cross. He may be able to suggest something." "Come on!" called Dutch. "We'll call on Holly." As the three strolled down the corridor, out on the campus, and in the direction of Holly's room, the genial center fielder having an apartment in one of the college club houses, Dutch nudged his companions. "Look," he remarked, "there go Ford Fenton and Bert Bascome, with several freshies. I don't like to see one of the sophs mixing it up so close with the first years." "Me either," agreed Tom. "Ford ought to stick to his own class. The trouble is few of our fellows like him, on account of his ways and his 'uncle,' whereas the freshmen will stand for them. That's why Ford hangs out in their camp. But with our annual spring dinner coming off, I don't like it." "Oh, Ford wouldn't dare betray us," was Phil's opinion. They kept on across the campus, and were soon in Holly's room, where plans for the dinner were eagerly discussed. If they could have seen what took place a little later in the room of Bert Bascome, the four sophomores would have had more cause than ever to regret the intimacy between Ford Fenton and some of the first-year crowd. "It's your best chance to get even with them for making fun of you, Ford," Bascome was urging the lad whose uncle had once been a coach at Randall. "It will serve them right." "But I hate to give their plans away," objected Ford. "I'm a sophomore, and----" "They don't treat you as one," urged Henry Delfield, Bascome's crony. "It will be a fine chance to get back at them." "Suppose they find out that I told?" asked Ford. "They never will. We'll see to that," promised Bert eagerly. "All we want you to do is to tell us where the dinner is going to be held. We'll do the rest. There'll be a fight, of course, when we arrive, to break it up, and, just so Parsons, Clinton, Henderson and that crowd won't be suspicious, you can pitch into me--make believe knock me down, you know, and all that. Then they won't have any suspicion of you." "Think not?" inquired Ford. "Sure not. All we want is a tip, and when you've given it you'll be in a position to laugh at those fellows who are laughing at you so often." "That's right, they do make a lot of fun of me," said Ford weakly. "All right, I'll let you know, as soon as I find out where the dinner's going to be held. But don't squeal on me," and the prospective traitor looked apprehensively at the plotting freshmen. "Not for worlds," Bascome assured him solemnly, and Ford left, promising to deliver his classmates into the hands of their traditional enemies. CHAPTER XXIX THE SOPHOMORE DINNER When Phil, Tom and Dutch Housenlager came from Holly's room that evening, they were just in time to see Ford Fenton emerge from his plotting conference with Bascome and his cronies. "I don't like that," exclaimed Phil. "Ford has been in with those fellows for some time." "Probably trying to think up some scheme so he can get to be baseball manager next year," suggested Tom. "No!" cried Phil. "By Jove, I believe I have it. Come on back to Holly's room for a few minutes," and he took hold of his chums and fairly led them away, much to their mystification. There was another conference, which lasted a long time, and for a day or two thereafter much activity in the ranks of the sophomores. The dinner was to be a "swell" affair, to quote Holly Cross. An elaborate menu had been decided on, and there were to be several "stunts" more or less elaborate on the part of the "talented" members of the class. The affair was to be held in a hall in Haddonfield, and the great object of the second-year fellows, of course, was to prevent the time and place of the dinner becoming known to their enemies, the freshmen. "Do you s'pose they'll bite?" asked Tom, an evening or two later, as he, together with Phil and Sid and Holly, were in the room of the "inseparables." "It depends on us," answered Holly, who was the president of the sophomores. "I think they'll trail along when they see us go out." "If they don't have some of their number trail after the main bunch," spoke Phil. "We'll have to take our chances; that's all," came from Sid. "Well, are we all ready?" "Pretty nearly," answered Holly. "I want to wait until it's a little darker. Then we'll slip off. I hope the chap is there with the auto." "He promised to be," said Tom, and they sat about, waiting impatiently for the hour of action to arrive. It came finally, ticked off by the impatient little clock, and four figures stole from the sophomore dormitory, and hurried across the campus. "There they come," said Tom, in a low voice, a moment later. "They're trailing us all right. See 'em sneaking along on the other side?" "Sure," spoke Phil. It was just light enough to discern a number of hazy figures creeping along a boxwood hedge. "See anything of that traitor, Fenton?" asked Holly, in a low voice. "No, he's with the other crowd," answered Tom. "He's in fear of his life that we'll find him out." "As if we hadn't already," added Sid. Hurrying along, the four lads entered a trolley that was headed for Haddonfield. They looked back, as they were on the platform, and saw the shadowy figures leap into an auto which they knew belonged to Bert Bascome. "They're coming," spoke Sid. "And we'll be ready for 'em," added Tom. A little later Tom and his chums were in the town and they hurried to a building, containing several halls or meeting rooms, where the students frequently held dinners, or gave dances and other affairs. "Did you see anything of them since we arrived?" asked Holly of Tom as they scurried into the structure. "No, but they'll be on hand. Ford has tipped them off all right; the little puppy! Say, what ought we to do to him? Tar and feathers, or give him the silence?" "We can settle that later," remarked Phil. "Just now let's see how we make out against the freshies. It's tough to have to acknowledge that there's a traitor in the class." "It sure is. Come on, now I hope everything is here." A man came out of a room as the four sophomores knocked on the door. "All arranged?" asked Tom eagerly. "Yes. Now I hope you young gentlemen don't have too much of a fight. Don't break the furniture." "Not any more than we can help," promised Sid. "When the other fellows come--I mean the freshmen, let 'em right up," instructed Holly. "We'll be ready for 'em. Are the rear stairs clear?" "Yes, you can slip out that way, and I put double locks on the door you'll go out of." "And a spring lock on the one they'll enter by?" asked Tom. "Yes, just as you told me. Now don't do too much damage," and the man, the proprietor of the place, seemed somewhat apprehensive. "Oh, we'll pay for everything," agreed Holly. "Well, we're ready any time Bascome and his crowd are." "I'm glad the sophs didn't think of a game like this to play on us when we tried to break up their dinner last year," observed Sid, as the four entered the room. The place presented a curious sight. There was a table set as if for a banquet, with plates, knives and forks, glasses, and with the usual candles burning in silver candelabras. At the head of the banquet board was a stuffed figure, representing a Randall college student, with the college colors in gay ribbons pinned on one side of his caricature of a face, while the sophomore hues adorned the other side. "Got the camera and flash powder?" asked Holly. "Right here," answered Sid, who, because of his knowledge in that line, had been selected for this post of honor. "They'll be here pretty soon now," prophesied Tom. "Bascome has his crowd in waiting somewhere, and he just lingered around college until he saw us start. Then they'll delay until they think we're all here, and they'll rush in, and make a rough house." "That is, they _think_ they will," corrected Phil, with a grin. "I rather think they'll be surprised some." The four moved about the room, completing their arrangements, while Sid busied himself with a large camera, which was focused on the door leading into the banquet hall, and got ready a flashlight powder. "I think I hear them coming," spoke Tom in a whisper, about half an hour later. "Get ready, Sid." "I'm all ready." They listened. Out in the corridor there were shuffling noises, as if several persons were trying to walk quietly. There was a brushing against the door, and a cautious whisper. Suddenly the knob of the portal was tried, and a voice in the hall cried: "Give up, sophs! We've got you!" Several bodies flung themselves against the door, and to the surprise of the freshmen, who were headed by Bascome and Delfield, they found that the portal was not locked. It opened easily--so easily, in fact, that several of the lads fell to the floor, and the others rushed over them. There was a scene of confusion, and this probably prevented the attacking freshmen from seeing that only four sophomores were present. The first year lads caught sight of the table, with its glistening array of silver and glass, and they took it for granted that they were in the banquet place of their enemies. "Come on, fellows! We've got 'em!" yelled Bascome, scrambling to his feet. "Upset things, and then capture Holly Cross. There he is!" With a yell his cronies sprang to obey the sporty freshman. They fairly tumbled over each other until they filled the room. Then, with a bang, the door by which they had entered slammed shut behind them, fastening with a strong spring lock on the outside. "All ready with the camera, Sid!" cried Holly. "All ready," answered Sid. Then, for the first time the freshmen seemed to realize that only a small number of sophomores were present--four, who were ensconced behind a table, and near an open door. "Welcome to our banquet, freshies!" cried Tom. Holly Cross caught up the effigy of a sophomore and tossed it at Bascome. The freshman leader, taken by surprise, clasped the figure in his arms, and Phil yelled: "Let 'em have it, Sid!" There was a blinding flash, and a dull boom, as the flashlight powder exploded, and it was followed by a gasp of fear from the freshmen. Then Holly switched on the electric lights, which had been turned off, and addressed the huddled group of freshmen. "Gentlemen, I hope you enjoy your call," he said. "As for us, we have to leave you, as we are already a little late for the banquet. This is only a sample of what we will have, and as a sort of memento of this auspicious occasion, let me inform you that we have a flashlight photograph of you in your most interesting poses. Bascome, smile a little, if you please--that's it--look pleasant. That will do. You may lay aside the rag doll now." With a strong expression the freshman president cast aside the effigy, and yelled: "Fellows, we're stung! But we can prevent these four from going to the banquet, anyhow! Get at them!" He leaped across the table, followed by several of his fellows. "Too late! Sorry to leave you!" cried Tom, as he and his chums glided through the open doorway behind them, Sid taking the camera with him. The door was hastily pulled shut, and bolted, barred and locked, just as the group of infuriated freshmen threw themselves against it. "Trapped!" Tom heard Bascome shout from the other side of the portal. "Try the other door!" "That's locked, too," came the despairing cry. "We're caught!" "That's it!" cried Phil exultantly. "Ta-ta, freshies! Next time you listen to a traitor, take care to lay better plans. We're off to our annual feed. When you get out come along, and we'll give you the leavings. You can have Fenton, too," and the four who had successfully turned the trick on their class enemies, hastened off, leaped into a waiting auto, and were soon at the banquet hall, where their fellows were anxiously expecting them. CHAPTER XXX TOM'S LAST APPEAL "Did it work?" "Were they surprised?" "Did you get their picture?" "How was it?" A dozen other questions, besides these, were asked of Tom and his chums, as they entered the hall where the real sophomore banquet was about to take place. Around them eagerly thronged their classmates, all anxious to know how the trick had developed, for, it is needless to say that Ford Fenton's treachery was discovered, and plans laid to offset it, with what effect the reader has learned. "It worked like a charm," responded Holly Cross. "And I think I have a fine picture of them rushing in, and Bascome hugging the dummy," added Sid. "Now I'll take a flash of this banquet, and we'll post 'em all over college, with a notice saying: 'Gaze on this picture--then on that!' It will be great!" and he proceeded to arrange his camera to take a different view of the banquet scene. "Where's Fenton?" inquired Tom, looking around. "He didn't come," replied Dutch Housenlager. "We've been waiting for him." "Nasty scandal to get out about Randall," commented Phil. "Oh, we'll take care that it doesn't get out," responded Holly. "Ford will keep still, and I'll make a school-honor matter of it for the others. Only Fenton had better go back to his friends," he added significantly. I presume my readers have already guessed how the affair came about. Holly and his chums suspected, after seeing Fenton so chummy with Bascome and his crowd, that there might be at least a "leak" in regard to the time and place of the sophomore dinner. To forestall any such event, a ruse was adopted. It was arranged to hold the real dinner in a seldom-used hall, but to go ahead with arrangements as if one was going to take place in the usual building. To give color to this, Holly, Tom, Sid and Phil pretended to sneak off, as if to avoid the freshmen, but, in reality, to lead them on. Bascome and his followers trailed after, were drawn into the hall where the "fake" dinner table was set, and trapped, as told. They were locked in, and it was some time before they could summon help to open the doors. Meanwhile the real banquet came off most successfully. Later the picture Sid had taken, of Bascome and the freshmen, rushing pell-mell into the supposed dining hall, was developed and printed, while its companion-piece was hung up with it, showing the triumphant sophomores gathered at the board, making merry. It made a great hit, and the freshmen did not hear the last of their defeat for many moons. As for Fenton, he was made aware, that very night, of the fact that his indiscrete conduct, to give it the mildest term, was common knowledge. He withdrew from college, fearing the just wrath of his classmates, but, lest the scandal might stand against the fair name of Randall, he was induced to come back. He was promised that no punishment would be meted out to him, and none was, in the common acceptance of that term. But his life was made miserable in more ways than one. The spring term was drawing to a close. With all the excitement attending the annual examinations there was mingled with it the anxiety about the baseball team, and Randall's chances for winning the championship, and the gold loving cup. The latter was placed on view in one of the Haddonfield stores, and daily a crowd of persons, including many students, could be seen in front of the place. "I wonder if we'll get it?" asked Tom of Phil, a few days before the final game with Fairview. "How are you on pitching?" asked Phil, for Tom had done little more than light practice since his accident. "All right, I think. My hand is in fair shape." "Pity you're not a southpaw, or else it's too bad you caught that ball," said Phil. "Nonsense. I can pitch all right, and I would have felt like leaving the team, if I had let that liner get past me, hot as it was. No, I'm not worrying from my end, though perhaps I should. It's our batting I'm alarmed about. Hang it all, if only Sid----" "There's no use going over that again," and Phil spoke quietly. "No, I presume not. Well, we've just got to win from Fairview." "Suppose it would do any good to tackle Sid again?" "I don't know. I'll try, if I get a chance. I wish I knew his secret." The chance came sooner than Tom or Phil expected it would. It was the evening of the day before the final game with Fairview. There had been hard practice in the afternoon, and though Tom found himself in good shape, and noted an improvement in his fielding forces, the batting was weak. He was tired, and not a little discouraged. His one thought was: "If I could only get Sid to play, it would strengthen the whole team. He would stiffen the rest of 'em up, and stiffening is all that some of them need. Oh--well, what's the use." Tom and Phil were alone in the room, discussing plans for the game the next day, when Sid entered. One look at his face showed that he was moody and out of sorts. He had been off on a tramp, after biology specimens, and with scarcely a word to his chums he began changing his field clothes for other garments. "Going out this evening?" asked Phil. "No. Guess not," was the rather short answer. "I've got to do some studying. What have you fellows got on the carpet?" "Rest," answered Tom, and after supper he returned to the apartment, and stretched out on the creaking sofa, while Phil occupied the easy chair. Sid was at his desk writing, when a knock came at the door. The deposed second baseman started, and half arose. Then he sat down again. "Well, aren't some of you going to answer it?" asked Tom. "I'm too tired to move." "Same here," added Phil, but, as he was nearer the portal than Sid, he got up, with much groaning, and opened the door. Wallops stood there. "A message for Mr. Henderson," he announced, and he handed Phil a letter. "Here! Give it to me!" cried Sid, almost snatching it from Phil's fingers. "I was just going to, old man," was the gentle answer, and it seemed as if Sid was afraid his chum would see the writing on the envelope. Sid tore open the epistle, read it at a glance, and tore it up, scattering the fragments in his waste paper basket. Then he strode over to his closet, and got out his coat and cap. "Going out?" asked Phil, politely interested. "Yes--I've got to," muttered Sid. Tom slowly arose from the old sofa, the boards on the back and front creaking dismally with the strain. "Sid," spoke Tom, and there was that in his voice which made Phil and Sid both look at the captain. "Sid, I'm going to make a last appeal to you." "No--don't," almost begged the second baseman, and he put up his arm, as though to ward off a blow. "Don't, Tom, I--I can't stand it." "You've got to!" insisted Tom, almost fiercely. "I've stood this long enough. It's not fair to yourself--not fair to the nine." "I don't know what you mean," and Sid tried to speak calmly. "Yes, you do," and by this time Tom was on his feet, and had walked over toward the door. "Yes, you do know. You received a note just now. There's no use in me pretending I don't know what it is, for I do." Sid started. "I mean," went on Tom, "that I know what it portends. I don't know who it's from, and I don't care; neither do I know what's in it. But I do know that it calls you out----" "Yes, I've got to go," murmured Sid, as though it was a summons from fate, and he could not avoid it. "You've got to do nothing of the sort!" cried Tom. "Don't go!" "I've got to, I tell you!" "To that gambling hall? To lose your money again? Haven't you manhood enough to say 'no'? Can't you stay away? Oh, Sid, why do you go? Why don't you be fair to yourself--fair to the nine? We need you!" Tom held out his hands appealingly. There was a mist before his eyes, and, he fancied, something glistened in those of his chum. Phil stood, a silent spectator of the little scene, and the clock ticked on relentlessly. "Don't you want to help us win?" asked Tom. "You know I do!" exclaimed Sid brokenly. "Then do it!" cried Tom, in ringing tones. "Break off this miserable life! Give up this gambling!" "I'm not gambling!" cried Sid, and he shrank back, as though Tom had struck him. "Dare you deny that you're going from here to the gambling den in Dartwell?" asked Tom, with flashing eyes. Sid was silent. "You don't dare deny it," went on the captain. "Now, Sid, I've made my last appeal. From now on I'm going to act. I'm captain of the nine, and what I say goes. I say you sha'n't go out to that gambling hall to-night!" and, before either of his chums were aware of his action, Tom had sprung forward, locked the door, and taken out the key. "There! Let's see you go out now!" cried Tom, as he planted himself in front of the portal and folded his arms, a picture of defiance. Sid acted as if stunned for a moment. Then, fairly springing forward, he cried: "Stand aside, Tom! I've got to go out now! You don't understand. Stand aside and let me pass!" "I'll not! You sha'n't make a beast of yourself any longer!" "Stand aside or I'll tear you away from that door and burst it open!" and Sid fairly hissed out the words. Tom never moved. Calmly he faced his chum. Though his face was stern, there was a look of deep sorrow on it. As for Phil he knew not what to do or say. "Once more," asked Sid, and his voice was calmer, "will you stand aside, or have I got to force you?" "You're not going out of here to-night," repeated Tom. "This has got to end. I'm going to find out your secret--the secret you are keeping in spite of your better self. We'll get at the bottom of this--we'll restore you to yourself, Sid--to the nine that needs you. We'll have the ban removed!" Once more he held out his hands appealingly. "I ask you for the last time, will you stand back?" came from Sid, in steely tones. "No!" cried Tom resolutely. "Then I'll make you!" and Sid approached closer. He made a grab for Tom's outstretched right hand, and wrenched it cruelly. In spite of himself Tom gave a cry of pain, for the injury was tender yet. This seemed to break the spell. Phil sprang forward. "Sid--Tom!" he cried. "What are you doing?" They seemed to realize, then, that they had nearly come to blows. With a sob, almost of despair, Sid released his hold of Tom's hand, and staggered back. At the same time the captain, reaching in his pocket for the key, inserted it in the door, and shot back the lock. "You may go," he said gently. Sid, with never a word, but with a look of anguish on his face, as if he was torn between two fates, passed out. CHAPTER XXXI THE BAN LIFTED "I never knew that clock ticked so loud," remarked Tom, after a silence that seemed interminable. "Listen to it." "It does make an infernal racket," responded Phil, and his voice sounded strange to him. So great had been the strain engendered by the dramatic departure of Sid, that both Tom and Phil felt the awkwardness of speaking of commonplace matters after it. "Guess we'll get a new ticker," suggested Phil, for want of something better to say. "No," answered Tom slowly. "Old things are best after all--even if they don't keep just the right time. I'm attached to that clock." Somehow Tom felt that the simile might apply to Sid, but he did not mention it. "Is your hand--did he hurt it--I mean is it all right?" stammered Phil. "Oh, yes," replied Tom, with a glance at it. "Sid gave it a wrench, but I guess it will be all right to-morrow. I can't understand him, can you?" "No, and I've given up trying." "No, don't do that!" begged Tom. "We've just got to save Sid." "But if he won't let us?" "We must do it in spite of himself. I will try to think of a way," and Tom threw himself back on the sofa, and turned his face to the wall. Phil walked softly across the room, and sat down in the big chair. Somehow it seemed as if their chum had gone, never to return. For more than an hour the two sat there, neither speaking, and the clock ticked on relentlessly. "Well," remarked Tom at length, with a sigh, "guess I'll turn in." Sid was in his bed when the two chums awoke in the morning, though neither Phil nor Tom had heard him come in. He did not refer to the happening of the previous night, but after chapel, which was made particularly solemn by a short sermon by the doctor on the prodigal son, Sid drew away from his chums, who started for their classes. "Where you going?" asked Tom, for Sid and he had the same studies this morning period. "Up to see Moses," was the answer, "Moses" being the students' pet name for Dr. Churchill. "Zane caught me again last night. I was out after hours without a permit. I'm in for it I guess," and Sid laughed recklessly. "Why, old man----" began Tom, and then he stopped. He did not know what to say. Then he felt it would be better to say nothing, and he hurried on to the lecture, anxious to have it over with, and get out on the diamond with his men, for the final game with Fairview was to come off that afternoon. Tom and Phil did not see Sid again until after the game, and then they felt in no condition to dwell upon his trouble, for Randall had been beaten by Fairview. It was a never-to-be-forgotten battle of the diamond. It opened well for Randall, for Tom felt a fierce anger at fate in general, that nerved him to pitch as he had seldom pitched before. Then things began to go backward, for his hand was in no condition to stand the fierce work necessary. Mr. Leighton saw this, and deciding to save Tom for the Boxer Hall game, took him out of the box, and put in Evert. After that it was all over but the shouting, and Fairview piled up eleven runs against Randall's five. It was a miserable and dispirited lot of players that filed back to Randall that evening, nor could the sympathy of Ruth and Madge take any of the sting out of it for Tom. "It isn't so bad," remarked Phil, in a consoling sort of voice. "We still have a chance." "A mighty slim chance," grumbled Tom. "Almost none at all. Oh, if old Sid had only been with us!" "There's no use talking about that now," went on Phil. "We simply must devote all our energies to the Boxer Hall game." "No use thinking of that unless Fairview loses to them," came from Tom, gloomily. "Oh, cheer up!" urged Phil. "You can't win the championship by feeling that way," but his words did little to dispel the gloom in the heart of the captain. For the next few days there was hard practice. Tom's hand received special attention, and it was hoped that he could last the entire Boxer game. The batting improved very much, and the 'varsity nine was as much on edge as it was possible for it to be. Meanwhile there was anxiety over the outcome of the Fairview-Boxer game. For some time past the Randall players had been reckoning percentages. It must be remembered that the games described in detail in this volume were not the only ones played by the rival colleges in the league. There were many more contests than those set down here, but space will not permit their description. Sufficient to say that, reckoning in some forfeited contests, and computing the standings on the basis of games won and lost, it developed that if Boxer Hall beat Fairview it would make a tie for first place between Boxer and Randall, and all would then depend on the final contest between those two latter teams. Therefore it was with no small jubilation that the news was received, a week later, that Boxer had downed Fairview. "Now for _our_ chance to win!" cried Tom, brightening up a little. "All we have to do is to wallop Boxer, and the loving cup is ours. But Oh, Phil! if we only had Sid!" "That's right. Have you noticed how queer he's been acting of late?" "Oh, it's the same old story. I'm done now. I made my last appeal. By the way, I didn't hear what happened the time he was last caught by Zane. What was the verdict?" "It hasn't been announced yet. Faculty held a meeting but deferred action. It means expulsion, of course. Poor old Sid!" "Well, he brought it on himself." "How do you know?" asked Phil sharply. "Maybe there's something we don't understand." "And we never will," added Tom bitterly. "I consider that Sid has done as much as any one to defeat the team if we lose the last game." "Oh, don't think that. How's your hand?" "Fine! I can last all right. It's the batting I'm worried about. Langridge will do his worst, and we must look for a fierce game. We've got to practice until the gong rings." Tom worked his men to the limit, with Coach Leighton to help him. Matters seemed a little brighter, and in spite of his words Tom had a forlorn hope that, after all, the faculty might relent, and allow Sid to play. But this hope was dashed to the ground the night before the game. Then Sid came into the room, despondency showing on his face and in every motion. He began hauling his things out of the closet and bureau, and packing them in his trunk. "What's up, old man?" asked Phil in great surprise. "I'm leaving." "Leaving?" burst out Tom. "Yes. Expelled. Faculty just had a meeting on my case, and it's all off. I'm done!" "Look here!" cried Tom. "Are you going to let it go this far, Sid? Aren't you going to speak--going to tell your secret, and exonerate yourself?" "I can't," answered Sid simply, and his tone was so miserable that his chums forebore to question him further. His trunk was soon packed, and he left the room. Neither Phil nor Tom felt like talking and went to bed early. Sid did not return that night, and the two ball players were out early, for practice on the diamond, in anticipation of the great and deciding game which was to take place that afternoon on the Boxer Hall grounds. A little before noon, when the team had gone to the gymnasium for a light dinner, and to have some last secret instruction from the coach and Tom, Sid Henderson crossed the college campus. With him was an individual whom, had Phil or Tom seen, they would have at once recognized as the sporty youth who had met Sid the day of the island picnic. But there was a great change noticed in the young man. He no longer wore the "loud" suit and the brilliant tie; he no longer smoked a cigarette, and there was a chastened air about him. "Don't you feel a bit nervous about it, Guy?" asked Sid. "Not a bit, old man. It's a bitter dose to swallow, but I need it, I guess. I wish I could do more for you. Are you sure it isn't too late?" "I hope not. The team hasn't gone yet. There's just a chance." "Well, I can't thank you enough for all you've done for me. No one else would have done as much. No one else would have kept his promise in the face of such odds. It wasn't right for me to ask you." "We agreed not to talk about that, you know, Guy." "I can't help mentioning it. Lead on. I'll explain to Dr. Churchill, and all the rest of them." The two disappeared into the doctor's residence, and, presently there might have been seen wending their way thither the various members of the Randall college faculty. What took place occurred behind closed doors, and what that was, only was known afterward when Sid made his explanation. Sufficient, for the present, to say that the meeting was a protracted one, much to the restlessness of several of the younger professors who wanted to go to Boxer Hall to witness the championship struggle. "Well, then, are we all agreed?" asked Dr. Churchill, as he smiled kindly on Sid, and regarded with a pitying glance the youth whom the second baseman had addressed as Guy. "I think so," answered Professor Tines. "I seldom like to reverse myself, but I feel that it is warranted on this occasion. I will vote to remove the ban that has been on Mr. Henderson, and restore him to his full college rights and privileges." "I think we all feel the same way," spoke Professor Bogardus, the science teacher, "and I am glad that I can change my vote." "I think we all are," went on Dr. Churchill. "Mr. Henderson, I congratulate you, in the name of the college, for bearing up as you did, in the face of heavy odds. You are now a Sophomore in good standing, and----" "May I play on the team?" burst out Sid. "You may," answered the genial old doctor, his eyes twinkling, "and I'll be there to see you win, at least for the last part of the game. The ban is removed, Mr. Henderson." "Thank you, all," spoke Sid feelingly to the assembled professors. Then, turning to his companion, he added: "Come on, Guy. I'm going to get in the last game, after all." "No, I'll not come. You've had enough of me. I'm going back to mother. She--she needs me now," and the former sportily-attired lad turned away. Sid hurried over to the gymnasium. His heart was beating in wild exultation. At last he was eligible to play on the nine! He could help them to win, for that Randall would lose never entered his head. He reached the gymnasium. It seemed strangely deserted and quiet for a championship day. Sid felt a sense as if an icy hand was clutching his heart. "Where--where's the ball nine?" he asked one of the janitors. "The ball nine?" "Yes." Sid thought the man would never answer. "Oh, the ball nine has gone over an hour," was the reply. "They went to Boxer Hall in a big automobile--a rubberneck they calls 'em." "Gone! Over an hour!" gasped Sid. "Can I get there in time--in time to play? I must! I will! It's my last chance! Oh, I must get there!" and he started on a run for the trolley line that led to Boxer Hall. CHAPTER XXXII A PERILOUS CROSSING Sid hurried on, his thoughts in a wild tumult. In his pocket was a note from Dr. Churchill, restoring him to all his rights and privileges. Sid had asked for it, lest Boxer Hall protest his entrance into the game at the last minute, for Sid was fully determined to play, and help his team to win. He knew he was in good form, for he had not neglected practice. "If I can catch the next car," he thought, "I'll be in time." Then, as he caught sight of something yellow through the trees on the banks of Sunny river, along which the electric line extended, he exclaimed: "There's a car, now! I'll have to sprint for it. Glad I didn't stop to get my suit. I can borrow one from a sub when I get there, I guess." He broke into a run, but noted, curiously, that the car did not seem to be moving very fast. Then, as he made the turn in the road, he saw that it was standing still, and that a number of the passengers were walking about, idly. "Must have had a fuse blow out, or a hot box, and they're waiting to cool it," he mused. "Lucky for me, as the electrics don't run very often from now on." Sid dropped into a walk, and was soon at the stalled car. "What's the matter?" asked the second baseman of the motorman, who was sitting on a grassy bank, idly chopping at a stone with his controller handle. "Power's off." "For long?" asked Sid, his heart thumping under his ribs. "Hard to say. It's been off nearly an hour now, and the conductor just telephoned in, and they said it might be an hour more." "An hour more! Then I can't get to Boxer Hall in time for the game." The motorman looked quizzically at Sid. "Not unless you walk, or hire an auto," he remarked, and fell again to hammering the stone. The other passengers were fretting, complaining, or accepting the situation philosophically, as befitted their natures. Sid made up his mind quickly. "I can walk to Fordham junction, and take the train," he decided. "From Bendleton, which is the nearest railroad station to Boxer Hall, it's only two miles. Maybe I can run it in time, or perhaps I'll meet some one who will give me a lift. Anyway, that's my best chance. I'll do it," and, with a final glance at the stalled car, hoping he might see the flashing up of the lights on it, which would tell of the power being turned on, Sid turned and made off toward the distant railroad station. As the janitor had informed Sid, Tom and the other ball players, including the substitutes, had made an early start in a large automobile, carrying twenty passengers. It was of the type known as a "rubber-neck," from the fact that they are used in big cities to take visitors to the scenes of interest, there to "rubber," or stretch their necks in gazing aloft. "See anything of Sid, as you came away?" asked Holly Cross, who sat beside Tom and Phil, as the auto swayed along. "No," answered Tom briefly. "I fancy he's left for good. Poor old Sid! Isn't it a shame that he went to pieces as he did? If we only had him now our chances would be brighter." "Would you play him if he came along?" asked Phil. "Of course--provided I could--that he was in good standing so Boxer Hall couldn't protest. But what's the use of talking?" "Is he in good form, captain?" asked Bricktop. "Sid never goes stale," answered Tom. "Besides, with his ability to slice a ball to right or left field in a pinch, hitting right and left handed as he does, it would be just great for us to-day." "Still worrying?" asked Phil. "Of course. So would you, if you were in my place. Don't you know what this game means to us?" "Sure we do, me lad," answered Bricktop, kindly. "But say this over to yourself a few times and you'll feel better. 'Tis a proverb of me old Irish ancestors. 'Soft an' aisy goes far in a day,' that's it. 'Soft and aisy goes far in a day.' Remember that, Tommy, me lad, and take it 'aisy' as the good Irish say. We'll win--never fear--we'll win." There was talk and laughter, serious conversation and much chaffing as the auto rumbled along. They had started early and thought they would have plenty of time, but something went wrong with the steering gear once, and a second time the water in the radiator needed replenishing, so that with the delays it left the players with no more than time to get to Boxer Hall in season for the game, and left hardly any time for practice. "Hadn't you better hit up the pace a little, my friend," suggested Mr. Leighton to the chauffeur. "I will, yes, sir," was the answer, and the big car did make better time, for it was on a good road. The team fell to laughing and joking again, but suddenly stopped, as the auto once more came to a halt just before crossing Pendleton river, a stream somewhat larger than Sunny river, and intercepting the main road between the two colleges. "What's up now?" asked Tom. "The drawbridge is open," replied the chauffeur. The players stood up and looked across the river. The draw, which was necessary on account of a number of sailboats on the stream, was swung, making an impassable gap, for the stream at that point was swift and deep. Some men were seen on the middle of the bridge. "What's the matter? Why don't you swing shut that bridge?" yelled Phil. "Can't," answered one of the men. "Why not?" "The machinery that operates the draw is broken. We swung the bridge open to let a boat pass, and now we can't close it again. We've sent for some mechanics to repair it." "How long will it take?" yelled Tom. "Oh, not long. Two or three hours, maybe." "Two or three hours! Great smokestacks!" howled Tom. "That will be too late for us. We can't get to the game on time!" "Of course not!" agreed Holly Cross. "And Boxer Hall will be just mean enough to call a forfeit, and claim the championship!" "Say, you've got to swing this bridge shut, and let us pass!" sung out Phil. "Can't!" yelled the men who were on the bridge, marooned as it were. "We've tried, but it won't budge." "What's to be done?" asked Jerry Jackson. "Yes, what's to be done?" echoed his twin brother. "Guess we'll have to swim for it," suggested Dutch Housenlager. "That is, unless Grasshopper Backus can jump over with us on his back, one at a time." But, though they could joke over the situation, they all knew that it was serious. The time was drawing close, and they were still some distance from Boxer Hall. Further inquiry of the men on the bridge did not help matters, nor did the fuming and fretting of Tom and his chums. "Can't you suggest a plan?" asked Mr. Leighton of the chauffeur. "Well, there's another bridge about five miles below here." "That's too far. Ten miles out of our way. Time we went there, and got back it would be too late. Boxer Hall would claim the game. Can nothing be done?" and the coach looked at the swiftly swirling river. At that moment a man driving a mule hitched to a buckboard came along. He took in the situation at a glance. "Stuck, eh?" he remarked sympathetically. "That's what," replied Bricktop Molloy. "Maybe ye happen t' be a fairy, Mr. Man, an' can help us across." "Why don't you try the ford?" asked the man. "Ford? We didn't know there was one," said Tom. "Sure there is. About half a mile below here. It's where the river is shallow, and many's the time I've driven across before this bridge was built. The water's a leetle high now, but I guess your ark could make it. Will it go in water?" "If it's not too deep, and there's good bottom," was the chauffeur's answer. "Oh, it's good bottom, but, as I say, it's a trifle deep." "Try it, anyhow," suggested Tom. "It's our only chance. Go ahead." This was the sentiment of all, and the players getting into their seats again, which they had left to gaze at the river, the auto was backed up, and headed for the ford, the man with the buckboard going in advance to show the way. As he had said, the water was rather high, and it seemed to swirl along dangerously fast. He would not venture in with his mule, but, after a look at it the chauffeur said he would try it. "I'll be all right," he announced, "if the water doesn't come up high enough to short-circuit the batteries or the magneto." "Let her go!" cried Tom. Backing up, to get a good start down the slope that led to the ford, the chauffeur turned on full speed. Into the river went the big auto, with its heavy load. The water splashed up in a spray as the front wheels, with the big tires, struck the limpid surface. A moment later the entire machine was in the water, submerged to the hubs. "It's all right! Go on! Go on!" urged the man with the mule. "It won't be much deeper than that." "If it is we're done for," remarked the chauffeur in a low voice. It was a perilous passage, but the Randall nine was too anxious over the consequences of delay to mind that much. The man in charge of the auto was rather white-faced, but he gripped the steering wheel, and kept on high speed, though he throttled down the engine a trifle as he neared the middle of the river. The big machine careened dangerously, and several clung instinctively to the sides. "Can you make it?" asked Mr. Leighton anxiously. "I don't know," replied the chauffeur, as he peered at a bit of smooth water directly ahead. It looked to be deep, and he was contemplating turning to one side, though their guide had warned him to steer straight for the other side. "Keep on! Keep on!" cried the man with the mule encouragingly. "Straight ahead, and you'll be safe!" The chauffeur yanked the gasolene lever over the rachet, opening the throttle wider, and the car shot forward at increased speed. It swayed, and seemed about to topple over, righted itself, almost like a thing alive, and then, with a crunching of gravel, was out of the stream, and climbing the slope that led from the ford to the road. "By Jove! I'm glad we're over that!" exclaimed Tom, with a sigh of relief. "Speed her up now, and get us to Boxer Hall!" Half an hour later the players were on the diamond, being received by a crowd of their friends who had preceded them to the game earlier in the day, for the last game of the season was a gala affair, and the Randall lads usually came over to Boxer Hall early in the morning. "Now for a battle to the death," said Tom grimly, as he led his men out to practice. CHAPTER XXXIII THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME From grand stands and bleachers came cheers, yells, songs and cries of many kinds. There was a record-breaking crowd, every seat seeming to be filled when the two nines, in their natty uniforms, began their warming-up work. In the bleachers were many townspeople, both Randall and Boxer Hall adherents. It seemed as if the unprotected seats, shimmering in the hot sun, were composed of mats of straw hats, with colored bands for ornaments. In the grand stands there was a conglomeration of many colors, formed by the hats of girls, and the gay banners they carried, the yellow and maroon of Randall mingling with the red and green of Boxer Hall, a combination lately adopted. "Great crowd," commented Phil to Tom. "Yes. But say, look at Langridge send 'em in!" for the rival pitcher was warming-up with Stoddard, his catcher. "Ruth and Madge are here," went on Phil. "Are they? I wonder if Miss Harrison will come?" "Guess so. S'pose Sid will be on hand?" "I doubt it. But come on, let's have a talk with Leighton and Kerr. They may want to say something." The practice went on, the usual conferences took place between captain and captain, manager and manager. Boxer Hall, as the home team, had the privilege of batting last. Batting orders were submitted for inspection, and the umpire took several new balls from his valise, and stripped from them the foil covering. With the exception of Pete Backus in place of Sid, the Randall team was the same that had played the 'varsity games all season, though the batting order was different, Holly Cross leading off, he having improved greatly in stick work. There was no change in the Boxer team, from when she had last played Tom's men. The gong rang sharply. The buzzing talk and laughter on the grand stands ceased, as the umpire announced the batteries. There was a moment of consultation among the two nines, and then Stoddard, who was Boxer's captain that year, motioned to his players to take the field. He donned his mask and protector, and adjusted his big glove. Langridge, with a cynical smile on his face, walked to the pitcher's box. He threw four preliminary balls to Stoddard, who then signified that he was ready. "Play ball!" called the umpire, and Holly Cross stepped up to the plate. Langridge "wound up" and sent in a swift one. Holly did not offer to strike at it. "Strike wan!" howled the umpire, who was a bit Irish, throwing one arm up in the air. There was an indrawing of breath on the part of the Randall players. "It was a mile outside," complained Tom. "Hush!" cautioned Mr. Leighton. Holly struck at the next one, and missed. The following was a foul, and this gave his friends some encouragement. "Lambaste the next one!" yelled Bean Perkins from amid his throng of singers and shouters. But Holly struck out. Nor did any better luck attend Dan Woodhouse, who fanned. There was a wicked look in the eyes of Bricktop, as he walked to the plate, and perhaps for that reason Langridge walked him. He seemed to know he would have "easy fruit" in Pete Backus, who was taking Sid's place, and he did, for he easily struck him out, and Bricktop died on second, which he had stolen. No runs for Randall that inning. It was not without a nervous tremor that Tom walked to the box, to see what he could do against Boxer. He wondered how his hand was going to stand the strain, though it seemed to have healed perfectly. After exchanging the regulation number of practice balls with Dutch Housenlager, Tom was ready for Ralling, who was first up at the bat for Boxer Hall. Dutch signalled for a puzzling drop, and Tom delivered it, but Ralling took a quick step forward, and, before the curve "broke" he got his bat on it, and sent a pretty single just over Bricktop's head, though the plucky shortstop leaped high to get it. Ralling was safe on first. McGherity fanned twice, but the third time he, too, found the ball, and rapped out a two bagger, bringing in Ralling, who had managed to steal to second, though Tom tried desperately to throw him out. Roy Conklin was up next, and struck out, and then came Arthur Flood's turn. How it happened Tom couldn't tell, but the ball twisted in his hands, and instead of an out curve it went over the plate straight, and at slow speed. Flood hit it a mighty "poke" and away the horsehide spheroid sailed, well over the head of Holly Cross in center field. But Holly pluckily raced after it, and, though McGherity came in with a run, Flood found it expedient to linger on third. By this time all Boxer Hall was in a frenzy of delight, for they were two runs to the good, and only one out. But there were two, a moment later, for Flood, taking chances, was caught napping on the third bag, and put out by a quick throw. George Stoddard fanned, and that ended the inning, with the score 2 to 0, in favor of Boxer Hall. Randall could not score in the next inning though Tom knocked a two bagger. He stole third, and then had to stay there and watch the Jackson twins and Dutch Housenlager ingloriously fan the air. It was bitterness as of gall and wormwood, but Tom tried not to show it, as he took his place in the box for the ending of the second inning. Things looked a little brighter when Pinkey Davenport laid down a little bingle, almost in front of Tom, who tossed it to Phil, on first, and there was one down, with scarcely an effort. Then Langridge sent a neat little fly to Pete, on second base, and Bert Hutchin fanned, making three out in such quick succession that the wild cheering of Boxer Hall was checked, and Bean Perkins and his cohorts had a chance to let loose. "Now, Randall, do 'em up! Wallop 'em!" shouted a tall dignified man, accompanied by two pretty girls who sat well down in front on the center grand stand. "Eat 'em alive! Eat 'em alive!" "Oh, papa!" cried one pretty girl, clasping his left arm. "Oh, papa!" exclaimed the other pretty girl, seizing his right arm. "That's all right, my dears," he answered. "Don't you suppose I want to see my old college win? And they will, too! Those boys have grit!" "Yes, but they're short one of their best players," said a man next to the "old grad," and he told about Sid, for that was common knowledge now. A goose egg went up in the Boxer frame that inning, and Tom looked happier. But, try as his men did in their share of the third, nothing resulted, though Woodhouse laid out a pretty liner, which was caught, after a run, by Sam Burton. Then came the heart-breaking last of the third, when three runs were added to Boxer's score. "Go on back home!" yelled some Boxer enthusiast at the Randall team. "You can't play ball! Go back!" "Not until we have your scalps!" declared Bean Perkins vindictively. Seated together on the middle grand stand, Madge Tyler, Mabel Harrison and Ruth Clinton looked at each other. "Looks pretty bad, doesn't it, Ruth?" asked Madge. "Don't talk," said Ruth in a low voice, as she saw her brother's team coming in. "I'm--I'm just _praying_ for them, Madge." A ray of light came to Randall in this inning for, though Pete Backus struck out, Tom laid down a pretty two bagger and came home on what was intended as a sacrifice hit by Joe Jackson, only it was fumbled and Joe got to first. Then Jerry fanned and Dutch got out on an almost impossible foul that Stoddard grabbed, banging up against the grand stand to do it. "One to five," remarked Tom musingly, as he went to his box, for the ending of the fourth. "Well, we can't be whitewashed, anyhow, but I guess it's all up with us." It seemed so, for in that inning Boxer added two runs to her credit, even if again Tom did strike out Langridge. The score was 7 to 1 against Randall now. In the fifth inning Tom's side gathered in one run, Phil making it on a sacrifice by Holly Cross, and Boxer further sweetened her score by another tally. In the beginning of the sixth Randall had the joy of seeing another single mark go up in her frame. "We've got three runs," Tom remarked to Phil, as he went to his box. "One more in each inning will look pretty, but it will hardly do the work," and he spoke bitterly. "Hard luck, old man, but maybe it will turn," came from Phil. But, alas for hopes! Many things happened in the last half of the sixth, and when they were done occurring there were four runs chalked up for Boxer. Tom rather lost control of himself, and had walked two men, while there was ragged field work to account for the rest of the disaster. And now the score stood 12 to 3 in favor of Boxer Hall. It seemed like a farce, and even Boxer Hall was tired of cheering herself. Tom saw the championship slipping away after all his hard work. Even Bricktop Molloy, usually cheerful in the face of heavy odds, did not smile, and Mr. Leighton looked gloomy. "Well, let the slaughter go on," remarked Tom, as he came in with his men, to see what the seventh inning held in store for them. "I guess you'd better let Evert pitch the rest of the game, Mr. Leighton," said Tom, as he sat down on the bench beside the coach. "He can't do any worse than I've done." "Nonsense! Things may take a turn even yet, though I admit they look rather bad for us. I hope----" But Mr. Leighton did not finish. There seemed to be some dispute with the man on guard at the players' gate. "No, you can't go in," said the official. "How do I know you are a member of the Randall team?" "Why, of course I am!" cried a voice, and, at the sound of it, Tom looked up quickly. "Sid Henderson!" exclaimed the captain. "Oh, Tom! Tom!" cried Sid. "Am I in time?" and he pushed past the gate tender. "In time? Yes, to see us walloped," answered the captain bitterly. "In time? What do you mean?" and Mr. Leighton caught at a strange note in Sid's voice. "To play the game!" "Play the game?" Tom had leaped to his feet. "Yes. It's all right. Here's a note from Dr. Churchill. The ban is removed. I can play--I can play!" Tom ran over, and threw his arms around Sid. The game came to a sudden stop. The note was examined. Mr. Leighton told the umpire to make the announcement that Sid Henderson would bat for Pete Backus that inning, and take his place in the game after that. "I protest!" cried Langridge, coming up with an ugly look on his face. There was a conference of the officials, but in the end they had to admit that Sid was eligible, and the game started again. But with what a different feeling among the Randall players! It was as if new life had been infused into them. Bean Perkins started the song, "We're Going to Wallop 'em Now!" and it was roared out from several hundred lusty throats. Nor was it unjustified; for with a grim viciousness, after Holly Cross had struck out, Dan Woodhouse rapped out a three bagger the moment he came up to the bat, and Bricktop followed with a two-sack ball, bringing in Kindlings, while Sid, with a happy look on his face, looked grimly at Langridge, as if telling him to do his worst. The stands were still trembling under the stamping that had followed Dan's arrival home with a run, and when Sid swung at the ball, and duplicated Dan's trick, bringing in Bricktop, there was a wild riot of yells. They were kept up even when Tom sacrificed to bring Sid home, and then Joe Jackson got to first on a fly that McGherity muffed. Jerry, by hitting out a pretty liner, enabled his brother to get to third, while Jerry was held on first. Up came Dutch and he clouted the ball to such good purpose that he got to third, and the Jersey twins scored. Then poor Dutch died on third for Phil fanned out. But nothing could dampen the enthusiasm of the Randallites then, for they had secured five runs, and the score stood only 12 to 8 against them now. "Oh, we can catch up!" yelled Bean Perkins. "Now for the 'Conquer or Die' song, fellows," and the strangely beautiful and solemn strains of the Latin melody floated over the field. Tom's men began to play like fiends. They seemed to be all over the field, and, though Tom was hit for a single, not another man got to first. "Oh, if we can only hold 'em down, and bring in a few more runs we've got 'em!" panted Tom, as he came to the bench in the beginning of the eighth, and sat down beside Sid. "But say, old man, how did it happen that the doctor let you play at the last minute?" he asked, while the others waited for Sid's answer. "I'll tell you later," the second baseman promised. "Gee, but I had a time getting here! Trolley wasn't running, and I had to come by train. Thought I'd have a long walk, but I met a fellow in an auto and he gave me a lift. Then, just as I got here I heard that the trolleys started running about five minutes after I left the stalled car. But, Tom, are we going to win?" "We sure are," declared the captain, clapping Sid on the back. CHAPTER XXXIV BATTING TO WIN But, though things had started off with a rush in the seventh, they went slower for Randall in the eighth, and one run was all that could be gathered in. Holly Cross got to first, and managed to steal second and third, while Kindlings Woodhouse and Bricktop ingloriously fanned. Sid laid out a beautiful three-bagger, bringing in Holly with the run. Then Tom was walked, much to his surprise, with Sid on third, and Joe Jackson got a pass, thus filling the bases. Randall was wild, for it looked as if a big play would be pulled off, but Jerry Jackson fanned, and the three men expired on the bags. "Hold 'em down, fellows! Hold 'em down!" pleaded Tom. "We only need four runs to win the game, if we can keep 'em from scoring in their next two whacks." "If," remarked Phil cynically. "Ever see a white black-bird, Tom?" "Oh, we'll do it!" declared Sid savagely. Tom did manage to retire Boxer without a run, surpassing himself by the excellence of his curves. He was more like himself now. Then came the memorable ninth inning, which, when Dutch started it off by fanning out, looked as if the end had come. It looked even more so when Phil Clinton also whacked only the air and there was a curious hush over the big crowd as Holly Cross walked to the plate. "Now, Holly!" yelled Bean. "Another like you gave us before. There's only two out!" It looked rather hopeless, with two out, but Holly slammed out a single bagger. Dan Woodhouse followed, and hit well, Holly getting to third in the confusion. Then came Bricktop, his red hair all awry. "For the love of Cæsar hit it on the nose, old man!" pleaded Tom. "I'll do it for your sake, me lad," answered Bricktop calmly, and he proceeded to swing on the ball. He knocked a hot little liner to Langridge, and there was a groan as the pitcher, seemingly, caught it, but it bounded out of his hands, rolled between his legs and when he had picked it up Bricktop was at first, where he was called safe, though the Boxer players protested it. Holly had started for home, but when he saw Langridge stop the ball he ran back, and it was well he did so, for he was now safe there, as was Dan Woodhouse on second. The bases were full, there were two out, and it needed four runs to win the game when Sid Henderson came up to the bat. He was as cool as if he was the first man up in a small game, and not one on whom a championship depended. "Oh, Sid, old man, bat! bat! bat!" pleaded Tom in a low voice. "Bat to win! It all depends on you, now!" [Illustration: "BAT TO WIN! IT ALL DEPENDS ON YOU!"] Sid did not reply. He was watching Langridge narrowly, for he knew that pitcher's tricks of old. Sid did not strike at the first ball, for it was away to one side, but the umpire called a strike on him and there was a howl of protest. It was quickly hushed. Langridge "wound up" again, and sent in a swift one. With an intaking of his breath Sid swung at it. Almost before he connected his bat with the horsehide he was aware that he would make a good strike. There was a sweetness to the resonant vibration of the stick, as he cast it from him, and sprinted for first. He could not see where the ball had gone, though he had had a momentary glimpse of it going over center field, but he trusted to Tom, who was in the coaching box at first, urging him on. "Oh! Oh! Oh!" "Pretty hit!" "What a soaker!" "Run! Run! Leg it, you old sock doger!" yelled the man with the two pretty daughters, as he recklessly swung his silk hat in the air. "A home run! A home run!" cried Phil, capering about, and hugging the Jersey twins, one in each arm. Upward and outward sped the ball, away, far away over the center fielder's head. He ran back for it, became confused and began wildly searching around in the deep grass of far outfield. "Come on in! Come on in, everybody!" Tom was yelling, and swinging his arms like the sails of an old windmill. Holly raced over home plate, followed by Kindlings. Bricktop was racing in from third, followed by Sid, who had made such a magnificent hit. Bricktop tallied the tying run, and Sid was now running up from third, running as he had never run before, for he felt that it all depended on him now. The fielder had the ball by this time, and had thrown it to the second baseman, who swung about and relayed it home, but it was just a second too late, and Sid crossed the rubber on a grand slide. Four runs in succession! Oh, how the Randallites did yell! How they howled! How they stamped until the grand stands trembled, while as for the members of the team they fairly smothered Sid! But the game was not over yet. Tom Parsons was up next, and, though as nervous as a girl, he managed to make a single off Langridge, much to the latter's disgust, for he was being hooted and howled at almost to the limit. Then Joe Jackson was struck out, and that ended Randall's chances. But the score was 13 to 12 in her favor, and if they could retire Boxer Hall without a run, the championship was theirs. Tom did it. How, is Randall history now, and any "old grad" will gladly relate it to you. How two men were struck out in almost less time than it takes to tell it, and how Tom caught an almost impossible fly by leaping high in the air as it was sailing over his head, and downed his third man. And that was the end. Randall had won the championship. Oh, what a scene there was on the diamond then! Of course, Boxer cheered her rival, and then, hardly waiting for the answering compliment from Tom's men, they filed to their dressing rooms. "Oh, Sid, it was great! Great!" cried Tom, hugging his chum. "Simply great, old man!" "Up with him!" commanded Phil, and Sid was hoisted to the shoulders of his fellows, and carted around, much to his embarrassment. "A bully game! Whoop-de-doodle-de!" cried the man with the pretty daughters. "Oh, papa!" they cried protestingly, blushing at the notice attracted to them. "Let me alone!" he retorted. "Didn't my old college win? Wow! Wow! Wow!" and he began to dance, while his daughters blushed more deeply. But who cared? The diamond was overrun with spectators, anxious to shake hands with the victorious players, especially with Sid, who had batted the way to victory. Three pretty girls made their way through the press. "Are congratulations in order?" asked one. "Of course, Miss Tyler," answered Phil. "Sure," added Tom, clasping the hands Ruth Clinton held out to him. Sid stepped to one side, as Mabel Harrison came up. He was rather pale under his tan. "Come on, let's all go off and have some cream," proposed Phil. "Come along, Sid, you and Miss Harrison----" He paused in confusion, for he had, for the moment, forgotten the cloud between the two. Mabel Harrison blushed, and was about to turn away, but Sid stepped forward. "I will only be too happy," he said, "if Miss Harrison will----" "You know--you know----" she stammered in confusion. The six were somewhat by themselves now, for the crowd had surged away. "It's all right!" exclaimed Sid, and there was a joyous look on his face. "I can, and I'm going, to explain everything, now. You needn't hesitate about coming with me, Miss Harrison. See this," and he held out a duplicate of the newspaper clipping that had been fraught with such results. "I don't wonder you fellows thought I was going the pace," continued Sid, "nor do I blame you, Miss Harrison, for not believing in me. This is the first chance I've had to explain. I was in that gambling raid told of here." "You were?" and the girl recoiled a pace. "Yes," resumed Sid, with a little smile, "I went there to rescue my cousin. His name is Guy Norton, and he is the same flashily-dressed young man you saw me with at the picnic. Guy's father died a short time ago, leaving him a fortune, which he proceeded to get rid of as quickly as possible. He took to gambling, and fast company, though his widowed mother never knew it. She supposed him attending to business in Dartwell, but, instead, Guy was dissipating. His sister, Clara, knew of it, however, and wrote to me to try to save her brother. She came to Dartwell to help look after him, and boarded with him. I had considerable control over Guy, for we used to be little chaps together, and I once saved him from drowning, so he would generally do as I said. So I promised his sister I would save him, and gave my word not to tell anything about it, as she wanted to keep all knowledge from her mother, who had a weak heart, and who, she knew, would die if she ever knew her son was a gambler. "My first service was to take Guy out of a gambling hall, his sister having written me a hasty note to the effect that he had gone there with a large sum of money." "That piece of paper, with the word 'trouble' on it must have been from her note," remarked Phil. "We picked it up in the room, after you went out so quickly that rainy night, Sid." "Yes," assented the victorious second baseman, "Guy was in trouble, sure enough. I went to Dartwell, and managed to get my cousin to leave the place, just before the raid. As we went out, however, the police came in, and Guy and I were caught. He fought the officers, and called out my name, in asking me to help rescue him. Instead I advised him to submit. He was taken away, but I easily proved that I had nothing to do with the gambling, and I was allowed to go. I went to Guy's boarding place, and, from his sister, got money enough to pay his fine, together with some I had. In some way my name got in the papers. Guy might have recklessly given it instead of his own, thinking to keep the knowledge from his mother. "My cousin was released the next morning, but he made me promise never to tell of his scrape. That was what sealed my lips. He promised to reform, if I kept silent, and I did, though it was hard--terribly hard," and Sid looked at Miss Harrison, in whose blue eyes there were traces of tears. "As I knew Guy's mother had a weak heart, and that the least shock might be fatal, I dared not even ask her advice. Clara and I decided to fight it out alone. She arranged to send me word by a messenger, whenever her brother went off with his gay companions, and I promised to go and bring him away, no matter what the hour. "I did go, many times, to your wonderment, Tom and Phil, and once I had to cancel a promise I made to take Miss Harrison to an affair. But I could not break my word. On one occasion Guy, who was not himself, recklessly came to the college seeking me. He had a bottle of liquor with him, and I took it away from him, hurrying him back to Dartwell. But Mr. Zane caught me, and, as I was on my honor to Guy and his sister to keep silent, I could not explain. I took my punishment, being barred from the team, and kept still, though it was hard--very hard." "You were a hero!" exclaimed Mabel Harrison, her blue eyes bright with admiration. "Oh, no, hardly that, I guess," answered Sid, but he smiled gratefully. "Well," he resumed, "so it went on. I dared not tell, for I had given my word, though I was sorely tempted that day he came for me at the picnic, and nearly disgraced me. But Guy would not release me, and his sister pleaded for just a little longer try at saving him, and I consented. I paid his gambling debts many times, and, often, it left me temporarily without money. "Things looked very black, Guy would not heed my requests to stop gambling, and I did not care what happened. I even went to Bascome's dinner, thinking to get away from my troubles. Then, when everything seemed to go by the board, and I had been expelled for being caught out late, when I had gone one night to get Guy away from reckless companions, he suddenly reformed. He met some girl, I believe, who had a hand in it. At any rate he turned over a new leaf, gave up his gambling, and, what relieved me, confessed everything to his mother. "She was much affected, but she forgave him, and is to take him abroad this week, to straighten him out. That was the end of my thralldom. To-day Guy went with me to Dr. Churchill, made a clean breast of it, told what I had done, and why, and before the assembled members of the faculty, proved my innocence. It was just in time to allow the lifting of the expulsion ban, and permit me to play--only I had a task to get here in time----" "But you did, old man!" cried Tom, seizing his chum's hand--only one, however, for, somehow Mabel Harrison had the other. "You were in time to help us bat to win! Sid, can you forgive us?" "Forgive? There's nothing to forgive," declared Sid, and his eyes were moist. "I don't blame you in the least for thinking I was doing the very things I was trying to save my cousin from. Many a time I went broke on his account, but I didn't mind, for he was worth saving, for the sake of his mother and sister, if not for himself. He's all right now, I believe, and thoroughly ashamed of himself." "Thanks to you," put in Madge Tyler. "Oh, I think you were perfectly splendid, Mr. Henderson!" cried Ruth Clinton, with shining eyes. Mabel Harrison did not say what she thought, but the look from her blue eyes was enough for Sid. He held her hand, and--Oh, well, what's the use of telling on a chap, anyhow? You'd have done the same, I guess, if you had been there. There was a little pause after Sid had finished his story, and all about sounded the victorious yells and songs of the exulting Randallites. "Well, are you ready for those plates of cream, now?" asked Phil. "Talking is dry work. So that was your secret, Sid?" "That was it, and hard enough it was to keep, too, at times, let me tell you," and the second baseman sighed. A little later a jolly party sat in an ice-cream parlor, and their merry laughter and jests brought smiles to more than one countenance, as the other guests looked on and listened. "Why do you suppose Mr. Langridge sent that false clipping from the newspaper to you--I mean the one about Sid?" asked Ruth of Mabel. "Oh, I--I don't know--exactly," answered the blue-eyed girl, but I suspect that she did know, but did not want to say, for she was done with Langridge forever. "Now for college, and a procession in honor of our victory, the loving cup, and Sid Henderson--with bonfires and feasting on the side," remarked Captain Tom, a little later, when reluctant good-bys had been said to the girls. And the celebration in Randall that night was marked for years afterward in prominent letters in the college annals. Dr. Churchill made a thrilling speech, and even Professor Tines condescended to smile. The loving cup was carried at the head of a triumphant procession, the light from many gala-fires glinting from its polished surface. "Well, it's all over," remarked Tom, several hours later when he, Phil and Sid were together in their room. "My, but it has been a baseball season, though!" "A great one," commented Phil. "We've got a corking good team. I only hope we have as good a one when it comes time to kick the pigskin." "Oh, I guess we will," spoke Sid slowly. They did, as will be related in the next volume of this series, to be called "The Winning Touchdown," a tale of college football in which we shall meet all our old friends again. "Well," went on Sid, after a pause, "I don't know what you fellows are going to do, but I'm going to turn in. I'm dead tired after my long tramp," and he began to get ready for bed, while Tom and Phil, sitting by the open windows, listened to the shouts of the revelers out on the campus, for many had not yet had enough of the joys of victory. Then, as the captain threw himself on the old couch, and Phil curled up in the easy chair, the fussy alarm clock went off with a whirr, the bell jangling discordantly. "Time to get up, Sid, instead of going to bed," remarked Phil with a laugh, as he silenced the racket, and then the three chums--the inseparables--stood and looked at each other, while the clock resumed its interrupted ticking, and the shouts of the celebrators came in faintly on the night wind. THE END THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES BY LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Mr. Chadwick has played on the diamond and on the gridiron himself._ 1. THE RIVAL PITCHERS _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons, a "hayseed," makes good on the scrub team of Randall College. 2. A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK _A Story of College Football_ A football story, told in Mr. Chadwick's best style, that is bound to grip the reader from the start. 3. BATTING TO WIN _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons and his friends Phil and Sid are the leading players on Randall College team. There is a great game. 4. THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN _A Story of College Football_ After having to reorganize their team at the last moment, Randall makes a touchdown that won a big game. 5. FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL _A Story of College Athletics_ The winning of the hurdle race and long-distance run is extremely exciting. 6. THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS _A Story of College Water Sports_ Tom, Phil and Sid prove as good at aquatic sports as they are on track, gridiron and diamond. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York SEA STORIES FOR BOYS BY JOHN GABRIEL ROWE _Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Colored jacket_ _=Price per volume, $1.00 Net=_ [Illustration] _Every boy who knows the lure of exploring and who loves to rig up huts and caves and tree-houses to fortify himself against imaginary enemies will enjoy these books, for they give a vivid chronicle of the doings and inventions of a group of boys who are shipwrecked and have to make themselves snug and safe in tropical islands where the dangers are too real for play._ 1. CRUSOE ISLAND Dick, Alf and Fred find themselves stranded on an unknown island with the old seaman Josh, their ship destroyed by fire, their friends lost. 2. THE ISLAND TREASURE With much ingenuity these boys fit themselves into the wild life of the island they are cast upon in storm. 3. THE MYSTERY OF THE DERELICT Their ship and companions perished in tempest at sea, the boys are adrift in a small open boat when they spy a ship. Such a strange vessel!--no hand guiding it, no soul on board,--a derelict. 4. THE LIGHTSHIP PIRATES Modern Pirates, with the ferocity of beasts, attack a lightship crew;--recounting the adventures that befall the survivors of that crew,--and--"RETRIBUTION." 5. THE SECRET OF THE GOLDEN IDOL Telling of a mutiny, and how two youngsters were unwillingly involved in one of the weirdest of treasure hunts,--and--"THE GOLDEN FETISH." _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE JACK RANGER SERIES BY CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Lively stories of outdoor sports and adventure every boy will want to read._ 1. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL DAYS _or The Rivals of Washington Hall_ You will love Jack Ranger--you simply can't help it. He is bright and cheery, and earnest in all he does. 2. JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP _or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range_ This volume takes the hero to the great West. Jack is anxious to clear up the mystery surrounding his father's disappearance. 3. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL VICTORIES _or Track, Gridiron and Diamond_ Jack gets back to Washington Hall and goes in for all sorts of school games. There are numerous contests on the athletic field. 4. JACK RANGER'S OCEAN CRUISE _or The Wreck of the Polly Ann_ How Jack was carried off to sea against his will makes a "yarn" no boy will want to miss. 5. JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB _or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail_ Jack organizes a gun club and with his chums goes in quest of big game. They have many adventures in the mountains. 6. JACK RANGER'S TREASURE BOX _or The Outing of the Schoolboy Yachtsmen_ Jack receives a box from his father and it is stolen. How he regains it makes an absorbing tale. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York _Everybody will love the story of_ NOBODY'S BOY By HECTOR MALOT [Illustration] The dearest character in all the literature of child life is little Remi in Hector Malot's famous masterpiece _Sans Famille_ ("Nobody's Boy"). All love, pathos, loyalty, and noble boy character are exemplified in this homeless little lad, who has made the world better for his being in it. The boy or girl who knows Remi has an ideal never to be forgotten. But it is a story for grownups, too. "Nobody's Boy" is one of the supreme heart-interest stories of all time, which will _make you happier and better_. _4 Colored Illustrations. $1.50 net._ _=At All Booksellers=_ CUPPLES & LEON CO. Publishers New York THE KING OF THE MOUNTAINS (_Le Roi des Montagnes_) By EDMOND ABOUT _Translated by Florence Crewe-Jones_ _Illustrated by George Avison_ _12mo. Illustrated. Beautiful cloth binding, stamped in gold. Jacket in colors._ _=Price $1.50 Net=_ [Illustration] Edmond About's classic masterpiece of whimsical humor, romantic action and wild surroundings, appeals to all classes and ages of readers. The lawless, happy-go-lucky bands of the Grecian mountains, bargaining with prisoners and government officials in a kind of uncivilized traffic, affords the uncertainty in adventure which makes delightful reading for boy or man. Hadji Stavros is the never-to-be-forgotten representative of the right to get without limits. To him the only injustice or error in life was in being weak, in which any unselfishness was weakness. And yet, he allowed his love for his daughter to overthrow his system of life. To be entertained by "The King of the Mountains" as a dramatic story is not enough, it is a profound study of character and life. CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE WEBSTER SERIES By FRANK V. WEBSTER [Illustration] Mr. Webster's style is very much like that of the boys' favorite author, the late lamented Horatio Alger, Jr., but his tales are thoroughly up-to-date. Cloth. 12mo. Over 200 pages each. Illustrated. Stamped in various colors. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. Only A Farm Boy _or Dan Hardy's Rise in Life_ The Boy From The Ranch _or Roy Bradner's City Experiences_ The Young Treasure Hunter _or Fred Stanley's Trip to Alaska_ The Boy Pilot of the Lakes _or Nat Morton's Perils_ Tom The Telephone Boy _or The Mystery of a Message_ Bob The Castaway _or The Wreck of the Eagle_ The Newsboy Partners _or Who Was Dick Box?_ Two Boy Gold Miners _or Lost in the Mountains_ The Young Firemen of Lakeville _or Herbert Dare's Pluck_ The Boys of Bellwood School _or Frank Jordan's Triumph_ Jack the Runaway _or On the Road with a Circus_ Bob Chester's Grit _or From Ranch to Riches_ Airship Andy _or The Luck of a Brave Boy_ High School Rivals _or Fred Markham's Struggles_ Darry The Life Saver _or The Heroes of the Coast_ Dick The Bank Boy _or A Missing Fortune_ Ben Hardy's Flying Machine _or Making a Record for Himself_ Harry Watson's High School Days _or The Rivals of Rivertown_ Comrades of the Saddle _or The Young Rough Riders of the Plains_ Tom Taylor at West Point _or The Old Army Officer's Secret_ The Boy Scouts of Lennox _or Hiking Over Big Bear Mountain_ The Boys of the Wireless _or a Stirring Rescue from the Deep_ Cowboy Dave _or The Round-up at Rolling River_ Jack of the Pony Express _or The Young Rider of the Mountain Trail_ The Boys of the Battleship _or For the Honor of Uncle Sam_ CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK _The Boy Hunters Series_ _By Captain Ralph Bonehill_ 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid. [Illustration] FOUR BOY HUNTERS _Or, The Outing of the Gun Club_ A fine, breezy story of the woods and waters, of adventures in search of game, and of great times around the campfire, told in Captain Bonehill's best style. In the book are given full directions for camping out. GUNS AND SNOWSHOES _Or, The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters_ In this volume the young hunters leave home for a winter outing on the shores of a small lake. They hunt and trap to their heart's content, and have adventures in plenty, all calculated to make boys "sit up and take notice." A good healthy book; one with the odor of the pine forests and the glare of the welcome campfire in every chapter. YOUNG HUNTERS OF THE LAKE _Or, Out with Rod and Gun_ Another tale of woods and waters, with some strong hunting scenes and a good deal of mystery. The three volumes make a splendid outdoor series. OUT WITH GUN AND CAMERA _Or, The Boy Hunters in the Mountains_ Takes up the new fad of photographing wild animals as well as shooting them. An escaped circus chimpanzee and an escaped lion add to the interest of the narrative. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE SADDLE BOYS SERIES By CAPTAIN JAMES CARSON 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. All lads who love life in the open air and a good steed, will want to peruse these books. Captain Carson knows his subject thoroughly, and his stories are as pleasing as they are healthful and instructive. [Illustration] THE SADDLE BOYS OF THE ROCKIES _or Lost on Thunder Mountain_ Telling how the lads started out to solve the mystery of a great noise in the mountains--how they got lost--and of the things they discovered. THE SADDLE BOYS IN THE GRAND CANYON _or The Hermit of the Cave_ A weird and wonderful story of the Grand Canyon of the Colorado, told in a most absorbing manner. The Saddle Boys are to the front in a manner to please all young readers. THE SADDLE BOYS ON THE PLAINS _or After a Treasure of Gold_ In this story the scene is shifted to the great plains of the southwest and then to the Mexican border. There is a stirring struggle for gold, told as only Captain Carson can tell it. THE SADDLE BOYS AT CIRCLE RANCH _or In at the Grand Round-up_ Here we have lively times at the ranch, and likewise the particulars of a grand round-up of cattle and encounters with wild animals and also cattle thieves. A story that breathes the very air of the plains. THE SADDLE BOYS ON MEXICAN TRAILS _or In the Hands of the Enemy_ The scene is shifted in this volume to Mexico. The boys go on an important errand, and are caught between the lines of the Mexican soldiers. They are captured and for a while things look black for them; but all ends happily. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK Transcriber's Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text in bold by "equal" signs (=bold=). --Printer, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. 
40668	----	[Illustration: "Smash and hammer; hammer and smash!"] A Quarter-Back's Pluck A Story of College Football BY LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF "THE RIVAL PITCHERS," ETC. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK =THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES= 12mo. Illustrated THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK A Story of College Football (Other volumes in preparation) CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY NEW YORK Copyright, 1910, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I MOVING DAY 1 II LANGRIDGE HAS A TUMBLE 10 III PHIL GETS BAD NEWS 20 IV FOOTBALL PRACTICE 31 V A CLASH 43 VI PROFESSOR TINES OBJECTS 52 VII THE FIRST LINE-UP 61 VIII LANGRIDGE AND GERHART PLOT 70 IX SOME GIRLS 77 X A BOTTLE OF LINIMENT 91 XI IN WHICH SOM EONE BECOMES A VICTIM 100 XII THE FIRST GAME 106 XIII SMASHING THE LINE 117 XIV "GIRLS ARE QUEER" 123 XV PHIL SAVES WALLOPS 131 XVI PHIL IS NERVOUS 138 XVII THE SOPHOMORES LOSE 144 XVIII A FIRE ALARM 155 XIX THE FRESHMEN DANCE 162 XX PHIL GETS A TELEGRAM 172 XXI STRANGE BEDFELLOWS 179 XXII A CHANGE IN SIGNALS 187 XXIII BATTERING BOXER HALL 195 XXIV GERHART HAS AN IDEA 210 XXV PHIL GIVES UP 217 XXVI SID IS BOGGED 224 XXVII WOES OF A NATURALIST 233 XXVIII TOM IS JEALOUS 239 XXIX A STRANGE DISCOVERY 246 XXX A BITTER ENEMY 254 XXXI "IT'S TOO LATE TO BACK OUT!" 260 XXXII TOM GETS A TIP 265 XXXIII "LINE UP!" 273 XXXIV THE GAME 280 XXXV VICTORY--CONCLUSION 287 A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK CHAPTER I MOVING DAY Phil Clinton looked critically at the rickety old sofa. Then he glanced at his chum, Tom Parsons. Next he lifted, very cautiously, one end of the antiquated piece of furniture. The sofa bent in the middle, much as does a ship with a broken keel. "It--it looks like a mighty risky job to move it, Tom," said Phil. "It's broken right through the center." "I guess it is," admitted Tom sorrowfully. Then he lifted the head of the sofa, and warned by an ominous creaking, he lowered it gently to the floor of the college room which he and his chum, Sid Henderson, were about to leave, with the assistance of Phil Clinton to help them move. "Poor old sofa," went on Tom. "You've had a hard life. I'm afraid your days are numbered." "But you're not going to leave it here, for some measly freshman to lie on, are you, Tom?" asked Phil anxiously. "Not much!" was the quick response. "Nor the old chair?" "Nope!" "Nor the alarm clock?" "Never! Even if it doesn't keep time, and goes off in the middle of the night. No, Phil, we'll take 'em along to our new room. But, for the life of me, I don't see how we're going to move that sofa. It will collapse if we lift both ends at once." "I suppose so, but we've got to take it, even if we move it in sections, Tom." "Of course, only I don't see----" "I have it!" cried Phil suddenly. "I know how to do it!" "How?" "Splice it." "Splice it? What do you think it is--a rope ladder? You must be in love, or getting over the measles." "No, I mean just what I say. We'll splice it. You wait. I'll go down cellar, and get some pieces of board from the janitor. Also a hammer and some nails. We'll save the old sofa yet, Tom." "All right, go ahead. More power to ye, as Bricktop Molloy would say. I wonder if he's coming back this term?" "Yep. Post graduate course, I hear. He wouldn't miss the football team for anything. Well, you hold down things here until I come back. If the new freshmen who are to occupy this room come along, tell 'em we'll be moved by noon." "I doubt it; but go ahead. I'll try to be comfortable until your return, dearest," and with a mocking smile Tom Parsons sank down into an easy chair that threatened to collapse under his substantial bulk. From the faded cushions a cloud of dust arose, and set Tom to sneezing so hard that the old chair creaked and rattled, as if it would fall apart. "Easy! Easy there, old chap!" exclaimed the tall, good-looking lad, as he peered on either side of the seat. "Don't go back on me now. You'll soon have a change of climate, and maybe that will be good for your old bones." He settled back, stuck his feet out before him, and gazed about the room. It was a very much dismantled apartment. In the center was piled a collection of baseball bats, tennis racquets, boxing gloves, foils, catching gloves, a football, some running trousers, a couple of sweaters, and a nondescript collection of books. There were also a couple of trunks, while, flanking the pile, was the old sofa and the arm chair. On top of all the alarm clock was ticking comfortably away, as happy as though moving from one college dormitory to another was a most matter-of-fact proceeding. The hands pointed to one o'clock, when it was, as Tom ascertained by looking at his watch, barely nine; but a little thing like that did not seem to give the clock any concern. "I do hope Phil can rig up some scheme so we can move the sofa," murmured the occupant of the easy chair. "That's like part of ourselves now. It will make the new room seem more like home. I wonder where Sid can be? This is more of his moving than it is Phil's, but Sid always manages to get out of hard work. Phil is anxious to room with us, I guess." Tom Parsons stretched his legs out a little farther, and let his gaze once more roam about the room. Suddenly he uttered an exclamation, as his eye caught sight of something on the wall. "Came near forgetting that," he said as he arose, amid another cloud of dust from the chair, and removed from a spot on the wall, behind the door, the picture of a pretty girl. "I never put that there," he went on, as he wiped the dust from the photograph, and turned it over to look at the name written on the back--Madge Tyler. "Sid must have done that for a joke. He thought I'd forget it, and leave it for some freshy to make fun of. Not much! I got ahead of you that time, Sid, my boy. Queer how he doesn't like girls," added Tom, with the air of an expert. "Well, probably it's just as well he doesn't take too much to Madge, for----" But Tom's musings, which were getting rather sentimental, were interrupted by the entrance of Phil Clinton. Phil had under one arm some boards, while in one hand he carried a hammer, and in the other some nails. "Just the cheese," he announced. "Now we'll have this thing fixed up in jig time. Hasn't Sid Henderson showed up?" "No. I guess he's over to the new room. He took his books and left some time ago. Maybe he's studying." "Not much!" exclaimed Phil. "I wish he'd come and help move. Some of this stuff is his." "Most of it is. I'm glad you're going to help, or I'd never have the courage to shift. Well, let's get the sofa fixed. I doubt if we can make it hold together, though." "Yes, we can. I'll show you." Phil went to work in earnest. He was an athletic-looking chap, of generous size, and one of the best runners at Randall College. He was one of Tom Parson's particular chums, the other being Sidney Henderson. Tom and Sid, of whom more will be told presently, had roomed together during their freshman year at Randall, and Phil's apartment was not far away. Toward the close of the term the three boys were much together, Phil spending more time in the room of Tom and Sid than he did in his own. In this way he became very much attached to the old chair and sofa, which formed two of the choicest possessions of the lads. With the opening of the new term, when the freshmen had become more or less dignified sophomores, Phil had proposed that he and his two chums shift to a large room in the west dormitory, where the majority of the sophomores and juniors lived. His plan was enthusiastically adopted by Sid and Tom, and, as soon as they had arrived at college, ready for the beginning of the term, moving day had been instituted. But Sid, after helping Tom get their possessions in a pile in the middle of the room they were about to leave, had disappeared, and Phil, enthusiastic about getting his two best friends into an apartment with him, had come over to aid Tom. "Now, you see," went on Phil, "I'll nail this board along the front edge of the sofa--so." "But don't you think, old chap--and I know you'll excuse my mentioning it," said Tom--"don't you think that it rather spoils, well, we'll say the artistic beauty of it?" "Artistic fiddlesticks!" exclaimed Phil. "Of course it does! But it's the only way to hold it together." "One could, I suppose, put a sort of drapery--flounce, I believe, is the proper word--over it," went on Tom. "That would hide the unsightly board." "I don't care whether it's hid or not!" exclaimed Phil. "But if you don't get down here and help hold this end, while I nail the other, I know what's going to happen." "What?" asked Tom, as he carefully put in his pocket the photograph of the pretty girl. "Well, you'll have a mob of howling freshmen in here, and there won't be any sofa left." "Perish the thought!" cried Tom, and then he set to work in earnest helping Phil. "Now a board on the back," said the amateur carpenter, and for a few minutes he hammered vigorously. "It's a regular anvil chorus," remarked Tom. "Here, no knocking!" exclaimed his chum. "Now let's see if it's stiff enough." Anxiously he raised one end of the sofa. There was no sagging in the middle this time. "It's like putting a new keel on a ship!" cried the inventor of the scheme gaily. "A few more nails, and it will do. Do you think the chair will stand shifting?" "Oh, yes. That's like the 'one-horse shay'--it'll hold together until it flies apart by spontaneous combustion. You needn't worry about that." Phil proceeded to drive a few more nails in the boards he had attached to the front and back of the sofa. Then he got up to admire his work. "I call that pretty good, Tom; don't you?" he asked. The two chums drew back to the farther side of the room to get the effect. "Yes, I guess with a ruffle or two, a little insertion, and a bit of old lace, it will hide the fractured places, Phil. It's a pity----" "Here, what are you scoundrels doing to my old sofa?" exclaimed a voice. "Vandals! How dare you spoil that antique?" and another lad entered the room. "Say, why didn't you put new legs on it, insert new springs, and cover it over while you were about it?" he asked sarcastically. "Because, you old fossil, we _had_ to put those boards on," said Tom. "Where have you been, Sid? Phil and I were getting ready to move without you." "Oh, I've been cleaning out the new room we're going into. The juniors who were there last term must have tried to raise vegetables in it, judging by the amount of dirt I found. But it's all right now." "Good! Now if you'll catch hold here, we'll move the old sofa first. The rest will be easy." Sid Henderson grasped the head of the couch, while Tom took the foot. Phil acted as general manager, and steadied it on the side. "Easy now, easy boys," he cautioned, as they moved toward the door leading to the hall. CHAPTER II LANGRIDGE HAS A TUMBLE Out into the corridor went the three lads with the old sofa. It was no easy task, but they managed to get it out of the east dormitory, where they had roomed for a year, and then they began the journey across a stretch of grass to the west building. The appearance of the three boys, carrying a dilapidated sofa, as tenderly as though it were some rare and fragile object, attracted the attention of a crowd of students. The lads swarmed over to surround the movers. "Well, would you look at that!" exclaimed Holman, otherwise known as "Holly," Cross. "Have you had a fire, Tom?" "No; they've been to an auction sale of antiques, and this is the bed on which Louis XIV slept the night before he ate the Welsh rarebit," declared Ed Kerr, the champion catcher on the 'varsity nine. "Why don't you label it, Phil, so a fellow would know what it is?" "You get out of the way!" exclaimed Tom good-naturedly. "This side up, with care. Store in a cool, dry place, and water frequently," quoted Billy Housenlager, who rejoiced in the title of Dutch. "Here, let me see if I can jump over it while it is in motion," he added, for he was full of "horseplay," and always anxious to try something new. He took a running start, and was about to leap full upon the sofa, when, at a signal from Phil, the three chums set the spliced piece of furniture on the grass. "What's the matter?" asked Dutch indignantly. "Can't you give a fellow a chance to practice jumping? I can beat Grasshopper Backus, now." "You can not!" exclaimed the owner of the title. "I'm sure to make the track team this term, and then you'll see what----" "Say," put in another student, "my uncle says that when he was here he used to jump----" "Drown him!" "Stuff grass in his mouth!" "Make him eat the horsehair in the sofa!" "Swallow it!" "Chew it up!" These were some of the cries of derision that greeted Ford Fenton's mention of his uncle. The gentleman had once been a coach at Randall, and a very good one, too, but his nephew was doing much to spoil his reputation. For, at every chance he got, and at times when there was no opportunity but such as he made, Ford would quote his aforesaid uncle, upon any and all subjects, to the no small disapproval of his college mates. So they had gotten into the habit of "rigging" him every time he mentioned his relative. "I don't care," Ford said, when the chorus of exclamations had ceased. "My uncle----" But he got no further, for the students made a rush for him and buried him out of sight in a pile of wriggling arms and legs. "First down; ten yards to gain!" yelled some one. "Come on, now's our chance," said Tom. "First thing we know they'll do that to our sofa, and then it will be all up with the poor old thing. Let's move on." Once more the chums took up their burden, and walked toward the west dormitory. By this time the throng had done with punishing poor Fenton, and once more turned its attention to the movers. "Going to split it up for firewood?" called Ed Kerr. "No; it's full of germs, and they're going to dig 'em out and use 'em in the biology class," suggested Dan Woodhouse, who was more commonly called Kindlings. "Maybe they're going to make a folding bed of it," came from Bricktop Molloy. "Come on, fellows, let's investigate." The crowd of fun-loving students hurried after the three lads carrying the sofa. "They're coming!" exclaimed Tom. "Let's drop the sofa and cut for it?" proposed Sid. "They'll make a rough house if they catch us." "I'm not going to desert the sofa!" exclaimed Tom. "Nor I. I'll stick by you--'I will stand at thy right hand, and guard the bridge with thee,'" quoted Phil. "But if we put a little more speed on we can get to the dormitory, and that will be sanctuary, I guess. Come on; run, fellows!" It was awkward work, running and carrying a clumsy sofa, but they managed it. Holly Cross caught up to them as they were at the door of the building. "Ah, let's have the old ark," he pleaded. "We'll make a bonfire of it, and circle about it to-night, after we haze some freshies. Give us the old relic, Tom." "Not on your life!" exclaimed the crack pitcher of the 'varsity nine. "This is our choicest possession, Holly. It goes wherever we go." "Well, it won't go much longer," observed Holly. "One of its legs is coming off." Almost as he spoke one of the sofa legs, probably jarred loose by the unaccustomed rapid rate of progress, fell to the dormitory steps. "Oh, dear! Oh, dear!" exclaimed Phil. "It's beginning to fall apart, Tom." "Never mind, you can nail it on. Sid, you carry the leg. The stairs are so narrow that only two of us can manage the sofa. Phil and I will do that, and you come in back to catch me, in case I fall." Seeing that there was no chance to get the sofa away from its owners, to make a college holiday with it, Holly Cross and his friends turned back to look for another source of sport. Sid picked up the leg, and then, with Phil mounting the stairs backward, carrying one end, and Tom advancing and holding the other, the task was begun. Up the stairs they went, and when they were half way there appeared at the head of the flight two lads. They were both well dressed in expensive clothes, and there was about them that indefinable air of "sportiness" which is so easily recognizable but hard to acquire. "Hello, what's this?" asked the foremost of the two, as he looked down on the approaching cavalcade and the sofa. "Here, what do you fellows mean by blocking up the stairway? Don't you know that no tradesmen are allowed in this entrance?" "Who are you talking to?" demanded Phil, not seeing who was speaking. "It's Langridge," explained Tom, as he looked up and saw his former enemy and rival. "Oh, it's Parsons, Henderson and Clinton," went on Fred Langridge, as he recognized some fellow students. Then, without apologizing for his former words, he went on: "I say, you fellows will have to back down and let me and Gerhart past. We are in a hurry." "So are we," said Tom shortly. "I guess you can wait until we come up." "No, I can't!" exclaimed Langridge. "You back up! You have no right to block up the stairs this way!" "Well, I guess we have," put in Sid. "We're moving some of our things to our new room." Langridge, followed by the other well-dressed lad, came down a few steps. He saw the old sofa, and exclaimed: "What! Do you mean to say that you fellows are moving that fuzzy-wuzzy piece of architecture into this dormitory? I'll not stand for it! I'll complain to the proctor! Why, it's full of disease germs!" "Yes, and you're full of prune juice!" cried Phil Clinton, unable to stand the arrogant words and manner of Langridge. "Don't get gay with me!" exclaimed Tom's former rival. "I'll lay you five to three that you can't jump over their heads and clear the sofa," put in the other student, whom Langridge had called Gerhart. "Do any of you fellows want to bet?" he asked rather sneeringly, as he looked down at Tom, Phil and Sid. "I guess not," answered Tom, good-naturedly enough. "Ah, you're not sports, I see," rejoined Gerhart. "I thought you said this was a sporty college, Langridge?" "So it is, when you strike the right crowd, and not a lot of greasy digs," was the answer. "I say, are you chaps going to move back and let me and Gerhart pass?" he went on. "No, we're not," replied Phil shortly. "You can wait until we get up. Go on back now, Langridge, and we'll soon have this out of the way." "Burning it up would be the best method of getting it out of the way," declared Langridge, still with that sneer in his voice. "I never saw such a disgraceful piece of furniture. What do you fellows want with it? Surely you're not going to put it in your room." "That's just what we are going to do," declared Sid. "We wouldn't part with this for a good bit, would we, fellows?" "Nope," chorused Phil and Tom. "Did it come over in the _Mayflower_?" asked Gerhart. "I'm willing to bet ten to one that if you think it's an antique that you're stuck. How about it?" "You're quite a sport, aren't you, freshie?" asked Phil suddenly, for he knew that the new student must belong to the first-year class. "Of course I'm a sport, but if you go to calling names I'll show you that I'm something else!" exclaimed the other fiercely. "If you want to do a little something in the boxing line----" "Dry up!" hastily advised Langridge in a whisper. "You're a freshman, and you know it. They're sophomores, and so am I. Don't get gay." "Well, they needn't insult a gentleman." "Tell us when one's around, and we'll be on our good behavior," spoke Phil with a laugh. "Come, now, are you fellows going to back down and let us pass?" asked Langridge hastily. "Like the old guard, we die, but never surrender," spoke Tom. "We're not going to back down, Langridge. It's easier for you to go back than for us." "Well, I'm not going to do it. You have no right to move your stuff in here, anyhow. The rooms are furnished." "We want our old chair and sofa," explained Sid. "I should think you'd be ashamed to bring such truck into a decent college," expostulated Langridge. "It looks as if it had been through a fire in a second-hand store." "That'll do you," remarked Phil. "This is our sofa, and we'll do as we please with it." "You won't block up my way, that's one thing you won't do," declared Langridge fiercely. "I'm going down. Look out! If I upset you fellows it won't be my fault." He started down the stairs, and managed to squeeze past Phil, who, though he did not like Langridge, moved as far to one side as possible in the narrow passage. As Langridge passed the sofa he struck it with a little cane he carried. A cloud of dust arose. "Whew!" exclaimed the sporty lad. "Smell the germs! Wow! Get me some disinfectant, Gerhart." Whether it was the action of Langridge in hitting the sofa that caused Tom to stagger, or whether Phil was unsteady on his feet and pushed on the sofa, did not develop. At any rate, just as Langridge came opposite to Tom on the stairs, the former pitcher was jostled against his rival. Langridge stumbled, tried to save himself by clutching at Tom and then at the sofa. He missed both, and, with a loud exclamation, plunged down head first, bringing up with a resounding thud at the bottom. CHAPTER III PHIL GETS BAD NEWS For a moment after he struck the bottom of the stairs, Fred Langridge remained stretched out, making no move. Tom Parsons feared his former rival was badly hurt, and was about to call to Sid to go and investigate, when Langridge got up. His face showed the rage he felt, though it was characteristic of him that he first brushed the dust off his clothes. He was nothing if not neat about his person. "What did you do that for?" he cried to Tom. "Do what?" "Shove me down like that. I might have broken my neck. As it is, I've wrenched my ankle." "I didn't do it," said Tom. "If you'd stayed up where you were, until we got past with the sofa, it wouldn't have happened. You shouldn't have tried to pass us." "I shouldn't, eh? Well, I guess I've got as good a right on these stairs as you fellows have, with your musty old furniture. You oughtn't be allowed to have it. You deliberately pushed me down, Tom Parsons, and I'll fix you for it!" and Langridge limped about, exaggerating the hurt to his ankle. "I didn't push you!" exclaimed Tom. "It was an accident that you jostled against me." "I didn't jostle against you. You deliberately leaned against me to save yourself from falling." "I did not! And if you----" "You brought it on yourself, Langridge," interrupted Phil. "You got fresh and hit the sofa, and that made you lose your balance. It's your own fault." "You mind your business! When I want you to speak I'll address my remarks to you. I'm talking to Parsons now, and I tell him----" "You needn't take the trouble to tell me anything," declared Tom. "I don't want to hear you. I've told you it was an accident, and if you insist that it was done purposely I have only to say that you are intimating that I am not telling the truth. In that case there can be but one thing to do, and I'll do it as soon as I've gotten this sofa into our room." There was an obvious meaning in Tom's words, and Langridge had no trouble in fathoming it. He did not care to come to a personal encounter with Tom. "Well, if you fellows hadn't been moving that measly old sofa in, this would never have happened," growled Langridge as he limped away. "Come on, Gerhart. We'll find more congenial company." "I guess I'll wait until they get the sofa out of the way," remarked the new chum Langridge appeared to have picked up. Tom, Sid and Phil resumed their journey, and the old piece of furniture was carried to the upper hall. The stairs were clear, and Gerhart descended. As he passed Tom he looked at him with something of a sneer on his face, and remarked: "I'll lay you even money that Langridge can whip you in a fair fight." "Why, you little freshie," exclaimed Phil, "fair fights are the only kind we have at Randall! We don't have 'em very often, but every time we do Tom puts the kibosh all over your friend Langridge. Another thing--it isn't healthy for freshies to bet too much. They might go broke," and with these words of advice Phil caught up his end of the sofa and Tom the other. It was soon in the room the three sophomore chums had selected. "Now for the chair and the rest of the truck," called Phil. "Oh, let's rest a bit," suggested Sid, as he stretched out on the sofa. No sooner had he reached a reclining position than he sat up suddenly. "Wow!" he cried. "What in the name of the labors of Hercules is that?" He drew from the back of his coat a long nail. "Why, I must have left it on the sofa when I fixed it," said Phil innocently. "I wondered what had become of it." "You needn't wonder any longer," spoke Sid ruefully. "Tom, take a look, that's a good chap, and see if there's a very big hole in my back. I think my lungs are punctured." "Not a bit of it, from the way you let out that yell," said Phil. "That will teach you not to take a siesta during moving operations." "Not much damage done," Tom reported with a laugh, as he inspected his chum's coat. "Come on now, let's get the rest of it done." "Do you think it will be safe to leave the sofa here?" asked Sid. "Perhaps I'd better stay and keep guard over it, while you fellows fetch the rest of the things in." "Well, listen to him!" burst out Phil. "What harm will come to it here?" "Why, Langridge and that sporty new chum of his may slip in and damage it." "Say, if they can damage this sofa any more than it is now, I'd like to see them," spoke Tom. "I defy even the fingers of Father Time himself to work further havoc. No, most noble Anthony, the sofa will be perfectly safe here." "I wouldn't say as much for you, if Langridge gets a chance at you," said Phil to Tom. "You know what tricks he played on you last term." "Yes; but I guess he's had his lesson," remarked Tom. "Now come on, and we'll finish up." The three lads went back to the room formerly occupied by Sid and Tom during their freshman year. The chums were pretty much of a size, and they made an interesting picture as they strolled across the campus. Tom Parsons had come to Randall College the term previous, from the town of Northville, where his parents lived. He did not care to follow his father's occupation of farming, and so had decided on a college education, using part of his own money to pay his way. As told in the first volume of this series, entitled "The Rival Pitchers," Tom had no sooner reached Randall than he incurred the enmity of Fred Langridge, a rich youth from Chicago, who was manager of the 'varsity ball nine, and also its pitcher. Tom had ambitions to fill that position himself, and as soon as Langridge learned this, he was more than ever the enemy of the country lad. Randall College was located near the town of Haddonfield, in one of our middle Western States, and was on the shore of Sunny River, not far from Lake Tonoka. Within a comparatively short distance from Randall were two other institutions of learning. One was Boxer Hall, and the other Fairview Institute, a co-educational academy. These three colleges had formed the Tonoka Lake League in athletics, and the rivalry on the gridiron and diamond, as well as in milder forms of sport--rowing, tennis, basketball and hockey--ran high. When Tom arrived there was much talk of baseball, and Randall had a good nine in prospect. Her hopes ran toward winning the Lake League pennant in baseball, but as her nine had been at the bottom of the list for several seasons, the chances were dubious. After many hardships, not a few of which Langridge was responsible for, Tom got a chance to play on the 'varsity nine. Langridge was a good pitcher, but he secretly drank and smoked, to say nothing of staying up late nights to gamble; and so he was not in good form. When it came to the crucial moment he could not "make good," and Tom was put in his place, in the pitching box, and by phenomenal work won the deciding game. This made Randall champion of the baseball league, and Tom Parsons was hailed as a hero, Langridge being supplanted as pitcher and manager. But if Langridge and some of the latter's set were his enemies, Tom had many friends, not the least among whom were Phil Clinton and Sidney Henderson, to say nothing of Miss Madge Tyler. This young lady and Langridge were, at first, very good friends, but when Madge found out what sort of a chap the rich city youth was, she broke friendship with him, and Tom had the pleasure of taking her to more than one college affair. This, of course, did not add to the good feeling between Tom and Langridge. With the winning of the championship game, baseball came practically to an end at Randall, as well as at the other colleges in the Tonoka Lake League, and a sort of truce was patched up between Tom and Langridge. The summer vacation soon came, and the students scattered to their homes. Tom and his two chums agreed to room together during the term which opens with this story, and it may be mentioned incidentally that both Tom and Phil hoped to play on the football eleven. Phil was practically assured of a place, for he had played the game at a preparatory school, and had as good a reputation in regard to filling the position of quarter-back as Tom had in the pitching box. It was due to a great catch which Phil made in the deciding championship game, almost as much as to Tom's wonderful pitching, that Randall had the banner, and Captain Holly Cross, of the eleven, had marked Phil for one of his men during the season which was about to open on the gridiron. "Now we'll take the old armchair over," proposed Tom, when he and his chums had reached the room they were vacating. "I guess I can manage that alone. You fellows carry some of the other paraphernalia." Phil and Sid prepared to load themselves down with gloves, balls, bats, foils and various articles of sport. Before he left with the chair, Tom observed Sid looking behind the door as if for something. "It's not there, old man. I took it down," said the pitcher, and he patted the pocket that held Madge Tyler's photograph. "You thought you'd make me forget it, didn't you?" "Do you mean to say you're going to stick girls' pictures up in our new room?" asked Sid. "Not girls' pictures, in general," replied Tom, "but one in particular." "You make me tired!" exclaimed Sid, who cared little for feminine society. "You needn't look at it if you don't like," responded his chum. "But I call her a pretty girl, don't you, Phil?" "She's an all right looker," answered the other with such enthusiasm that Tom glanced at him a trifle sharply. "She's no prettier than Phil's sister," declared Sid. "Have you a sister?" demanded Tom. Phil bowed in assent. "Why didn't you say so before?" asked Tom grumblingly. "Because you never asked me." "Where is she?" "Going to Fairview this term, I believe." "So is Madge--I mean Miss Tyler," burst out Tom. "I'd like to meet her, Phil; your sister, I mean." "Say, you're a regular Mormon!" expostulated Sid. "If we're going to get this moving done, let's do it, and not talk about girls. You fellows make me sick!" "Wait until he gets bitten by the bug," said Tom with a laugh, as he shouldered the easy chair. It took the lads several trips to transfer all their possessions, but at last it was accomplished, and they sat in the new room in the midst of "confusion worse confounded," as Holly Cross remarked when he looked in on them. Their goods were scattered all over, and the three beds in the room were piled high with them. "It's a much nicer place than the old room," declared Tom. "It will be when we get it fixed up," added Phil. "I s'pose that means sticking a lot of girls' photos on the wall, some of those crazy banners they embroidered for you, a lot of ribbons, and such truck," commented Sid disgustedly. "I tell you fellows one thing, though, and that is if you go to cluttering up this room too much, I'll have something to say. I'm not going to live in a cozy corner, nor yet a den. I want a decent room." "Oh, you can have one wall space to decorate in any style you like," said Tom. "Yes; he'll probably adopt the early English or the late French style," declared Phil, "and have nothing but a calendar on it. Well, every one to his notion. Hello, the alarm clock has stopped," and he began to shake it vigorously. "Easy with it!" cried Tom. "Do you want to jar the insides loose?" "You can't hurt this clock," declared Phil, and, as if to prove his words, the fussy little timepiece began ticking away again, as loudly and insistingly as ever. "Well, let's get the room into some decent kind of shape, and then I'm going out and see what the prospects are for football," he went on. "I want to make that quarter-back position if I have to train nights and early mornings." "Oh, you'll get it, all right," declared Tom. "I wish I was as sure of a place as you are. I believe----" He was interrupted by a knock at the door. Sid opened it. In the hall stood one of the college messengers. "Hello, Wallops; what have you there?" asked Tom. "Telegram for Mr. Phil Clinton." "Hand it over," spoke Sid, taking the envelope from the youth. "Probably it's a proposition for him to manage one of the big college football teams." As Wallops, who, like nearly everything and every one else about the college had a nickname, departed down the corridor, Phil opened the missive. It was brief, but his face paled as he read it. "Bad news?" asked Tom quickly. "My mother is quite ill, and they will have to operate on her to save her life," said Phil slowly. CHAPTER IV FOOTBALL PRACTICE There was a moment of silence in the room. No one cared to speak, for, though Tom and Sid felt their hearts filled with sympathy for Phil, they did not know what to say. It was curiously quiet--oppressively so. The fussy little alarm clock, on the table piled high with books, was ticking away, as if eager to call attention to itself. Indeed, it did succeed in a measure, for Tom remarked gently. "Seems to me that sounds louder than it did in the other room." "There are more echoes here," spoke Sid, also quietly. "It will be different when we get the things up." The spell had been broken. Each one breathed a sigh of relief. Phil, whose face had become strangely white, stared down at the telegram in his hand. The paper rustled loudly--almost as loudly as the clock ticked. Tom spoke again. "Is it--is it something sudden?" he asked. "Was she all right when you left home to come back to college?" "Not exactly all right," answered Phil, and he seemed to be carefully picking his words, so slowly did he speak. "She had been in poor health for some time, and we thought a change of air would do her good. So father took her to Florida--a place near Palm Beach. I came on here, and I hoped to hear good news. Now--now----" He could not proceed, and turned away. Tom coughed unnecessarily loud, and Sid seemed to have suddenly developed a most tremendous cold. He had to go to the window to look out, probably to see if it was getting colder. In doing so he knocked from a chair a football, which bounded erratically about the room, as the spherical pigskin always does bounce. The movements of it attracted the attention of all, and mercifully came as a relief to their overwrought nerves. "Well," said Sid, as he blew his nose with seemingly needless violence, "I suppose you'll have to give up football now; for you'll go to Florida." "Yes," said Phil simply, "of course I shall go. I think I'll wire dad first, though, and tell him I'm going to start." "I'll take the message to the telegraph office for you," offered Tom eagerly. "No, let me go," begged Sid. "I can run faster than you, Tom." "That's a nice thing to say, especially when I'm going to try for end on the 'varsity eleven," said Tom a bit reproachfully. "Don't let Holly Cross or Coach Lighton hear you say that, or I'll be down and out. I'm none too good in my running, I know, but I'm going to practice." "Oh, I guess you'll make out all right," commented Phil. "I'm much obliged to you fellows. I guess I can take the message myself, though," and he sat down at the littered table, pushing the things aside, to write the dispatch. Tom and Sid said little when Phil went out to take the telegram to the office. The two chums, one on the old patched sofa and the other in the creaking chair, which at every movement sent up a cloud of dust from the ancient cushion, maintained a solemn silence. Tom did remark once: "Tough luck, isn't it?" To which Sid made reply: "That's what it is." But, then, to be understood, you don't need to talk much under such circumstances. In a little while footsteps were heard along the corridor. "Here he comes!" exclaimed Tom, and he arose from the sofa with such haste that the new boards, which Phil had put on to strengthen it, seemed likely to snap off. "Go easy on that, will you?" begged Sid. "Do you want to break it?" "No," answered Tom meekly, and he fell to arranging his books, a task which Sid supplemented by piling the sporting goods indiscriminately in a corner. They wanted to be busy when Phil came in. "Whew! You fellows are raising a terrible dust!" exclaimed Phil. He seemed more at his ease now. In grief there is nothing so diverting as action, and now that he had sent his telegram, and hoped to be able to see his mother shortly, it made the bad news a little easier to bear. "Yes," spoke Tom; "it's Sid. He raises a dust every time he gets into or out of that chair. I really think we ought to send it to the upholsterer's and have it renovated." "There'd be nothing left of it," declared Phil. "Better let well enough alone. It'll last for some years yet--as long as we are in Randall." "Did you send the message?" blurted out Tom. "Yes, and now I'll wait for an answer." "Is it--will they have to--I mean--of course there's some danger in an operation," stammered Sid, blushing like a girl. "Yes," admitted Phil gravely. "It is very dangerous. I don't exactly know what it is, but before she went away our family doctor said that if it came to an operation it would be a serious one. Now--now it seems that it's time for it. Dear old mother--I--I hope----" He was struggling with himself. "Oh, hang it all!" he suddenly burst out. "Let's get this room to rights. If--if I go away I'll have the nightmare thinking what shape it's in. Let's fix up a bit, and then go out and take a walk. Then it will be grub time. After that we'll go out and see if any more fellows have arrived." It was good advice--just the thing needed to take their attention off Phil's grief, and they fell to work with a will. In a short time the room began to look something like those they had left. "Here, what are you sticking up over there?" called Sid to Tom, as he detected the latter in the act of tacking something on the wall. "I'm putting up a photograph," said Tom. "A girl's, I'll bet you a new hat." "Yes," said Tom simply. "Why, you old anchorite, haven't I a right to? It's a pity you wouldn't get a girl yourself!" "Humph! I'd like to see myself," murmured Sid, as he carefully tacked up a calendar and a couple of football pictures. "Oh, that's Miss Tyler's picture, isn't it?" spoke Phil. "Yes." Phil was sorting his books when from a volume of Pliny there dropped a photograph. Tom spied it. "Ah, ha!" he exclaimed. "It seems that I'm not the only one to have girls' pictures. Say, but she's a good-looker, all right!" "She's my sister Ruth," said Phil quietly. "Oh, I beg your pardon," came quickly from Tom. "I--I didn't know." "That's all right," spoke Phil genially. "I believe she is considered quite pretty. I was going to put her picture up on the wall, but since Sid objects to----" "What's that?" cried the amateur misogynist. "Say, you can put that picture up on my side of the room if you like, Phil. I--I don't object to--to all girls' pictures; it's only--well--er--she's your sister--put her picture where you like," and he fairly glared at Tom. "Wonders will never cease," quoted the 'varsity pitcher. "Your sister has worked a miracle, Phil." "You dry up!" commanded Sid. "All I ask is, don't make the room a photograph gallery. There's reason in all things. Go ahead, Phil." "The next thing he'll be wanting will be to have an introduction to your sister," commented Tom. "I'd like to have both you fellows meet her," said Phil gravely. "You probably would have, only for this--this trouble of mother's. Now I suppose sis will have to leave Fairview and go to Palm Beach with me. I must take a run over this evening, and see her. She'll be all broken up." It was not much of a journey to Fairview, a railroad was well as a trolley line connecting the town of that name with Haddonfield. The room was soon fitted up in fairly good shape, though the three chums promised that they would make a number of changes in time. They went to dinner together, meeting at the table many of their former classmates, and seeing an unusually large number of freshmen. "There'll be plenty of hazing this term," commented Tom. "Yes, I guess we'll have our hands full," added Sid. Old and new students continued to arrive all that day. After reporting to the proper officials of the college there was nothing for them to do, save to stroll about, as lectures would not begin until the next morning, and then only preliminary classes would be formed. "I think I'll go down to the office and see if any telegram has arrived for me," said Phil, as he and his chums were strolling across the campus. "I hope you get good news," spoke Tom. "We'll wait for you in the room, and help you pack if you have to go." "Thanks," was Phil's answer as he walked away. "Well, Tom, I suppose you're going to be with us this fall?" asked Holly Cross, captain of the football eleven, as he spied Tom and Sid. "I am if I can make it. What do you think?" "Well, we've got plenty of good material for ends, and of course we want the best, and----" "Oh, I understand," said Tom with a laugh. "I'm not asking any favors. I had my honors this spring on the diamond. But I'm going to try, just the same." "I hope you make it," said Holly fervently. "We'll have some try-out practice the last of this week. Where's Phil? I've about decided on him for quarter-back." "I don't believe he can play," remarked Sid. "Not play!" cried Holly. Then they told him, and the captain was quite broken up over the news. "Well," he said finally, "all we can hope is that his mother gets better in time for him to get into the game with us. We want to do the same thing to Boxer Hall and Fairview at football as we did in baseball. I do hope Phil can play." "So do we," came from Tom, as he and Sid continued on to their room. It was half an hour before Phil came in, and the time seemed three times as long to the two chums in their new apartment. When he entered the room both gazed apprehensively at him. There was a different look on Phil's face than there had been. "Well?" asked Tom, and his voice seemed very loud. "Dad doesn't want me to come," was Phil's answer. "Not come--why? Is it too----" "Well, they've decided to postpone the operation," went on Phil. "It seems that she's a little better, and there may be a chance. Anyhow, dad thinks if sis and I came down it would only worry mother, and make her think she was getting worse, and that would be bad. So I'll not go to Florida." "Then it's good news?" asked Sid. "Yes, much better than I dared to hope. Maybe she'll get well without an operation. I feel fine, now. I'm going over to Fairview and tell my sister. Dad asked me to let her know. I feel ten years younger, fellows!" "So do we!" cried Tom, and he seized his chum's hand. "Let's go out and haze a couple of dozen freshmen," proposed Sid eagerly. "You bloodthirsty old rascal!" commented Phil. "Let the poor freshies alone. They'll get all that's coming to them, all right. Well, I'm off. Hold down the room, you two." Tom and Sid spent the evening in their apartment, after Phil had received permission to go to Fairview, Tom having entrusted him with a message to Madge Tyler. The two chums had a number of invitations to assist in hazing freshmen, but declined. "We don't want to do it without Phil," said Tom, and this loyal view was shared by Sid. Phil came back late that night, or, rather, early the next morning, for it was past midnight when he got to Randall College. "Your friend Madge sends word that she hopes you'll take her to the opening game of the football season," said Phil to Tom, as he was undressing. "Did you see her?" inquired Tom eagerly. "Of course. Ruth sent for her. She's all you said she was, Tom." "Oh!" spoke Tom in a curious voice, and then he was strangely silent. For Phil was a good-looking chap, and had plenty of money; and Tom remembered what friends Madge and Langridge had been. His sleep was not an untroubled one that night. Two or three days more of general excitement ensued before matters were running smoothly at Randall. In that time most of the students had settled in their new rooms, the freshmen found their places, some were properly hazed, and that ordeal for others was postponed until a future date, much to the misery of the fledglings. "Preliminary football practice to-morrow," announced Phil one afternoon, as he came in from the gymnasium and found Tom and Sid studying. "That's good!" cried Tom. "Are you going to try, Sid?" "Not this year. I've got to buckle down to studies, I guess. Baseball is about all I can stand." "I hear Langridge is out of it, too," said Phil. "His uncle has put a ban on it. He's got to make good in lessons this term." "Well, I think the team will be better off without him," commented Sid. "Not that he's a poor player, but he won't train properly, and that has a bad effect on the other fellows. It's not fair to them, either. Look what he did in baseball. We'd have lost the championship if it hadn't been for Tom." "Oh, I don't know about that," modestly spoke the hero of the pitching box. "Well, turn out in football togs to-morrow," went on Phil. "By the way, I hear that Langridge's new freshman friend--Gerhart--is going to try for quarter-back against me." "What! that fellow who was with him when we were moving our sofa in?" asked Tom. "That's the one." "Humph! Doesn't look as if he was heavy enough for football," commented Sid. "You can't tell by the looks of a toad how much hay it can eat," quoted Phil. The following afternoon a crowd of sturdy lads, in their football suits, thronged out on the gridiron, which was the baseball field properly put in shape. The goal posts had been erected, and Coach Lighton and Captain Cross were on hand to greet the candidates. "Now, fellows," said the coach, "we'll just have a little running, tackling, passing the ball, some simple formations and other exercises to test your wind and legs. I'll pick out four teams, and you can play against each other." CHAPTER V A CLASH Ragged work, necessarily, marked the opening of the practice. The ball was dropped, fumbled, fallen upon, lost, regained, tossed and kicked. But it all served a purpose, and the coach and captain, with keen eyes, watched the different candidates. Now and then they gave a word of advice, cautioning some player about wrong movements, or suggesting a different method. Phil had been put in as quarter-back on one scrub team, and Tom, as left-end, on the same. Phil found his opponent on the opposing eleven to be none other than Langridge's friend, Gerhart. It did not need much of an eye to see that Gerhart did not know the game. He would have done well enough on a small eleven, but he had neither the ability nor the strength to last through a college contest. Several times, when it was his rival's turn to pass back the ball, Phil saw the inefficient work of Gerhart, but he said nothing. He felt that he was sure of his place on the 'varsity eleven, yet he called to mind how Langridge had used his influence to keep Tom Parsons from pitching in the spring. There was no denying that Langridge had influence with the sporting crowd, and it was possible that he might exert it in favor of his new chum and against Phil. But there was one comfort: Langridge was not as prominent in sports as he had been during the spring term, when he was manager of the baseball team. He had lost that position because of his failure to train and play properly, and, too, his uncle, who was his guardian, had insisted that he pay more attention to studies. "After all, I don't believe I have much to fear from him," thought Phil. Then came a scrimmage, and he threw himself into the mass play to prevent the opposing eleven from gaining. The practice lasted half an hour, and at the close Coach Lighton and Captain Cross walked off the field, talking earnestly. "I wish I knew what they were saying," spoke Phil, as he and Tom strolled toward the dressing-room. "Oh, they're saying you're the best ever, Phil." "Nonsense! They're probably discussing how they can induce you to play." "Well, how goes it?" called a voice, and they looked back to see Bricktop Molloy. He was perspiring freely from the hard practice he had been through at tackle. "Fine!" cried Tom. "We were just wondering if we would make the 'varsity." "Sure you will," answered the genial Irish student, who was nothing if not encouraging. Perhaps it was because he was sure himself of playing on the first team that he was so confident. "What did you think of Gerhart at quarter?" asked Tom, for the benefit of his chum. "I didn't notice him much," answered Bricktop, as he ruffled his red hair. "Seemed to me to be a bit sloppy, though; and that won't do." Phil did not say anything, but he looked relieved. "Too bad you're not going to play, Sid, old chap," remarked Tom in the room that night, when the three chums were together. "You don't know what you miss." "Oh, yes, I do," was the answer, and Sid looked up from the depths of the chair, closing his Greek book. "The day has gone by when I want to have twenty-one husky lads trying to shove my backbone through my stomach. I don't mind baseball, but I draw the line at posing as a candidate for a broken neck or a dislocated shoulder. Not any in mine, thank you." "You're a namby-pamby milksop!" exclaimed Phil with a laugh and a pat on the back, that took all the sting from the words. "Worse than that, you're a----" "Well, I don't stick girls' pictures, and banners worked in silk by the aforesaid damsels, all over the room," and Sid looked with disapproval on an emblem which Tom had placed on the wall that day. It was a silk flag of Randall colors, which Madge Tyler had given to him. "You're a misguided, crusty, hard-shelled troglodytic specimen of a misogynist!" exclaimed Tom. "Thanks, fair sir, for the compliment," and Sid arose to bow elaborately. Phil and Tom talked football until Sid begged them to cease, as he wanted to study, and, though it was hard work, they managed to do so. Soon they were poring over their books, and all that was heard in the room was the occasional rattle of paper, mingling with the ticking of the clock. "Well, I'm done for to-night," announced Sid, after an hour's silence. "I'm going to get up early and bone away. Hand me that alarm clock, Tom, and I'll set it for five." "Don't!" begged Phil. "Why not?" "Because if you do it will go off about one o'clock in the morning. Set it at eleven, and by the law of averages it ought to go off at five. Try it and see. I never saw such a clock as that. It's a most perverse specimen." Phil's prediction proved, on trial, to be correct, so Sid set the clock at eleven, and went to bed, where, a little later, Tom and Phil followed. There was more football practice the next afternoon, and also the following day. Tom was doing better than he expected, but his speed was not yet equal to the work that would be required of him. "We need quick ends," said the coach in talking to the candidates during a lull in practice. "You ends must get down the field like lightning on kicks, and we're going to do a good deal of kicking this year." Tom felt that he would have to spend some extra time running, both on the gymnasium track and across country. His wind needed a little attention, and he was not a lad to favor himself. He wanted to be the best end on the team. He spoke to the coach about it, and was advised to run every chance he got. "If you do, I can practically promise you a place on the eleven," said Mr. Lighton. "Who's going to be quarter-back?" Tom could not help asking. "I don't know," was the frank answer. "A few days ago I would have said Phil Clinton; but Gerhart, the new man, has been doing some excellent work recently. I'll be able to tell in a few days." Somehow Tom felt a little apprehensive for Phil. He fancied he could see the hand of Langridge at work in favor of his freshman chum. The matter was unexpectedly settled a few days later. There were two scrub teams lined up, Tom and Phil being on one, and Gerhart playing at quarter on the other. There had been some sharp practice, and a halt was called while the coach gave the men some instructions. As a signal was about to be given Phil went over to the coach, and, in a spirit of the utmost fairness, complained that the opposing center was continually offending in the matter of playing off side. Phil suggested that Mr. Lighton warn him quietly. The coach nodded comprehendingly, and started to speak a word of caution. As he passed over to the opposing side, he saw Gerhart stooping to receive the ball. "Gerhart," he said, "I think you would improve if you would hold your arms a little closer to your body. Then the ball will come in contact with your hands and body at the same time, and there is less chance for a fumble. Here, I'll show you." Now, when Mr. Lighton started he had no idea whatever of speaking to Gerhart. It was the center he had in mind, but he never missed a chance to coach a player. He came quite close to the quarter-back, and was indicating the position he meant him to assume, when the coach suddenly started back. "Gerhart, you've been smoking!" he exclaimed, and he sniffed the air suspiciously. "I have not!" was the indignant answer. "Don't deny it," was the retort of the coach. "I know the smell of cigarettes too well. You may go to the side lines. Shipman, you come in at quarter," and he motioned to another player. "Mr. Lighton," began Gerhart, "I promise----" "It's too late to promise now," was the answer the coach made. "At the beginning of practice I warned you all that if you broke training rules you couldn't play. If you do it now, what will you do later on?" "I assure you, I--er--I only took a few----" "Shipman," was all Mr. Lighton said, and then he spoke to the center. Gerhart withdrew from the practice, and walked slowly from the gridiron. As he left the field he cast a black look at Phil, who, all unconscious of it, was waiting for the play to be resumed. But Tom saw it. Fifteen minutes more marked the close of work for the day. As Tom and Phil were hurrying to the dressing-rooms, they were met by Langridge and Gerhart. The latter still had his football togs on. "Clinton, why did you tell Lighton I had been smoking?" asked Gerhart in sharp tones. "Tell him you had been smoking? Why, I didn't know you had been." "Yes, you did. I saw you whispering to him, and then he came over and called me down." "You're mistaken." "I am not! I saw you!" Phil recollected that he had whispered to the coach. But he could not, in decency, tell what it was about. "I never mentioned your name to the coach," he said. "Nor did I speak of smoking." "I know better!" snapped Gerhart. "I saw you." "I can only repeat that I did not." "I say you did! You're a----" Phil's face reddened. This insult, and from a freshman, was more than he could bear. He sprang at Gerhart with clenched fists, and would have knocked him down, only Tom clasped his friend's arm. "Not here! Not here!" he pleaded. "You can't fight here, Phil!" "Somewhere else, then!" exclaimed Phil. "He shan't insult me like that!" "Of course not," spoke Tom soothingly, for he, too, resented the words and manner of the freshman. "Langridge, I'll see you about this later if you're agreeable," he added significantly, "and will act for your friend." "Of course," said Tom's former rival easily. "I guess my friend is willing," and then the two cronies strolled off. CHAPTER VI PROFESSOR TINES OBJECTS "Are you going to fight him?" asked Langridge of Gerhart, when they were beyond the hearing of Tom and Phil. "Of course! I owe him something for being instrumental in getting me put out of the game." "Are you sure he did?" "Certainly. Didn't I see him sneak up to Lighton and put him wise to the fact that I'd taken a few whiffs? I only smoked half a cigarette in the dressing-room, but Clinton must have spied on me." "That's what Parsons did on me, last term, and I got dumped for it. There isn't much to this athletic business, anyway. I don't see why you go in for it." "Well, I do, but I'm not going to stand for Clinton butting in the way he did. I wish he had come at me. You'd seen the prettiest fight you ever witnessed." "I don't doubt it," spoke Langridge dryly. "What do you mean?" asked his crony, struck by some hidden meaning in the words. "I mean that Clinton would just about have wiped up the field with you." "I'll lay you ten to one he wouldn't! I've taken boxing lessons from a professional," and Gerhart seemed to swell up. "Pooh! That's nothing," declared Langridge. "Phil Clinton has boxed with professionals, and beaten them, too. We had a little friendly mill here last term. It was on the quiet, so don't say anything about it. Phil went up against a heavy hitter and knocked him out in four rounds." "He did?" and Gerhart spoke in a curiously quiet voice. "Sure thing. I just mention this to show that you won't have a very easy thing of it." There was silence between the two for several seconds. Then Gerhart asked: "Do you think he wants me to apologize?" "Would you?" asked his chum, and he looked sharply at him. "Well, I'm not a fool. If he's as good as you say he is, there's no use in me having my face smashed just for fun. I think he gave me away, and nothing he can say will change it. Only I don't mind saying to him that I was mistaken." "I think you're sensible there," was Langridge's comment. "It would be a one-sided fight. Shall I tell him you apologize?" "Have you got to make it as bald as that? Can't you say I was mistaken?" "I don't know. I'll try. Clinton is one of those fellows who don't believe in half-measures. You leave it to me. I'll fix it up. I don't want to see you knocked out so early in the term. Besides--well, never mind now." "What is it?" asked Gerhart quickly. "Well, I was going to say we'd get square on him some other way." "That's what we will!" came eagerly from the deposed quarter-back. "I counted on playing football this term, and he's to blame if I can't." "I wouldn't be so sure about that," came from Langridge. "I never knew Clinton to lie. Maybe what he says is true." "I don't believe it. I think he informed on me, and I always will. Do you think there's a chance for me to get back?" "No. Lighton is too strict. It's all up with you." "Then I'll have my revenge on Phil Clinton, that's all." "And I'll help you," added Langridge eagerly. "I haven't any use for him and his crowd. He pushed me down stairs the other day, and I owe him one for that. We'll work together against him. What do you say?" "It's a go!" and they shook hands over the mean bargain. "Then you'll fix it up with him?" asked Gerhart after a pause. "Yes, leave it to me." So that is how it was, that, a couple of hours later, Tom and Phil received a call from Langridge. He seemed quite at his ease, in spite of the feeling that existed between himself and the two chums. "I suppose you know what I've come for," he said easily. "We can guess," spoke Tom. "Take a seat," and he motioned to the old sofa. "No, thanks--not on that. It looks as if it would collapse. I don't see why you fellows have such beastly furniture. It's frowsy." "We value it for the associations," said Phil simply. "If you don't like it----" "Oh, it's all right, if you care for it. Every one to his notion, as the poet says. But I came on my friend Gerhart's account. He says he was mistaken about you, Clinton." "Does that mean he apologizes?" asked Phil stiffly. "Of course, you old fire-eater," said Langridge, lighting a cigarette. "Is it satisfactory?" "Yes; but tell him to be more careful in the future." "Oh, I guess he will be. He's heard of your reputation," and Langridge blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling. "I'll take him on, if he thinks Phil is too much for him," said Tom with a laugh. "No, thanks; he's satisfied, but it's hard lines that he can't play," observed the bearer of the apology. "That's not my fault," said Phil. "No, I suppose not. Well, I'll be going," and, having filled the room with particularly pungent smoke, Langridge took his departure. If Tom and Phil could have seen him in the hall, a moment later, they would have observed him shaking his fist at the closed door. "Whew!" cried Tom. "Open a window, Phil. It smells as if the place had been disinfected!" "Worse! I wonder what sort of dope they put in those cigarettes? I like a good pipe or a cigar, but I'm blessed if I can go those coffin nails! Ah, that air smells good," and he breathed in deep of the September air at the window. Thus it was that there came about no fight between Phil and the "sporty freshman," as he began to be called. There was some disappointment, among the students who liked a "mill," but as there were sure to be fights later in the term, they consoled themselves. Meanwhile, the football practice went on. Candidates were being weeded out, and many were dropped. Gerhart made an unsuccessful attempt to regain his place at quarter, but the coach was firm; and though Langridge used all his influence, which was not small, it had no effect. Gerhart would not be allowed to play on the 'varsity (which was the goal of every candidate), though he was allowed to line up with the scrub. "But I'll get even with Clinton for this," he said more than once to his crony, who eagerly assented. Phil, meanwhile, was clinching his position at quarter, and was fast developing into a "rattling good player," as Holly Cross said. Tom was not quite sure of his place at end, though he was improving, and ran mile after mile to better his wind and speed. "You're coming on," said Coach Lighton enthusiastically. "I think you'll do, Tom. Keep it up." There had been particularly hard practice one afternoon, and word went down the line for some kicking. The backs fell to it with vigor, and the pigskin was "booted" all over the field. "Now for a good try at goal!" called the coach, as the ball was passed to Holly Cross, who was playing at full-back. He drew back his foot, and his shoe made quite a dent in the side of the ball. But, as often occurs, the kick was not a success. The spheroid went to the side, sailing low, and out of bounds. As it happened, Professor Emerson Tines, who had been dubbed "Pitchfork" the very first time the students heard his name, was crossing the field at that moment. He was looking at a book of Greek, and paying little attention to whither his steps led. The ball was coming with terrific speed directly at his back. "Look out, professor!" yelled a score of voices. Mr. Tines did look, but not in the right direction. He merely gazed ahead, and seeing nothing, and being totally oblivious to the football practice, he resumed his reading. The next moment, with considerable speed, the pigskin struck him full in the back. It caught him just as he had lifted one foot to avoid a stone, and his balance was none too good. Down he went in a heap, his book flying off on a tangent. [Illustration: "The pigskin struck him full in the back"] "Wow!" exclaimed Holly Cross, who had been the innocent cause of the downfall. "I'll be in for it now." "Keep mum, everybody, as to who did it," proposed Phil. "The whole crowd will shoulder the blame." The players started on the run toward the professor, who still reclined in a sprawling attitude on the ground. He was the least liked of all the faculty, yet the lads could do no less than go to his assistance. "Maybe he's hurt," said Tom. "He's too tough for that," was the opinion of Bricktop. Before the crowd of players reached the prostrate teacher he had arisen. His face was first red and then pale by turns, so great was his rage. He looked at the dirt on his clothes, and then at his book, lying face downward some distance away. "Young gentlemen!" he cried in his sternest voice. "Young gentlemen, I object to this! Most emphatically do I object! You have gone entirely too far! It is disgraceful! You shall hear further of this! You may all report to me in half an hour in my room! I most seriously object! It is disgraceful that such conduct should be allowed at any college! I shall speak to Dr. Churchill and enter a most strenuous objection! The idea!" He replaced his glasses, which had fallen off, and accepted his book that Tom picked up. "Don't forget," he added severely. "I shall expect you all to report to me in half an hour." At that moment Dr. Albertus Churchill, the aged and dignified head of the college, and Mr. Andrew Zane, a proctor, came strolling along. "Ah! I shall report your disgraceful conduct to Dr. Churchill at once," added Professor Tines, as he walked toward the venerable, white-haired doctor. "I shall enter my strongest objection to the continuance of football here." There were blank looks on the faces of the players. CHAPTER VII THE FIRST LINE-UP Evidently Dr. Churchill surmised that something unusual had occurred, for he changed his slow pace to a faster gait as he approached the football squad, in front of which stood Professor Tines, traces of anger still on his unpleasant face. "Ah, young gentlemen, at football practice, I see," remarked the doctor, smiling. "I trust there is the prospect of a good team, Mr. Lighton. I was very well pleased with the manner in which the baseball nine acquitted itself, and I trust that at the more strenuous sport the colors of Randall will not be trailed in the dust." "Not if I can help it, sir; nor the boys, either," replied the coach. "That's right," added Captain Holly Cross. "I see you also take an interest in the sport," went on Dr. Churchill to Professor Tines. "I am glad the members of the faculty lend their presence to sports. Nothing is so ennobling----" "Sir," cried Professor Tines, unable to contain himself any longer, "I have been grossly insulted to-day. I wish to enter a most emphatic protest against the continuance of football at this college. But a moment ago, as I was crossing the field, reading this Greek volume, I was knocked over by the ball. I now formally demand that football be abolished." Dr. Churchill looked surprised. "I want the guilty one punished," went on Professor Tines. "Who kicked that ball at me?" "Yes, young gentlemen, who did it?" repeated the proctor, for he thought it was time for him to take a hand. "I demand to know!" "It wasn't any one in particular, sir," answered Coach Lighton, determined to defend his lads. "It was done on a new play we were trying, and it would be hard to say----" "I think perhaps I had better investigate," said Dr. Churchill. "Young gentlemen, kindly report at my study in half an hour." "If you please, sir," spoke Phil Clinton, "Professor Tines asked us to call and see him." "Ah, I did not know that. Then I waive my right----" "No, I waive mine," interrupted the Latin teacher, and he smoothed out some of the pages in the Greek book. "Perhaps we had better have them all up to my office," proposed the proctor. "It is larger." "A good idea," said the president of Randall. "Gentlemen, you may report to the proctor in half an hour. I like to see the students indulge in sports, but when it comes to such rough play that the life of one of my teachers is endangered, it is time to call a halt." "His life wasn't in any danger," murmured Tom. "Hush!" whispered the coach. "Leave it to me, and it will come out all right." "But if they abolish football!" exclaimed Phil. "That will be too much! We'll revolt!" "They'll not abolish it. I'll make some explanation." Dr. Churchill, Professor Tines, and the proctor moved away, leaving a very disconsolate group of football candidates on the gridiron. "Do you suppose Pitchfork will prevail upon Moses to make us stop the game?" asked Jerry Jackson. "Moses," as has been explained, being the students' designation of Dr. Churchill. "We'll get up a counter protest to Pitchfork's if they do," added his brother, Joe Jackson. "Hurrah for the Jersey twins!" exclaimed Tom. The two brothers, who looked so much alike that it was difficult to distinguish them, were from the "Garden State," and thus had gained their nickname. "Well, that sure was an unlucky kick of mine," came from Holly Cross sorrowfully. "Nonsense! You're not to blame," said Kindlings Woodhouse. "It might have happened to any of us. We'll all hang together." "Or else we'll hang separately, as one of the gifted signers of the Fourth of July proclamation put it," added Ed Kerr. "Well, let's go take our medicine like little soldiers." In somewhat dubious silence they filed up to the proctor's office. It was an unusual sight to see the entire football squad thus in parade, and scores of students came from their rooms to look on. Dr. Churchill and Professor Tines were on hand to conduct the investigation. The latter stated his case at some length, and reiterated his demand that football be abolished. In support of his contention he quoted statistics to show how dangerous the game was, how many had been killed at it, and how often innocent spectators, like himself, were sometimes hurt, though, he added, he would never willingly be a witness of such a brutal sport. "Well, young gentlemen, what have you to say for yourselves?" asked Dr. Churchill, and Tom thought he could detect a twinkle in the president's eye. Then Coach Lighton, who was a wise young man, began a defense. He told what a fine game football was, how it brought out all that was best in a lad, and how sorry the entire squad was that any indignity had been put upon Professor Tines. He was held in high esteem by all the students, Mr. Lighton said, which was true enough, though esteem and regard are very different. Finally the coach, without having hinted in the least who had kicked the ball that knocked the professor down, offered, on behalf of the team, to present a written apology, signed by every member of the squad. "I'm sure nothing can be more fair than that," declared Dr. Churchill. "I admit that I should be sorry to see football abolished here, Professor Tines." Professor Tines had gained his point, however, and was satisfied. He had made himself very important, and had, as he supposed, vindicated his dignity. The apology was then and there drawn up by the proctor, and signed by the students. "I must ask for one stipulation," said the still indignant instructor. "I must insist that, hereafter, when I, or any other member of the faculty approaches, all indiscriminate knocking or kicking of balls cease until we have passed on. In this way all danger will be avoided." "We agree to that," said Mr. Lighton quickly, and the incident was considered closed. But Professor Tines, if he had only known it, was the most disliked instructor in college from then on. He had been hated before, but now the venom was bitter against him. "We're well out of that," remarked Tom to Phil, as they went to their room, having gotten rid of their football togs. "I wonder what fun Pitchfork has in life, anyhow?" "Reading Latin and Greek, I guess. That reminds me, I must bone away a bit myself to-night. I guess Sid is in," he added, as he heard some one moving about in the room. They entered to find their chum standing on a chair, reaching up to one of the silken banners Tom had hung with such pride. "Here, you old anchorite! What are you doing?" cried Phil. "Why, I'm trying to make this room look decent," said Sid. "You've got it so cluttered up that I can't stand it! Isn't it enough to have pictures stuck all over?" "Here, you let that banner alone!" cried Tom, and he gave such a jerk to the chair on which Sid was standing that the objector to things artistic toppled to the floor with a resounding crash. "I'll punch your head!" he cried to Tom, who promptly ensconced himself behind the bed. "Hurt yourself?" asked Phil innocently. "If you did it's a judgment on you, misogynist that you are." "You dry up!" growled Sid, as he rubbed his shins. Then, peace having finally been restored, they all began studying, while waiting for the summons to supper. When the bell rang, Phil and Tom made a mad rush for the dining-room. "Football practice gives you a fine appetite," observed Phil. "I didn't know you fellows needed any inducement to make you eat," spoke Sid. "Neither we do," said Tom. "But come on, Phil, if he gets there first there'll be little left for us, in spite of his gentle words." "We'll have harder work at practice to-morrow," continued Phil as they sat down at the table. "It will be the first real line-up, and I'm anxious to see how I'll do against Shipman." "He's got Gerhart's place for good, has he?" asked Tom. "It looks so. Pass the butter, will you? Do you want it all?" "Not in the least, bright-eyes. Here; have a prune." "Say, you fellows make me tired," observed Sid. "What's the matter with you lately, old chap?" asked Tom. "You're as grumpy as a bear with a sore nose. Has your girl gone back on you?" "There you go again!" burst out Sid. "Always talking about girls! I declare, since those pictures and things are up in the room, you two have gone daffy! I'll have 'em all down, first thing you know." "If you do, we'll chuck you in the river," promised Phil. Thus, amid much good-natured banter, though to an outsider it might not sound so, the supper went on. There was more hazing that night, in which Phil and Tom had a share, but Sid would not come out, saying he had to study. "Come on, Tom," called Phil the next afternoon, "all out for the first real line-up of the season. I'm going to run the 'varsity against the scrub, and I want to see how I make out." "Has the 'varsity eleven all been picked out?" asked Tom anxiously. "Practically so, though, of course, there will be changes." "I wonder if I----" "You're to go at left-end. Come on, and we'll get our togs on." After a little preliminary practice the two teams were told to line-up for a short game of fifteen-minute halves. Coach Lighton named those who were to constitute a provisional 'varsity eleven, and, to his delight, Tom's name was among the first named. Phil went to quarter, naturally, and several of Tom's chums found themselves playing with him. "Now try for quick, snappy work from the start," was the advice of the coach. "Play as though you meant something, not as if you were going on a fishing trip, and it didn't matter when you got there." The ball was put into play. The 'varsity had it, and under the guidance of Phil Clinton, who gave his signals rapidly, the scrub was fairly pushed up the field, and a little later the 'varsity had scored a touchdown. Goal was kicked, and then the lads were ready for another tussle. The scrub, by dint of extraordinary hard work, managed to keep the ball for a considerable time, making the necessary gains by rushes. "We must hold 'em, fellows!" pleaded Phil, and Captain Holly Cross added his request to that end, in no uncertain words. Shipman, the scrub quarter, passed the pigskin to his right half-back, and the latter hit the line hard. Phil Clinton, seeing an opening, dove in for a tackle. In some way there was a fumble, and Phil got the ball. The next instant Jerry Jackson, who was on the 'varsity, slipped and fell heavily on Phil's right shoulder. The plucky quarter-back stifled a groan that came to his lips, and then, turning over on his back, stretched out white and still on the ground. "Phil's hurt!" cried Holly Cross. "Hold on, fellows!" Tom bent over his chum. He felt of his shoulder. "It's dislocated," he said. "We'd better get the doctor for him, Holly." CHAPTER VIII LANGRIDGE AND GERHART PLOT "Some of you fellows run for Dr. Marshall!" called Mr. Lighton to the throng that gathered about the prostrate lad. "I'll go," volunteered Joe Jackson. "No, let me," said his twin brother. "It was my fault. I slipped and fell on him." "It wasn't any fellow's fault in particular," declared the captain. "It was likely to happen to any one. But suppose you twins both go, and then we'll be sure to have help. If Dr. Marshall isn't in the college, telephone to Haddonfield for one. Phil's shoulder must be snapped back into place." As the twins started off Phil opened his eyes. "Hurt much, old chap?" asked Tom, holding his chum's hand. "No--not--not much," but Phil gritted his teeth as he said it. His shoulder, with the bunch of padding on it, stood out oddly from the rest of his body. "Put some coats under him," ordered the coach. "Shall we carry you inside, Phil?" "No; don't move me. Is my arm broken?" "No; only a dislocation, I guess. You'll be all right in a few days." "Soon enough to play against Boxer Hall, I hope," said Phil with a faint smile. "Of course," declared the coach heartily. "We'll delay the game if necessary." "Here comes Dr. Marshall," called Ed Kerr, as the college physician was seen hurrying across the campus, with the Jersey twins trailing along behind. The doctor, after a brief examination, pronounced it a bad dislocation, but then and there, with the help of the captain and coach, he reduced it, though the pain, as the bone snapped into place, made Phil sick and faint. Then they helped him to his room, where he was soon visited by scores of students, for the quarter-back was a general favorite. "Now I think I will have to establish a quarantine," declared Dr. Marshall, when about fifty lads had been in to see how the patient was progressing. "I don't want you to get a fever from excitement, Clinton. If you expect to get into the game again inside of two weeks, you must keep quiet." "Two weeks!" cried Phil. "If I have to stay out as long as that I'll be so out of form that I'll be no good." "Well, we'll see how the ligaments get along," was all the satisfaction the doctor would give the sufferer. Tom and Sid remained with their chum, and, after the physician had left, they made all sorts of insane propositions to Phil with a view of making him more comfortable. "Shall I read Greek to you?" offered Sid. "Maybe it would take your mind off your trouble." "Greek nothing," replied Phil with a smile. "Haven't I troubles enough without that?" "If I had some cheese I would make a Welsh rarebit," Tom said. "I used to be quite handy at it; not the stringy kind, either." "Get out, you old rounder!" exclaimed Sid. "Welsh rarebit would be a fine thing for an invalid, wouldn't it?" "Well, maybe fried oysters would be better," admitted Tom dubiously. "I could smuggle some in the room, only the measly things drip so, and Proc. Zane has been unusually active of late in sending his scouts around." "I'll tell you what you can do, if you want to," spoke Phil. "What's that?" asked Tom eagerly. "Send word to my sister, over at Fairview. She may hear something about this, and imagine it's worse than it is. I'd like her to get it straight. I got a letter from dad to-day, too, saying mother was a little better. I'd like sis to read it." "I'll go myself, and start right away!" exclaimed Tom enthusiastically. "I can get permission easily enough, for I've been doing good work in class lately. I'll come back on the midnight trolley." "You're awfully anxious to go, aren't you?" asked Sid. "Of course," replied Tom. "Why do you speak so?" "I believe Miss Madge Tyler attends at Fairview," went on Sid to no one in particular, and there was a mocking smile on his face. "Oh, you just wait!" cried Tom, shaking his fist at his chum, who sank down into the depths of the old easy chair, and held up his feet as fenders to keep the indignant one at a distance. "You'll get yours good and proper some day." "Well, if you're going, you'd better start," said Phil. "I forgot, though. You've never met my sister. That's a go!" "Can't you give me a note to her?" asked Tom, who was fertile in expedients where young ladies were concerned. "I guess so. Lucky it's my left instead of my right shoulder that's out of business. Give me some paper, Sid." "Tom doesn't need a note," was the opinion of the amateur woman-hater. "He'll see Miss Tyler, and she'll introduce him." "That's so," agreed Tom, as if he had just thought of it. "That will do first rate. Never mind the note, Phil," and he hurried off, lest something might occur that would prevent his visit. He readily obtained permission to go to Fairview Institute, and was soon hurrying along the river road to catch a trolley car. As he crossed a bridge over the stream, he heard voices on the farther end. It was dusk, now, and he could not see who the speakers were. But he heard this conversation: "Did you hear about Clinton?" "Yes; he's laid up with a bad shoulder. Well, it may be just the chance we want." "That's odd," thought Tom. "I wonder who they can be? Evidently college fellows. Yet how can Phil's injury give them the chance they want?" He kept on, and a moment later came in sight of the speakers. He saw that they were Fred Langridge and Garvey Gerhart. "Good evening," said Tom civily enough, for, though he and Langridge were not on the best of terms, they still spoke. "Off on a lark?" asked the former pitcher with a sneer. "I thought you athletic chaps didn't do any dissipating." "I'm not going to," said Tom shortly, as he passed on. "Do you suppose he heard what we said?" asked Gerhart, as the shadows swallowed up Tom. "No; but it doesn't make much difference. He wouldn't understand. Now, do you think you can do it?" "Of course. What I want to do is to keep him laid up for several weeks. That will give me an opportunity of getting back on the eleven. He was responsible for me being dropped, and now it's my turn." "But are you sure it will work?" "Of course. I know just how to make the stuff. A fellow told me. If we can substitute it for his regular liniment it will do the trick all right." "That part will be easy enough. I can think up a scheme for that. But will it do him any permanent harm? I shouldn't want to get into trouble." "No, it won't harm him any. It will make him so he can't use his arm for a while, but that's what we want. The effects will pass away in about a month, just too late to let him get on the eleven." "All right; if you know what you're doing, I'll help. Now then, where will we get the stuff?" "I know all about that part. But let's get off this bridge. It's too public. Come to a quieter place, where we can talk." "I know a good place. There's a quiet little joint in town, where we can get a glass of beer." "Will it be safe?" "Sure. Come on," and Langridge and his crony disappeared in the darkness, talking, meanwhile, of a dastardly plot they had evolved to disable Phil Clinton. Tom kept on his way to the trolley. "I wonder what Langridge and Gerhart meant?" he thought as he quickened his pace on hearing an approaching car. "Perhaps Gerhart thought he had a chance to get back on the team, because Phil is laid up. But I don't believe he has." But Tom's interpretation of the words he had heard was far from the truth. Phil Clinton was in grave danger. CHAPTER IX SOME GIRLS Tom thought the fifteen-mile trolley ride to Fairview was an unusually long one, but, as a matter of fact, it was soon accomplished, for he caught an express, and about eight o'clock that night arrived in the town where the co-educational institution was located. "Now to find Phil's sister," he said half aloud, as he headed for the college. He knew the way well, for he had been there several times before in the previous spring, when his team played baseball. "Hello, Parsons," a voice greeted him as he was walking up the campus. "Where you bound for?" The speaker was Frank Sullivan, manager of the Fairview ball team. "Oh, I just came over to see what sort of a football eleven you were going to stack up against us this fall," answered Tom easily. "Not very good, I'm afraid," declared Frank. "We're in pretty bad shape. Several of our best men have been hurt in practice." "We've got a few cripples ourselves," said Tom. "Phil Clinton just got laid up with a bad shoulder." "Our half-back is a wreck," added Frank. It is curious, but true, nevertheless, that most football elevens seem to rejoice in the number of cripples they can boast of. The worse the men are "banged up," the better those interested in the team seem to be. It may be that they wish to conceal from other teams their real condition, and so give the enemy a false idea of their strength. However that may be, the fact remains. "So you came over to see how we were doing, eh?" went on Frank. "Well, not very good, I'm afraid. We expect to be the tailenders this season," which was not at all what Frank expected, however, nor did his friends. But he considered it policy to say so. "I didn't come over for that alone," said Tom. "I have a message to Phil's sister. Say, how do you get into the female department of this shebang, anyhow? What's the proper method of procedure? Do I have to have the password and a countersign?" "Pretty nearly. It's like the combination on a safe. The first thing you will have to do is to go and interview Miss Philock." "Who's she?" "The preceptress; and a regular ogress into the bargain. If you pass muster with her first inspection, you'll have to answer a lot of categorical questions covering your whole life history. Then, maybe, she'll consent to take a note from you to the fair damsel." "Can't I see her?" asked Tom in some dismay, for he had counted on meeting Madge Tyler. "See a girl student of Fairview after dark? Why, the idea is preposterous, my dear sir! Perfectly scandalous!" and Frank gave a fair imitation of an indignant lady teacher. "Well, I'll have to send word in," decided Tom, "for I didn't bring a note." "Do you know her personally?" asked Frank. "Who--Miss Philock or Phil's sister?" "Phil's sister?" "No, I don't." "Worse and more of it. I wish you joy of your job. But I'm off. There's going to be some hazing, and I'm on the committee to provide some extra tortures for the freshies. So long. Miss Philock has her den in that red building on your left," and, whistling a merry air, which was utterly out of keeping with Tom's spirits, Frank Sullivan walked away. "Well, here goes," said Tom to himself, as he walked up to the residence of the preceptress and rang the bell. An elderly servant answered his summons, and looked very much surprised at observing a good-looking youth standing on the steps. Tom asked to see Miss Philock, and the servant, after shutting the door, and audibly locking it, walked away. "They must be terribly afraid of me," thought Tom, but further musings were put to an end by the arrival of the preceptress herself. "What do you want, young man?" she asked, and her voice sounded like some file rasping and scraping. "I wish to deliver a message to Miss Ruth Clinton," was Tom's answer. "Who are you?" "I am Thomas Parsons, of Randall College." "Are you any relation to Miss Clinton?" "No; but I room with her brother, and he was slightly hurt in football practice to-day. He wanted me to tell her that it was nothing serious. He also has a letter from his father, that he wished me to deliver." Miss Philock fairly glared at Tom. "That is a very ingenious and plausible answer," said the elderly lady slowly. "I have had many excuses made to me by young gentlemen as reasons for sending messages to young ladies under my care, but this one is the most ingenious I have ever received." "But it's true!" insisted Tom, who perceived that his story was not believed. "That's what they all say," was the calm answer of Miss Philock. Tom was nonplused. He hardly knew what reply to make. "You are evidently a stranger to our rules," went on Miss Philock. "You must go away at once, or I shall notify the proctor," and she was about to close the door. "But," cried Tom desperately, "I have a message for Miss Ruth Clinton!" "Are you a relative of hers?" again asked the preceptress coldly. "No; not exactly," spoke Tom slowly. "That's the way they all say it," she went on. "If you are not a relative you can send her no message." "But can't you tell her what I've told you?" asked the 'varsity pitcher. "She may worry about her brother, and he wants her to have this letter from her father." "How do I know she has a brother?" asked Miss Philock sternly. "I am telling you." "Yes, I know," frigidly. "Other young men have called here to see the young ladies under my charge, and they often pretend to be brothers and cousins, when they were not." "I am not pretending." "I don't know whether you are or not, sir. It has been my experience that you can never trust a young man. I shall have to bid you good evening, though I do you the credit to state that your plan is a very good one. Only, I am too sharp for you, young man. You can send no message to Miss Clinton or any other young lady student under my charge." The door was almost shut. Tom was in despair. At that moment he caught sight of a girlish figure in the hall behind the preceptress. It was Madge Tyler. "Oh, Madge--Miss Tyler!" he cried impulsively, "will you tell Miss Clinton that her brother is not badly hurt. That is, in case she hears any rumors. His shoulder is dislocated, but he's all right." "Why, Mr. Parsons--Tom!" exclaimed the girl in surprise. "What brings you here?" "Young man, what do you mean by disobeying my orders in this manner?" demanded Miss Philock, bristling with anger. "You didn't tell me not to speak to Miss Tyler," said Tom slyly. And he smiled mischievously. "Miss Tyler--do you know her?" "I am an old friend of hers," insisted Tom quickly, his confidence coming back. "Is this true, Miss Tyler?" asked the head instructress. Madge was a bright girl, and a quick thinker. She at once understood Tom's predicament, and resolved to help him out. Perhaps it was as much on her own account as Ruth's--who knows? At any rate, she said: "Why, Miss Philock, Tom Parsons and I have known each other ever since we were children. He is a sort of distant relation of mine. Aren't you, Tom?" "Ye--yes, Madge," he almost stammered. "His mother and my mother are second cousins," went on the girl, which was true enough, though Tom had forgotten it. He did not stop to figure out just what degree of kinship he bore to Madge. He was satisfied to have it as it was. Miss Philock turned to Tom. "If I had known this at first," she said, "I would have allowed you to send a message to Miss Tyler at once. However strongly young gentlemen may insist that they are related to my girls, I never believe them. But if the statement is made by one of my pupils, I never doubt her. In view of the fact that you have come some distance, you may step into the parlor, and speak with Miss Tyler for ten minutes--no longer." She opened the door wider. It was quite a different reception from what Tom had expected, but he was glad enough to see Madge for even that brief period. He followed her into the parlor, while Miss Philock passed down the corridor. "Oh, Tom, I'm so glad to see you!" exclaimed the girl, and she extended both hands, which Tom held just as long as he decently could. "And I'm glad to see you," he declared. "You're looking fine!" "What's this about Ruth's brother?" she asked. "It's true. He was hurt at football practice this afternoon, and he was afraid she'd worry. I told him I'd bring a message to her, and also this letter. It's from her father, about her mother. Will you give it to her?" "Of course. Isn't it too bad about her poor, dear mother? Ruth is such a sweet girl. Have you ever met her?" "I haven't had the pleasure." "I wonder if I'd better introduce you to her," said Madge musingly. "She is very fascinating, and--er--well----" She looked at Tom and laughed. "Can you doubt me?" asked Tom, also laughing, and he bowed low, with his hand on his heart. "Oh, no! Men--especially young men--are never faithless!" she exclaimed gaily. "But how can you present me to her, when the 'ogress,' as I have heard her called, bars the way?" "Hush! She may hear you," cautioned Madge. "Oh, we have 'ways that are dark and tricks that are vain,' I suppose Miss Philock would say. I'll just send a message by wireless, and Ruth will soon be here. I think it will be safe. Philly, as we call her, will be in her office by this time." Madge stepped to the steam pipes in the room, and with her pencil tapped several times in a peculiar way. "That's a code message to Ruth to come down here," she explained. "It's a great system," complimented Tom. "How do you work it?" "Oh, we have a code. Each girl has a number, and we just tap that number on the pipes. You know, you can hear a tap all over the building. Then, after giving the number, we rap out the message, also by numbers. We just _had_ to invent it. You boys have ever so many things that we girls can't, you know. Now tell me all about football. I suppose you will play?" "I hope to." "And Phil--I mean Mr. Clinton, but I call him Phil, because I hear Ruth speak of him so often--I think he plays half-back, doesn't he?" "No; quarter," answered Tom. "I hope to meet him soon," went on Madge. "Ruth has promised---- Oh, here she is now," she interrupted herself to say. "Come in, Ruth, dear. Here is a sort of forty-second cousin of mine, with a message about your brother." Tom looked up, to see a tall, dark, handsome girl entering the room. Behind her came a rather stout, light-haired maiden, with laughing blue eyes. "A message from my brother!" exclaimed Ruth, and she looked at Tom in a manner that made his heart beat rather faster than usual. "Yes, Ruth," went on Madge; "but nothing serious. I'm glad you came down, too, Sarah, dear. I want you to meet my cousin." "I brought Sarah because I was afraid I didn't get your pipe message just right," explained Ruth. "Did you mean you had company you wanted to share with me, or that there was a letter for me? I couldn't find the code book." "It's both," declared Madge with a laugh. "But first let's get the introductions over with," and she presented Tom to Ruth, and then to Miss Sarah Warden, her roommate, as well as Ruth's. "Phil has often spoken to me about you, Miss Clinton," said Tom. "In fact, he has your picture in our room. It doesn't look like you--I mean it doesn't do you justice--that is--er--I--I mean----" "Better stop, Tom," cautioned Madge. "Evidently Ruth has played havoc with you already. You should study more carefully the art of making compliments." "Miss Clinton needs no compliments other than unspoken ones," said Tom, with an elaborate bow. "Oh, how prettily said!" exclaimed Miss Warden. "Madge, why didn't you tell us about your cousin before?" "It's time enough now," was Madge's rejoinder. "But what about my brother?" asked Ruth anxiously. Then Tom told her, and gave her the letter with which Phil had entrusted him. The young people talked gaily for some minutes longer, and then Madge, with a look at the clock, said that it was about time Miss Philock would be back to see that Tom had not overstayed. "What a short ten minutes!" he exclaimed, and he looked full in Ruth Clinton's eyes. "Wasn't it?" she agreed. "However, I hope you will come again--that is--of course you can't come here, but perhaps we--I--er--that is----" She stopped in confusion. "You're almost as bad as Tom was!" declared Madge, and there was just a little change from her former genial tones. She glanced critically at Tom. "I expect to come over again," replied Phil's chum. "And I hope I shall see you then, Miss Clinton--see all of you, of course," he added quickly. "It depends on Miss Philock," said Miss Warden. "Will you be at the Fairview-Randall football game?" asked Tom. "Yes," answered Ruth, for he looked at her. "I shall see you and Madge, then, I hope, only it's a long way off," and Tom sighed just the least bit. Madge raised her eyebrows. She might be pardoned for considering that Tom, in a measure, was her personal property, and now, the first time he had met Ruth, to hear him talk thus, was something of a shock. But she was too proud to show more than a mere hint of her feelings, and Ruth was, for the time being, entirely unaware that her friend was a bit jealous. "Here comes Philly!" exclaimed Sarah Warden, as steps were heard approaching. "You had better go, Mr. Parsons, if you value your reputation." "Yes," spoke Madge; "better go, Tom. Sorry you couldn't stay longer." "So am I," was his answer, and once more he looked straight at Ruth. He had thought Madge very pretty, and, while he did not waver in the least in still thinking her most attractive, he had to admit to himself that Ruth's was of a different style of beauty. "I'm sure I don't know how to thank you for taking the trouble to bring me this message and letter," said Phil's sister, as she held out her hand to Tom. He took it in a firm clasp. "It was only a pleasure," he said. "Next time I hope to bring better news." "Then there is to be a next time?" she asked archly. "Of course," he replied, and laughed. "Hurry, Tom, or Miss Philock may order you out," urged Madge. "You've overstayed your leave as it is, and she may punish us for it. Good-by," and she held out her hand. Tom clasped it, but a careful observer, with a split-second watch, might have noted that he did not hold it quite as long as he had held Ruth's. A few minutes later Tom was out on the campus, walking toward the trolley that would take him to Haddonfield. His brain was in something of a whirl, and his heart was strangely light. "My! but she's pretty!" he exclaimed half aloud. "What fine eyes! I--I---- Oh, well, what's the use of talking to yourself?" And with that sage reflection Tom pursued his silent way. Back in the parlor the three girls stood for a moment. "I like your cousin very much, Madge, dear," said Ruth. "I shouldn't wonder!" exclaimed Madge shortly, and she turned and hurried from the room. Ruth looked at her in some surprise. "Whatever has come over Madge?" asked Sarah Warden. "I can't imagine," replied Ruth, and then, with a thoughtful look on her face, she went to her room. "Humph! I guess I know," murmured Miss Warden, as she followed. CHAPTER X A BOTTLE OF LINIMENT Tom thought of many things as he walked up the silent campus at Randall, and prepared to go to his room. He went over again every happening from the time Miss Philock had grudgingly admitted him at Fairview, until he had bidden Ruth Clinton good-by. Tom had a very distinct mental picture of two girls' faces now, whereas, up to that evening, he had had but one. They were the faces of Ruth and Madge. "Hang it all!" he burst out, as he was on the steps of the west dormitory. "I must be falling in love! This will never do, with the football season about to open. Better cut it out, Tom Parsons!" His musing was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a figure coming quickly from the teachers' residence, which was directly in front of the dormitory building. The figure exclaimed: "Wait a minute, please." "Proctor Zane!" whispered Tom to himself. "He thinks he's caught me. Probably he doesn't know I've got a permit. I'll have some fun with him." A moment later the proctor stood beside Tom. "Are you aware of the hour?" asked Mr. Zane, in what he meant to be a sarcastic tone. "I--I believe it's nearly two o'clock," replied Tom. "I will tell you exactly in a moment, as soon as I look at my watch," and with a flourish he drew his timepiece from his pocket. "It lacks just eight minutes of two," he added. "I didn't ask you the time!" exclaimed the proctor. "I beg your pardon, sir; I thought you did," spoke Tom. "Aren't you getting in rather late?" asked the official, as he drew out his book and prepared to enter Tom's name. "Well, it might be called late," admitted Tom, as if there was some doubt about it. "That is, unless you choose to look at it from another standpoint, and call it early morning. On the whole, I think I prefer the latter method. It is more comforting, Mr. Zane." "None of your impertinence, Parsons!" exclaimed the proctor. "You are out after hours, and you will report to my office directly after chapel. This matter of students staying out must be broken up." "I agree with you," went on Tom easily, "but I'm afraid I can't report to you after chapel to-morrow, or, rather, to-day, Mr. Zane." "You can't? What do you mean, Parsons?" "Why, you see, I have to attend a lecture by Moses--I beg your pardon--Dr. Churchill--at that hour." The proctor, as Tom could see in the light of the hall lamp, as the rays streamed from the glass door of the dormitory, looked pained at the appellation of "Moses" to the venerable head of the college. The boys all called Dr. Churchill that among themselves, though they meant no disrespect. They had evolved the title from his name; from the fact that, as one of the first students put it, the original Moses went up on a hill to establish the first church--hence Church--Hill; and thus "Moses." "I am sure Dr. Churchill will excuse you when he knows the circumstances, Parsons," went on the proctor with a malicious smile. "You will report to me for being out after hours without permission." "Oh, but I have permission," spoke Tom, as he drew out a note which the president had given him. "I beg your pardon for not mentioning it before. Very stupid of me, I'm sure," and this time it was Tom's turn to grin. The proctor looked at the permit, saw that it was in regular form, and knew that he was beaten. Without a word he turned and went back to his apartments, but the look he gave Tom augured no good to the talented pitcher. Tom went to his room, chuckling to himself. "Well?" asked Phil, who was not asleep when Tom entered. "Did you see Ruth?" "Yes, old chap. It's all right," and Tom told something of his visit--that is, as much as he thought Phil would care to know. "Your sister and Miss Tyler are both sorry you were laid up," he went on. "I guess I'll be out inside of a week," said Phil. "The doc was here a while ago, and left some new liniment that he said would soften up the strained muscles and ligaments. I tried some, and I feel better already. Say, put that blamed alarm clock out in the hall, will you? I can't sleep with the ticking of it." Tom did so, and then undressed. He turned the light down low, and, as he put on his pajamas, he knew, by the regular breathing of Phil, that the injured lad had fallen into a slumber. Sid, too, was sound asleep. Tom sat down on the old sofa, sinking far down into the depths of the weak springs. It creaked like an old man uttering his protest against rheumatic joints, and, in spite of the new leg Phil had put on and the strengthening boards, it threatened to collapse. Tom sat there in the half darkness dreaming--reflecting of his visit to Fairview. He imagined he could see, in the gloom of a distant corner, a fair face--which one was it? "Oh, I've got to cut this out," he remarked, and then he extinguished the light and got into bed. The next day was Saturday, and as several of the football squad were a little lame, Coach Lighton only put them through light practice. Thus the absence of Phil was not felt. He was much better, the new liniment working like a charm. One afternoon, a few days later, Tom and Sid went for a walk, Tom as a matter of training, and Sid because he wanted to get some specimens for use in his biology class. They strolled toward the town of Haddonfield, and shortly after crossing the bridge over Sunny River, saw on the road ahead of them two figures. "There are Langridge and Gerhart," remarked Tom. "Yes," spoke Sid. "They're quite chummy for a freshman and a sophomore. Langridge tried to save Gerhart from being hazed, but the fellows wouldn't stand for it." "I should say not. He ought to take his medicine the same as the rest of us had to. But look, they don't seem to want to meet us." As Tom spoke, Langridge and his crony suddenly left the road and took to the woods which lined the highway on either side. "I wonder what they did that for?" went on Tom. "Oh, I guess they don't like our style," was Sid's opinion. "We're not sporty enough for them." But it was not for this reason that Langridge and Gerhart did not want to meet their two schoolmates. "Lucky we saw them in time," observed Gerhart to the other, as he and Langridge sneaked along. "They might have asked us why we had gone to town." "We shouldn't have told them. I guess they won't pay much attention to us. Are you going to work the trick to-day?" "To-night, if I have a chance. There's going to be a meeting of the glee club, and Tom and Sid both will go. That will leave Phil alone in the room, and I can get in and make the change." "Be careful you're not caught. It's a risky thing to do." "I know it, but it's worth the risk if I can get back on the team. Besides, it won't hurt Clinton much." "Well, it's your funeral, not mine. You've got to stand for it all. I did my share helping plan it. You'll have to take the blame." "I will. Don't worry." "But what puzzles me is how Clinton can help knowing it when you change the liniment. As soon as he uses it he'll see that something is wrong, and he'll recall that you were in the room." "Oh, no, he won't. You see, the two liquids are so nearly alike that it's hard to tell the difference. Then, the beauty of it is that the one I'm going to put in place of his regular liniment doesn't take effect for twelve hours. So he'll never connect me with his trouble." "All right. It's up to you. But come on, let's get out on the road again. I don't fancy tramping through the woods." They emerged at a point some distance back of Tom and Sid, who continued their walk. "Did I tell you I met Langridge and Gerhart the night I went to see Phil's sister?" asked Tom after a pause. "No. What were they doing?" Tom related the conversation he had heard, and gave his speculations as to what Gerhart could have meant. "I guess he's counting on Phil being laid up so long that he can have his place at quarter-back," was Sid's opinion, and Tom agreed. The specimens of unfortunate frogs, to be used in biology, were stowed away in a box Sid carried, and then he and Tom turned back to college. That night they went to a rehearsal of the glee club. "Do you mind staying alone, old chap?" asked Tom of Phil as they prepared to depart. "Not a bit. Glad to get rid of you. I can move about the room, doc says, and it isn't so bad as it might be. I'll be glad to be alone, so I can think." "All right. So long, then." It was quiet in the room after Tom and Sid had departed. Phil tried to read, but he was too nervous, and took no interest in the book. It was out of the question to study, and, as his shoulder ached, he went back to bed again. He was in a half doze, when the door opened and Gerhart entered the room. "Hope I didn't disturb you, old chap," he began with easy familiarity--entirely too easy, for a freshman, Phil thought with a scowl. "Parsons and Henderson out?" asked Gerhart, as if he did not know it. "Yes, at the meeting of the glee club," answered Phil shortly. "That's so. I'd forgotten. Well, here's a note for Parsons. Will you see that he gets it?" And Gerhart walked over to the table and laid an envelope down. There was a miscellaneous collection on the table. Among other things was a bottle of liniment which the doctor had left for Phil. "I'll just leave the note here," went on Gerhart. "That's a swell picture over your bed," he said quickly, pointing to a sporting print that hung over Phil's cot. Naturally, the injured lad turned to see where Gerhart pointed. "Oh, it will do very well," he answered. He rather resented this familiarity on the part of a freshman. Still, as Gerhart had called to leave a note for Tom, Phil could not order him out, as he felt like doing. When Phil turned his head back toward the middle of the room the visitor was standing near the door. "I guess I'll be going," he said. "Hope you'll be out soon. I'm going to make another try with Lighton, and see if he won't let me play." "Um!" spoke Phil, as he turned over to doze. Gerhart, with an ugly smile on his face, hurried to his room in the east dormitory. Langridge was waiting for him there. "Well?" asked the former pitcher. "It's done!" exulted Gerhart, producing from beneath his coat a bottle that had contained liniment. "I threw the stuff out, and now I'll get rid of the bottle. I guess Phil Clinton won't play football any more this season!" He put the bottle far back on a closet shelf. "Why don't you throw that away?" asked Langridge. "I may need it," answered Gerhart. "I'll save it for a while." CHAPTER XI IN WHICH SOME ONE BECOMES A VICTIM When Sid and Tom, after glee club practice that night, were ascending the stairs to their floor, Sid stumbled, about half way up the flight. To save himself from a fall he put out his left hand, and came down heavily on it. As he did so he uttered an exclamation of pain. "What's the matter?" asked Tom. "Gave my thumb a fierce wrench! It hurts like blazes! Why didn't you tell me I was going to fall, and I'd have stayed in to-night?" he asked half humorously. "I'm not a prophet," replied Tom. "But come on to the room, and we'll put some arnica on it. I've got some." Holding his injured thumb tightly in his other hand, Sid finished climbing the stairs, declaiming, meanwhile, against his bad luck. "Oh, you're a regular old woman!" exclaimed Tom. "Pretty soon it'll be so bad that if you see a black cat cross your path you won't go to lectures." "I wish I had a black cat to use when I'm due in Latin class," spoke Sid. "Positively I get more and more rotten at that blamed stuff every day! I need a black cat, or something. Wow! How my thumb hurts!" "Get out!" cried Tom. "Many a time on first base I've seen you stop a hot ball, and never say a word." "That's different," declared his chum. "Hurry up and get out your arnica." "Say, you fellows make noise enough," grumbled Phil at the entrance of his roommates. "What's the matter?" "Oh, Sid tried to go upstairs on his hands, and he didn't make out very well," replied Tom. "I've got two patients on my list now. How are you, Phil?" "Oh, so-so. Gerhart was here a while ago." "He was? What did he want?" "Left a note for you. It's on the table." "Humph! Invitation to a little spread he's going to give. Didn't you fellows get any?" spoke Tom as he read it. "No; and I don't want one," from Phil. "And I'm not going," declared Tom. "Gerhart is too much of a cad for me." "Insufferably so!" added Phil. "The little puppy gave himself such airs in here that I wanted to kick him out. But I wasn't going to say anything, for I thought you might be getting chummy with him, Tom, seeing that he left the note for you." "No, indeed. I don't know what his object is, nor why he should invite me. He and Langridge are a pair, and they can stick together," and Tom wadded up the invitation and threw it into the waste basket. "Say, if you're going to get the arnica, I wish you'd get a move on," implored Sid, who was stretched out on the sofa. "This hurts me worse than not knowing my Virgil when I'm called on in Pitchfork's class." "Then it can't hurt very much," said Phil. "Let's see it." Sid held out a hand, the thumb of which was beginning to swell. "Why don't you use some of my liniment instead of arnica for it?" proposed Phil. "It's just the stuff for a sprain. Here, pour some on your hand," and Phil, whose left arm was in a sling, handed Sid the bottle from the table. Sid poured a generous quantity on his thumb. "Look out for the rug!" exclaimed Tom. "Do you want to spoil it?" for the liniment was dripping from Sid's hand. "Spoil it? Spoil this tattered and torn specimen of a fake oriental?" queried Sid with a laugh. "Say, if we spread molasses on it the thing couldn't look much worse than it does. I've a good notion to strike for a new one." "Don't," begged Phil. "We don't have to clean our feet when we come in now, and if we had a new rug we'd feel obliged to." "All right, have it your own way," remarked Tom. "But you've got enough liniment on there for two thumbs. Here, give me the bottle, and rub what's on your hand in where the swelling is." Sid extended the bottle to Tom. Phil, who was holding the cork, endeavored to insert it during the transfer. The result was a fumble, the phial slipped from Sid's grasp, Tom made a grab for it, but missed, and Phil, with only one good hand, could do nothing. The bottle crashed to the floor and broke, the liniment running about in little rivulets from a sort of central lake. "Now you have done it!" exclaimed Tom. "Who?" demanded Sid. "You and Phil. Why didn't you let me do the doctoring? You two dopes aren't able to look after yourselves! Look at the rug now!" "It was as much your fault as ours," declared Sid. "Why didn't you grab the bottle?" "Why didn't you hand it to me? I like your nerve!" "That's a nice spot on a rug," said Phil in disgust. "It adds to the beauty," declared Sid. "It just matches the big grease spot on the other side, which was left as a souvenir by the former occupants of this study. They must have made a practice of dropping bread and butter on the floor about eight nights a week. But say, if you want to do something, Tom, rub this stuff into my thumb, will you?" "Sure; wait until I pick up this broken glass. I don't want to cut my feet on it, in case I should take to walking in my sleep." He was soon vigorously massaging Sid's injured hand, using a piece of flannel as directed by Phil, and was given a vote of thanks for the professional manner in which he did it. "I'm sorry about your liniment, Phil," said Tom. "It's all gone. The only thing I see for you to do is to cut out that piece of the rug where it has soaked in, and bind it on your shoulder." "Oh, it doesn't matter. I won't need any more to-night, and to-morrow I'll get some more from the doctor." Sid was the first to awaken the next morning. A peculiar sensation about his injured hand called his attention to it. He pulled it from under the covers and glanced at it. Then he tried to bend the fingers. They were as stiff as pieces of wood. So was the thumb. It was as if it had been encased in a plaster cast. "I say, you fellows!" called Sid in some alarm. "What's the matter?" inquired Tom. "Don't you know it's Sunday, and we can sleep as long as we like?" "Look at my hand! Look at it!" exclaimed Sid tragically. "I can't use it!" Something in his tones made Tom get up. He strode over to the bed. "Say, that is mighty queer," he remarked, as he tried to bend Sid's fingers, and could not. "You must have given yourself a fearful knock." "Or else that liniment wasn't the right thing for it," added Phil, sitting up. "Better call the doc." CHAPTER XII THE FIRST GAME The three chums looked at each other. Phil felt of Sid's curiously stiffened hand. "I don't see how it could be the liniment," he said. "I've used it right along. It's the same thing doc gave me. You must have hurt your hand worse than you thought." "I guess I did," admitted Sid. So skilfully had Gerhart carried out his dastardly plot that even his unusual visit to the room of the trio attached no suspicion to him. The breaking of the bottle of liniment destroyed one link in the chain against him, and it would be difficult to trace anything to Gerhart now. Dr. Marshall looked grave when he saw Sid's hand. "That is very unusual," he said. "It must have been something you put on it. The muscles and tendons have been stiffened. There is a drug which will do that, but it is comparatively rare. It is sometimes used, in connection with other things, to keep down swelling, but never to soften a strain. Are you sure you used only the liniment I left for Clinton?" "That's all," declared Tom. "Let me see the bottle," said the physician, as he twirled his glasses by their cord and looked puzzled. "We can't; it's all gone," explained Phil, and he told of the accident. "Humph! Very strange," mused Dr. Marshall. "I'm afraid you'll not be able to use your hand for a month, Henderson. You have every indication of having used the peculiar drug I speak of, yet you say you did not, and I don't see how you could have, unless it got in the liniment by mistake. And that it did not is proved by the fact that Clinton used the same liniment without any ill effects. Only that Parsons used a rag to rub with, his hand would be out of commission, too. It is very strange. I wish there was some of the liquid left. I will see the druggist who put it up. Possibly he can explain it." "Well, I'm glad I didn't put any on my shoulder," said Phil. "It would have been all up with me and football, then." "It certainly would," admitted Dr. Marshall. "Let me look at your dislocation." "When can I get into the game again?" asked Phil anxiously, after the inspection. "Humph! Well, I think by the middle of the week. It is getting along better than I expected. Yes, if you pad it well you may go into light practice to-morrow, and play in a game the end of the week." "Good!" cried Phil. "Then's when we tackle Fairview Institute for the first game of the season!" The next day a notice was posted on the bulletin board in the gymnasium, stating that the 'varsity eleven would line up against the scrub that afternoon in secret practice. Then followed a list of names of those selected to play on the first team. It was as follows: _Left-end_ TOM PARSONS _Left-tackle_ ED KERR _Left-guard_ BOB MOLLOY _Center_ SAM LOOPER _Right-guard_ PETE BACKUS _Right-tackle_ BILLY HOUSENLAGER _Right-end_ JOE JACKSON _Quarter-back_ PHIL CLINTON _Right half-back_ DAN WOODHOUSE _Left half-back_ JERRY JACKSON _Full-back_ HOLLY CROSS "Hurrah, Tom! You're at left-end!" cried Phil, who, with his chum, was reading the bulletin. "I'm glad of it. Are you all right for practice?" "Sure. Come on; let's get into our togs." On the outer fringe of football players stood Langridge and Gerhart. There was surprise on their faces at the sight of Phil getting ready to play. "Something went wrong," whispered Langridge to his crony. "Your scheme didn't work." "I see it didn't," admitted Gerhart with a scowl. "I wonder where the slip was?" But when he heard of the peculiar ailment from which Sid Henderson suffered, Gerhart knew. "I lost that chance," he said to Langridge, "but I may see another to get square with Clinton, and, when I do, I'll not fail. It's too late, maybe, for me to get in the game now, but I'll put him out of it, and don't you forget it!" Phil was a little stiff in practice, but he soon warmed up, and the 'varsity eleven played the scrub "all over the field." "That's what I like to see," complimented the coach. "Now, boys, play that way against Fairview on Saturday, and you'll open the season with a victory. I want you to win. Then we'll have a better chance for the championship. The schedule is different from the baseball one, you know. We don't play so many games with Boxer Hall and Fairview as we did in the spring, consequently each one counts more. Now I'm going to give you some individual instruction." Which the coach did very thoroughly, getting at the weak spots in each man's playing, and commenting wisely on it, at the same time showing him how he ought to play his position. There was practice in passing the ball, falling on it, kicking and tackling. "We want to do considerable work in the forward pass and the on-side kick this season," the coach went on. "I think you are doing very well. Parsons, don't forget to put all the speed you can into your runs, when getting down on kicks. "You Jersey twins don't want to be watching each other so. I know you are fond of one another, but try to forget that you are brothers, and be more lively in the game." Jerry and Joe Jackson joined in the laugh that followed. "As for you, Snail Looper," continued Coach Lighton, giving the center the name he had earned from his habit of prowling about nights and moving at slow speed, "you are doing fairly well, but be a little quicker. Try to forget that you're a relative of the _Helix Mollusca_. You backs, get into plays on the jump, and take advantage of the momentum. That's the way to smash through the line. Now then, we'll try signals again. Clinton, keep a cool head. Nothing is worse than getting your signals mixed, and you fellows, if you don't understand exactly what the play is, call for the signal to be repeated. That will save costly fumbles. Now line up again." They went through the remainder of the practice with a snap and vim that did the heart of the coach and the captain good. The scrub team was pretty well worn out when a halt was called. "Do you think you will beat Fairview?" asked Ford Fenton of Tom a little later, when the left-end and Phil were on their way to supper, after a refreshing shower bath. "I hope so, Ford. But you never can tell. Football is pretty much a gamble." "Yes, I suppose so. But my uncle says----" "Say, are you going to keep that up this term?" demanded Phil wearily. "If you are, I'm going to apply to the courts for an injunction against you and your uncle." "Well," continued Fenton with an injured air, "he was football coach here for some time, and my uncle says----" "There he goes again!" cried Tom. "Step on him, Phil!" But Ford, with a reproachful look, turned aside. "I don't see why there's such a prejudice against my uncle," he murmured to himself. But there wasn't. It was against the manner in which the nephew ceaselessly harped on what his relative said, though Ford was never allowed to tell what it was. The Randall eleven was fairly on edge when they indulged in light practice Saturday morning, preparatory to leaving for Fairview, where the first game of the season was to take place. "Feel fit, Tom?" asked Sid, who had to carry his left hand in a sling. Dr. Marshall had been unable to learn anything from the druggist that put up the liniment, and the cause for the queer stiffness remained undiscovered. "As fit as a fiddle," replied the lad. "How about you, Phil?" "I'm all to the Swiss cheese, as the poet had it. Is it about time to start?" "Nearly. We're going in a special trolley. Does your shoulder pain you any?" "Not a bit." "I suppose--er--that is--er--your sister will be at the game?" ventured Tom. "Of course. She's as daffy about it as I am. If she had been a boy she'd have played. Miss Tyler will be there, of course?" Phil questioned in turn. "I don't know--I suppose so," answered Tom. "Oh, of course. She and your sister will probably go together." "Yes, they're great chums. I wonder why I didn't get a letter from dad to-day? He promised to write every night. I ought to have received one. I'd like to know how my mother is." "Well, no news is good news," quoted Tom. "Let's start. I get nervous when I have to sit around." There was a large crowd on the grandstand at the Fairview gridiron when the Randall team arrived. The seats were rapidly filling up, and when, a little later, the visiting eleven trotted out for practice, they were received with a burst of cheers. "What's the matter with Randall?" demanded Bean Perkins, who had been christened "Shouter" from the foghorn quality of his tones. He generally led the college cheering and singing. Back came the usual reply that nothing whatever ailed Randall. "There's a good bunch out," observed Tom to Phil as they passed the ball back and forth. "Look at the girls! My, what a lot of them!" "And all pretty, too," added Phil. "At least, I know one who is." "Who?" "Miss Tyler." "I know another," spoke the left-end. "Who's that?" "Your sister. She's prettier than the photograph." "You'd better tell her so." "I did." "Whew! It doesn't take you long to get down to business. But come on. They're going to line up for practice," and the two ran over to join their teammates. What a mass of color the grandstands and bleachers presented! Mingled with the youths and men were girls and women in bright dresses, waving brighter-hued flags. There were pretty girls with long horns, tied with streamers of one college or the other. There were more pretty girls with long canes, from which flew ribbons of yellow and maroon--Randall's colors. There were grave men who wore tiny footballs on their coat lapels, a knot of ribbon denoting with which college they sided. Massed in one stand were the cheering students of Randall, bent on making themselves heard above the songs and yells of their rivals. Nor were the girls of Fairview at all backward in giving vent to their enthusiasm. They had songs and yells of their own, and, under the leadership of Madge Tyler, were making themselves heard. Tom, in catching a long kick, ran close to the stand where the Fairview girls were massed. Madge was down in front, getting ready to lead them in a song. "Hello!" cried Tom to her, as he booted the pigskin back to Ed Kerr. "Sorry I can't cheer for you this time!" called Madge brightly. "Well, I'm sorry we will have to push the Fairview boys off the field," retorted Tom. "Oh, are you going to do that?" asked a girl behind Madge, and Tom, who had been vainly looking for her, saw Ruth Clinton. "Sorry, but we have to," he replied. "Aren't you ashamed to cheer against your own brother?" "Oh, I guess Phil is able to look after himself," said Ruth. "Is his shoulder all right, Mr. Parsons?" "Doing nicely." Just then the referee's whistle blew to summon the players from practice. "I'll see you after the game," called Tom, and as he glanced from Ruth to Madge, he saw the latter regarding him rather curiously from her brown eyes. With a queer feeling about the region where he imagined his heart to be, he ran across the field. "Remember--fast, snappy play!" was the last advice from Coach Lighton. "You're going to win, boys. Don't forget that!" From the stand where the Randall supporters were gathered came that enthusing song--the song they always sang at a big game--"_Aut vincere aut mori_"--"Either we conquer or we die!" "Keep cool and smash through 'em," spoke Captain Cross to his players, as the referee and other officials took their places. It was Fairview's kick-off, and a moment later the ball came sailing through the air. Holly Cross caught it, and, well protected by interference, began to rush it back. But the Fairview players, by amazing good play, managed to get through, and Holly was downed after a run back of twenty yards. "Now, boys, all together!" called Phil, as he eagerly got into place behind big Snail Looper, who was bending over the ball. Then the quarter-back rattled off a string of signals for Jerry Jackson, the left half-back, to take the ball through the opposing left tackle and end. Back came the ball, accurately snapped by the center. Jerry Jackson was on the alert and took it from Phil as he passed him on the run. Kindlings Woodhouse smashed in to make a hole for his brother back, who closely followed. Captain Cross, on the jump, took care of the opposing left-end, and with a crash that was heard on the grandstand, one of the Jersey twins hit the line. The game was fairly begun. CHAPTER XIII SMASHING THE LINE "First down!" came the encouraging cry, when the mass of players had become disentangled, and Jerry Jackson was seen to still have possession of the ball. He had made a great gain. "Now, once more, fellows!" called Phil. "Smash the line to pieces!" Again there came a play, this time with Holly Cross endeavoring to go between center and guard. But, unexpectedly, he felt as if he had hit a stone wall. Fairview had developed unusual strength. There was no gain there. But Phil thought he knew the weakness of the opposing team, and he decided for another try at line bucking. There would still be time for kicking on the third down, and he wanted his team to have the ball as long as possible early in the game. This time he signaled for Dutch Housenlager, who was at right tackle, to go through left tackle. The play was well executed, but Dutch was a little slow at hitting the line, and after a slight advance he was held, and only five yards were gained. Randall must kick, and the yells of delight that had greeted her first advance were silenced, while the supporters of the co-educational academy prepared to encourage their players by vocal efforts. Holly Cross booted the ball well up into the enemy's territory. Tom, and Joe Jackson, the ends, were down like tigers, but they could not break through the well-organized interference that surrounded Roger Barnes, the Fairview full-back. On he rushed until Phil, pluckily breaking through, tackled him fiercely. "Now see how we can hold 'em!" called Holly Cross to his men, and they all braced, ready for the smash they knew would come. Nor was it long delayed. Right at the center of the line came Lem Sellig, the Fairview left half-back. But he met Snail Looper's solid flesh, supported by Phil and the three other backs. Yet, in spite of this, Lem managed to advance. "Hold! hold!" pleaded Holly, and, with gritting teeth and tense muscles, his men did hold. But ten yards had been gained. Fairview was not as easy as had been hoped. Once more the line-smashing occurred, but this time not for such a gain, and on the next try Fairview was forced to kick. "Right down the line, now!" called Phil, and, as if the cheering contingent understood, Bean Perkins, with his foghorn voice, started the song: "Take it to the Goal Posts, Boys!" It had been decided, before the game, that Randall would attempt only straight football, at least during the first half. Coach Lighton wisely advised against trick plays so early in the season, as there were a number of comparatively new men on the eleven. So Phil, when his side had the ball again, called for more line-smashing, and his men responded nobly. They advanced the ball to the twenty-five yard line, and, though tempted to give the signal for a goal from the field, Phil refrained, as there was a quartering wind blowing. He did signal for a fake kick play, however, feeling that he was justified in it, and to his horror there was a fumble. Fairview broke through and captured the ball. Dejected and almost humiliated, Randall lined up to receive a smashing attack, but instead Fairview kicked, for her captain was nervous, and feared the holding powers of his opponent's line. "Now we've got 'em!" yelled Phil, as Holly Cross began running back with the pigskin. The Fairview ends were right on hand, however, and broke through the interference, so that Holly was downed ere he had covered ten yards. But it gave Randall the ball, and then, with a grim determination to smash or be smashed, the lads went at the Fairview line hammer and tongs. They rushed the ball to the ten-yard line this time, and then came a rapid succession of sequence plays, no signals being given. Indeed, had Phil yelled the numbers and letters through a megaphone, they could hardly have been heard, so tumultuous was the cheering of the Randall supporters. Against such whirlwind playing as this the Fairview line crumpled and went to pieces. Slam-bang at it came first Holly Cross, then Kindlings, and then Jerry Jackson. The latter, by a great effort, managed to wiggle along the last few inches, and placed the ball over the final white mark. "Touch-down!" yelled Tom Parsons, and a touch-down it was. How the cheers broke forth then! What a riot of color from the grandstands! How the flags, ribbons and banners waved! How the gay youths and grave men yelled themselves hoarse! How the girls' shrill voices sounded over the field! The goal was missed on account of the strong wind, and once more the play started in. There was more line-smashing and some kicking, yet the half ended with the score five to nothing in favor of Randall. There was much talk in the dressing-room of the Randall players during the intermission. Some of the players pleaded for the trial of trick plays which they had practiced, but Coach Lighton insisted on line-smashing. "I know it is more tiresome," he said, "but it will be better practice for you now. You need straight football early in the season. Clinton, how is your shoulder holding out?" "Fine. It doesn't hurt me at all." As only minor hurts had resulted from the play of the first half, no change was made in the line-up. Once more, when the whistle blew, did the whirlwind work begin. There was a noticeable difference in the style of Fairview. They had put in some new men, and were playing a kicking game. They were holding better in the line, too. The result was that after several minutes of play, during which the ball had changed hands several times, the Randall players were tiring. It was what the wily captain of the Fairview team had counted on. Then he sent his men smashing the line, and to the grief of Holly Cross he saw his men being pushed back. In vain did he appeal to them--even reviled them--for not holding their ground. But it was impossible, and, following a sensational run around right end, Joe Jackson missing an easy tackle of Lem Sellig, the latter player made a touch-down. This time it was the chance for the Fairview supporters to cheer and yell, and they did it, the singing contingent rendering with much effect: "We Have Old Randall's Scalp Now." The score was tied, as Fairview failed to kick goal, and at it they went again, smash and hammer, hammer and smash. Phil called for a trick play, and it worked well, but the gain was small, and a little later the ball went to Fairview on a penalty. Then came the surprise of the day. On a forward pass the pigskin was taken well toward Randall's goal line, and after the down Ted Puder, the husky left-tackle, was shoved over for another touch-down. The stands fairly trembled under the cheers, yells and excited stamping of the co-educationals. The girls sang a song of victory, and the Randall players, with woe-begone faces, gathered behind their goal posts. There was a futile attempt to block the kick, but the spheroid sailed over the bar. The score was eleven to five against Randall. CHAPTER XIV "GIRLS ARE QUEER" "Now, fellows, we can win, or at least tie the score yet," remarked Captain Cross, as his players were sent back to the middle of the field for another kick-off. "Smash through 'em! Phil, try our forward pass and on-side kick." "There are only five minutes more of play," said Tom, who heard that from the timekeeper. "Never mind, we can do it. Tie the score, anyhow!" But it was not to be. Smash through the line though her players did, for there seemed no stopping them, successful as the forward pass was, and with the gain netted by an on-side kick, Randall could do no better than to carry the ball to the Fairview ten-yard line. There might have been a try for a field goal, but Phil decided there was no chance for it, whereas bucking the line was almost a sure thing. His men were doing magnificent work, for they had carried the ball continuously from the middle of the field without loss. Two minutes more of play would have given them a touch-down, but the fatal whistle blew, and with a groan the Randall players knew their last hope was gone. There came the usual cheers and college yells for the vanquished from the victors, and the return of the compliment. Then the downcast Randall lads filed slowly across the gridiron. They were sad at heart, and Coach Lighton noticed it. "Fellows, you did magnificent work!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "You really did!" "All except winning," said Tom gloomily. "I think we played rotten!" burst out Phil, who seemed to take it much to heart. "And I let Sellig get around me, and missed tackling him," said Joe Jackson, fairly groaning. "That cost us the game." "Nonsense!" exclaimed Captain Cross, who knew the danger of despondency. "You did all right, Joe; and the other Jersey twin shone like a star on a dark night. We're all right." "Yes, except for what ails us," added Dutch Housenlager, making a playful attempt to trip up Tom. "Here! Quit that!" exclaimed the left-end in no gentle voice. Coach Lighton noticed it. Tom, as well as the others, was "on edge." It would not need much more to demoralize the team. He must stop the growing feeling. "Fellows," he exclaimed, "you're all right! I know what I'm talking about. I've coached teams before, and I say that for the first game of the season you did all that could be expected. I'm proud of you. I----" "A thing like this happened once before," said a voice at the elbow of the coach. "My uncle says----" But Ford Fenton got no further, for Dutch Housenlager, putting out his foot, neatly tripped the offending one, and the rest of his sentence was mumbled to the grass. "Serves him right!" exclaimed Tom, and in the laugh that followed the nervous, disappointed feeling of the team, in a measure, passed off. "Fairview has a good team," went on Coach Lighton. "I give them credit for that. But we have a better one, and now that we know their style of play and their weakness we can beat them next game. We'll have another chance at them." "And we'll wipe up the gridiron with 'em!" cried Holly Cross. "Forget it, fellows! Let's sing 'Marching to the Goal Posts,'" which they did with such a vim that the spirits of all were raised many degrees. "Well, Phil," remarked Tom, as he was getting off his football togs, "we were sort of up against it, eh?" "Oh, it might have been worse. But the way the fellows rushed the ball up the field the last five minutes was a caution. It was like a machine." "Yes; we ought to have done that first." "That's right. By the way, I'm going to see my sister. Want to come along?" "Sure!" exclaimed Tom with such eagerness that Phil remarked dryly: "I don't know that she'll be with Madge Tyler." "Oh--er--that is--that's all right," said Tom hastily, and he swallowed quickly. "I'll go along." "All right," said Phil. They finished dressing, and went across the field to where a crowd of spectators was still congregated. "Think you can find her in this bunch?" asked Tom, but he was taking no chances, for he himself was keeping a sharp lookout for a certain fair face. "Oh, I guess so. If I don't spot her she'll glimpse me. Girls are great for finding people in a crowd. Sis always seems to do it." "Oh, Phil!" called a voice a moment later, and Ruth Clinton hurried up to her brother, gaily waving a Fairview flag. She was followed by Madge Tyler, who also had her college colors with her. "How's your shoulder?" asked Ruth anxiously. "I was so nervous that I couldn't bear to look at the plays." "Yes, you've got a lot of ruffians on your team," retorted her brother. "They don't know how to play like gentlemen." "But they know how to win!" exclaimed Madge, as she greeted her chum's brother. "That's right," admitted Phil, making a rueful face. "I'm sorry I had to cheer against you and Mr. Parsons to-day," went on Madge, as she looked at Phil. "I really--well, of course I can't say I really wanted to you to win against Fairview, but I wish the score had been even." "There's no satisfaction in that," retorted Tom. "We lost, and they won, fairly and squarely." "Oh, I'm glad you admit that," spoke Ruth with a laugh, and she waved her flag in Tom's face. He made a grab for it, and caught the end of the cane. For an instant he stood thus, looking into the laughing, mischievous eyes of Ruth Clinton. "Do you want it?" she asked daringly. "Yes," said Tom, "even though it is the color of the enemy." "What will you give me for it?" she asked. "My colors," said Tom, taking a small knot of yellow and maroon from his coat lapel. "We'll exchange until the victory goes the other way about." "All right," she agreed laughingly. "Don't forget, now. Mr. Parsons." "I'll not," he assured her, and he turned to see Madge regarding him curiously. Her eyes shifted away quickly as they met his. "Heard from dad?" asked Phil, who had been an amused witness to the little scene. "Yes, I have a letter with me," answered his sister. "Here it is," and she handed it to Phil. "Mother is some better." "That's good. Do you have to get right back to college, or have you girls time to go down the street and have some soda?" asked Phil. "Oh, we'll make time to go with _you_!" exclaimed Madge, and she accented the last word. Tom looked at her keenly. "Come on, then," invited Phil, and, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, he swung alongside of Madge, leaving Tom to walk with Ruth. Nor was Tom at all slow to take advantage of this arrangement, though for a brief instant he hardly knew whether or not he ought to go with her, considering how friendly Madge had been with him since she gave up going with Langridge. "How does it feel to lose?" asked Ruth, as she walked with Tom. "Not very good," he answered, as he listened to Madge's gay laugh at something Phil said. He was reflecting how well she got along with the handsome quarter-back. But Tom was not unaware of the charms of the pretty girl at his side. They talked on many subjects during the walk to town, and Tom felt like a chap who has had offered to him the choice of two most delightful companions, and cannot tell which one he likes best. Ruth was certainly an attractive girl, and her jolly laugh--but just then he heard the rippling tones of Madge's voice. "Oh, hang it all!" he thought to himself. "What am I up against?" They spent a jolly afternoon before it was time for Tom and Phil to start back to Randall. "I hope you'll come over again--soon," said Ruth to her brother as they were about to part. "I will, if Miss Tyler will second your invitation," replied Phil. "Of course I will," said Madge heartily. "Can't I come, too?" asked Tom. "Of course," answered Ruth promptly. "I shall expect you to report to me on the condition of my colors." "Oh, of course," was Tom's remark. Then he waited for Madge to say something to him, but she turned away without a word. Yet Tom could not forget that she had added her invitation to that of Ruth in regard to Phil. Whereat, wondering over some matters on the way home, Tom said to his chum: "Girls are queer, aren't they?" "Are you just finding that out?" asked the quarter-back. "I guess so," was what Tom said. CHAPTER XV PHIL SAVES WALLOPS They were talking the game over in their room--Phil, Sid and Tom. Sid, from the effects of the strong liquid which Gerhart had substituted for the liniment, still had to carry his hand in a sling, but the fingers were slowly losing their stiffness. "Where you fellows made a mistake," Sid was saying, as he moved about on the creaking old sofa to get into a more comfortable position, "where you fellows made a mistake was in not doing more kicking early in the game." "Oh, I suppose you could have run things better than Phil did?" suggested Tom, not altogether pleasantly. "Not better, but different. You should have tired them out, and then smashed their line all to pieces." "It wasn't altogether such easy smashing as you would suppose, sitting and watching the game from the grandstand, was it, Tom?" came from Phil. "Not exactly," responded the left-end, as he rubbed his shoulder, which he had bruised making a hard tackle. "They were as tough as nails. I suppose we did fairly well, considering everything." "All but winning," spoke Sid drowsily. "You didn't do that, you know. Now be fair; did you?" "Oh, cut it out, you old would-be philosopher!" cried Phil, twisting around in the easy chair to reach something to throw at his chum. All he could find was a newspaper, and he doubled that up. It missed Sid, and hitting an ink bottle on the mantle, broke the phial, the black fluid flowing down over the wall and on the carpet. "That's a nice thing to do!" cried Tom. "Say, what do you want to make a rough house for? Isn't this den bad enough as it is, without you doing that?" "I didn't mean to," answered Phil contritely. "Look at the rug!" went on Tom, as the ink formed a black pool. "Pretty, isn't it?" "We'll get the pattern changed if we keep on," murmured Sid, without opening his eyes. "There's the liniment spot, now the ink spot, and the grease spots left by the former occupants. Maybe we ought to get a new rug, fellows." "Not this term," said Tom emphatically. "I've run over my money as it is, and I don't like to ask dad for more." "I notice you had some to spend for flowers to-night," remarked Phil. On the way home from the game Tom had stopped in a florist's in Fairview and given an order, while Phil remained outside. "You don't mean to say that Tom has been sending flowers to some girl?" demanded Sid, sitting up. "Well, you can draw your own conclusions," replied Phil. "He didn't bring 'em home to decorate _our_ room, that's sure." "Worse and some more, too," murmured Sid. "What are you coming to, Tom?" He looked reproachfully at his chum. Then he shook his head. "This girl business!" he spluttered. Then, as his eyes gazed about the room, he caught sight of the little flag of Fairview colors which Ruth Clinton had given Tom. The latter had placed it partly behind a picture of a football game. "Where did that come from?" demanded Sid, getting up from the couch with an effort and striding over to the offending emblem. "It's mine!" declared Tom. "Ruth--I mean Phil's sister--gave it to me." For an instant Sid looked at his chum. Then his gaze traveled to the picture of the girl--the two girls--for that of Madge was beside the likeness of Ruth--and the former first-baseman sighed. "Well," he said, "I s'pose there's no hope for it, but I wish I'd gone in with some fellows who weren't crazy on the girl question. First thing I know you fellows will have this a regular boudoir; and then where will I be? I expect any day now you'll be wanting to get rid of this old couch and chair, and get some mission furniture, so that you can have a five o'clock tea here, and invite some girls and chaperons." "Suppose we do?" asked Phil, who for some reason sided with Tom. "Well, all I've got to say is that I give up," and Sid, with a helpless look, flung himself down on the sofa and turned his back on his chums. "Next you know you'll be playing tennis or croquet instead of football. You make me sick! I tell you what it is, if you put any more of those tomfool decorations, like flags and photographs, in this room, I'm going to quit!" and Sid spoke earnestly. "Aw, forget it, you old misanthropic specimen of a misogynist!" exclaimed Phil with a laugh. "You'll be there yourself some day, and then you'll see how it is." "Say, you talk as if you had a girl, too!" cried Sid, sitting up again and looking fixedly at Phil. "Maybe I have," was the noncommittal answer. "Then you've gone back on me, too," was what Sid said, as he pretended to go to sleep. It was quiet in the room for a while, each lad busy with his thoughts. Who shall say what they were? One thing is certain--that the gazes of Tom and Phil often traveled to the wall on which were the photographs of two girls--Madge and Ruth. Tom looked at both; but Phil--well, did you ever know a fellow, no matter how nice a sister he had, to care to steal surreptitious glances at her picture? Did you? Well, that's all I'm going to say now. The fussy little alarm clock ticked monotonously on, as if anxious to get its work done. Still neither of the three chums spoke. Occasionally Sid would shift his position, but he did not open his eyes. Tom sometimes looked at the liniment stain in the carpet, and then at the ink spot. "It's a wonder you wouldn't get a blotter and sop up some of that writing fluid," suggested Phil to Tom at last. "Why don't you do it yourself?" was the retort. "You knocked it over." "I'm too comfortable," murmured Phil from the depths of the chair. "Humph!" grunted Tom. Then there was silence once more. "How's your hand, Sid?" asked Tom, when the clock had ticked off what seemed to the lads about a million strokes. "A little better. That's the worst thing I ever had happen to me," and Sid looked at his stiffened fingers. "I don't know what you fellows are going to do, but I'm going to bed!" he suddenly exclaimed. "I'm sleepy." "Come on out and take a walk," proposed Tom to Phil. "I'm stiff and lame. Maybe I can walk it off. Then we'll take a hot bath in the gym and turn in." "That sounds good," agreed Phil. "I'll go you." They left Sid undressing and went out, it not being a proscribed hour. After a brisk walk around the campus they started for the gymnasium. As they neared it they heard voices coming from the direction of Biology Hall, a small building situated to the right of their dormitory. "Now, then, hold him, Gerhart, while I clip him two or three good ones!" they heard some one say, and immediately after that came in pleading tones: "Oh, please don't hit me again, Mr. Langridge. I did the best I could for you." "The best, you little rat! You didn't get the stuff I sent you for!" exclaimed Langridge angrily. "Because they wouldn't sell me the whisky," was the answer. "Oh, Mr. Langridge, please don't hit me!" "It's Wallops!" exclaimed Phil. "Wallops, the little messenger. What's that brute Langridge up to now?" "Seems as if he sent Wallops after liquor, and he didn't get it," said Tom. "I hear he's been up to that trick." "The dirty cad!" whispered Phil. A moment later there was the sound of a blow, and it was followed by a cry of pain. "Come on!" cried Phil to Tom, and the two strode around the corner of the building. They saw Gerhart holding Wallops, who was a lad small for his age, while Langridge was punching him in the face, accompanying each blow with the remark: "That will teach you to play the sneak trick on me. You drank that stuff yourself!" "Indeed I didn't!" cried the messenger. "They wouldn't let me have it. There was a new man behind the bar." "That's a likely story. Hold him tight, Gerhart; I'm going to paste him another." "You hound!" cried Phil, his voice shrill with rage, and an instant later he had fairly leaped beside the bully. With one hand he thrust Langridge aside, and then, with a straight left on the jaw, he sent him to the ground with a thud. CHAPTER XVI PHIL IS NERVOUS Langridge struggled to his feet, anger rendering him almost speechless. He started toward Phil, who stood in the attitude of a trained boxer, awaiting the attack. The light from a new moon faintly illuminated the scene, and the figures stood out with considerable distinctness against the background of the dark building. Wallops, the messenger, was shrinking away, anxious to escape unobserved, though he cast a look of gratitude at Phil. Tom was surprised at his chum's sudden attack, but he stood ready to aid him, in case Gerhart should make an effort to take sides. As for Phil and Langridge, they faced each other, one eager with righteous anger to continue the chastisement, the other mad with the lust of shame and unreasoning. "What--what did you do that for?" asked Langridge thickly, and his hand went to his jaw where Phil's fist had landed. His head was singing yet from the powerful blow. "You know why," replied Phil calmly. "Because you're a coward." "Hold on!" cried the bully, taking a step forward. "I've stood about all I'm going to from you." He looked around at Gerhart. The freshman stood passive, and Langridge showed some surprise. "Aren't you going to stand by me?" asked the sophomore of his ally. "Of course," muttered Gerhart, but there was no heart in his tones. He remembered what his crony had said regarding Phil's prowess. "Certainly," put in Tom with gentle voice. "We'll make a quartet of it, if you like." "What are you interfering with my affairs for?" went on Langridge, taking no notice of Tom. "Because it's the affair of any decent college man to interfere when he catches a dirty coward beating a fellow smaller than he is!" and Phil fairly bit off the words. "Take care!" cried Langridge. "You're going too far. I'll make a class matter of it if you call me a coward again!" "I wish you would!" burst out Phil. "I'd like to make a charge against you before the whole college! Beating Wallops because he's smaller than you are!" "That wasn't it. He didn't do as I told him, and was insolent." "Who gave you the right to assume a mastery over him? Besides, from what I heard, you had evidently ordered him to do something against the rules." "Ah! So you were sneaking around to listen, were you?" sneered Langridge. "You know better than that, or I'd answer you in the same way I did at first," replied Phil. "If you send Wallops for liquor again I shall inform Dr. Churchill." "I always thought you were a tattling cad!" burst out Langridge. "Now I know it!" Hardly were the words out of his mouth ere Phil was beside him. The quarter-back was fairly trembling, and his voice shook as he shot out the words: "Take that back! Take it back, I say, or--or I'll----" He paused, emotion overcoming him, but from the manner in which he drew back his powerful left arm Langridge stepped aside apprehensively. "Well, you haven't any right to interfere in my affairs," he whined. "Do you take back what you said?" demanded Phil fiercely, and he laid a trembling hand on the shoulder of the bully. "Take your hand from me!" exclaimed Langridge. "Yes--I suppose I've got to--I can't fight a professional pugilist," he added with an uneasy laugh. "Thanks for the compliment," spoke Phil grimly. "I guess this can end where it is. As for you, Gerhart, if I thought you had any other part in this than being a tool of this coward, I'd give you the soundest thrashing you ever had." The freshman did not answer, and when Langridge turned aside Gerhart followed him into the shadows. Poor Wallops waited until they were out of sight, then the messenger trailed after Phil and Tom. On the way he haltingly told the chums that Langridge had been in the habit of sending him to town to purchase stimulants for him. It had come to the point where that night where the bartender had refused to sell any more liquor, warning having been given that sales to minors were becoming too frequent. It was the failure of Wallops to return with the whisky that angered Langridge. "Don't say anything about this, Wallops," advised Phil. "Langridge won't bother you again. If he does, let me know." "Yes, sir, and thank you, Mr. Clinton. I'll not tell." "I guess Langridge and Gerhart won't, either," commented Tom. "They'll be glad to let it drop." "What cads those fellows are," remarked Phil a little later, when he and Tom, having had a refreshing shower bath, were preparing for bed in their room. "Well, you took some of it out of Langridge, at all events," said the pitcher. "Maybe, but it will come back. I suppose I'll have to be on the lookout now, or he may do me a dirty turn." "Shouldn't wonder. I had my troubles with him last term. But I thought he was going to do better this season." "He can't seem to, evidently." "Say," exclaimed Sid, poking his head from beneath the sheet, "I wish you fellows would let a chap sleep. What are you chinning about?" They told him, and, wide awake, he sat up and listened to the whole story. "I wish I'd seen it," he said. "It would have been as good as a football game. By the way, who does the team play this week, Phil?" "Oh, we've got a little game with the Haddonfield Prep. School. Doesn't amount to much. Some of the subs will play, I fancy." "I hope Holly doesn't make the mistake of despising an enemy," went on Sid. "Do you know, Phil, it seems to me that our fellows haven't struck their gait yet." "Well, it's early in the season," said Tom. "I know that," went on Sid, "but they ought to have more vim. There's a curious lack of ginger noticed. _You_ didn't play with your usual snap, Phil." "I know it," was the almost unexpected answer from the quarter-back. "I wondered if any one noticed it." "I did," added Tom, "but I wasn't going to say anything. I thought it was because it was the first game." "No," said Phil slowly, "it wasn't that. I'm all unstrung--nervous--that's what's the matter." "You nervous!" exclaimed Sid. "I wouldn't have believed that. What's the matter?" "It's my mother," said Phil quietly, and there was a strange tone in his voice. "She--she's not worse--is she?" asked Tom, and the room became curiously quiet. "No," answered Phil; "but I can't tell what moment she may be. Fellows, I'm living in constant fear of receiving a message that--that she--that she's dead!" CHAPTER XVII THE SOPHOMORES LOSE There are several occasions when a young man can find no words in which to express himself. One is when he meets a pretty girl for the first time, and another is when his best chum has a great sorrow. There are other occasions, but these are the chief ones. Thus it was with Tom and Sid. For a few seconds after Phil's announcement they sat staring at the floor. Their eyes took in the pattern of the faded rug, though little of the original figure was to be seen because of the many spots. Then Tom looked about the apartment, viewing the photographs of the two pretty girls, the sporting implements massed in a corner, the table, with its artistic confusion of books and papers. From these his gaze traveled back to Phil. As for Sid, he breathed heavily. If he had been a girl I would have said that he sighed. Then, being a youth who did not shirk any duty, no matter how hard, Sid asked: "Is--is she any worse, Phil? Have you had bad news? Can't we--can't you go down where she is?" Phil shook his head. "There's no specially bad news," he said, "but it's this way: She has a malady which, sooner or later, unless it is conquered, will--will take her away from me--and sis. Dad thinks an operation is the only hope, but they keep putting it off from time to time, on a slim chance that she may recover without it. For the operation is a desperate expedient at best. And that's why I'm not myself. That's why I can't go into the games with all my might. I expect any moment to be summoned to the sidelines to get a telegram saying--saying----" He choked up, and could not finish. "Is it--is it as bad as that?" asked Tom huskily, and he put his arm over Phil's shoulder, as his chum sat in the old easy chair. "It's pretty bad," said Phil softly. Then, with a sudden change of manner, he exclaimed: "But say, I didn't mean to tell you fellows that. I don't believe in relating my troubles to every one," and he smiled, though it was not like his usual cheery face that looked at his two chums. "Oh, come now!" cried Sid. "As if we didn't want to hear! And as if you shouldn't tell us your troubles! Why, I expect to tell you fellows mine, and I want to hear yours in return, eh, Tom." "Of course," said the pitcher heartily. "Well, that's mighty white of you chaps," went on Phil, swallowing a lump in his throat. "But I'm not going to bother you any more, just now. Only that's the reason I'm--well, that I can't play as I want to play. But I'm going to try to forget it. I'm going into the next game, and help rip their line to pieces. I'm going to pilot our fellows to a big score or dislocate my other shoulder." "Good!" cried Sid. "Now let's get to bed. It's almost morning." The little talk among the three chums was productive of good. There was a closer bond of union among them than there had ever been before. They felt more like brothers, and Tom and Sid watched Phil for the next few days as if he was a little chap, over whom they had been given charge. "Oh, say!" the quarter-back exclaimed at length one afternoon, when they had followed him to football practice, and walked home with him. "I'm not so bad as all that, you know." "Did you hear any news to-day?" asked Tom, ignoring the mild rebuke. "Yes. Got a telegram from dad. Things look a little brighter, and yet----" He paused. "Well," he continued, "I don't want to think too much about it. We play Haddonfield to-morrow. I want to wipe up the gridiron with them." Which Phil and his chums pretty nearly did. Haddonfield Preparatory School had the best eleven in years, but, even with a number of scrub players on Randall, the score was forty-six to nothing. There was a different air about the college team as the lads went singing from the field that afternoon. There was confidence in their eyes. It was a beautiful afternoon in October. Lectures were over and a throng of students had strolled over the campus and down to the banks of Sunny River. The stream flowed lazily along toward Lake Tonoka, winding in and out, as though it had all the time it desired in which to make the journey, and meant to take the full allowance. There was nothing rapid or fussy about Sunny River. It was not one of those hurrying, bubbling, frothy streams that make a great ado about going somewhere, and never arrive. There was something soothing in walking along the banks that bracing, fall day. There was just enough snap in the air to prevent one from feeling enervated, yet there was hardly a hint of winter. "Doesn't it make you feel as if you could stretch out on your back and look up into the sky?" asked Phil of Tom as the three chums walked along. Tom and the quarter-back had been to football practice, and still had their togs on. "Now hold on!" exclaimed Sid, before Tom could answer. "Is this going to lead anywhere?" "What do you mean?" asked Phil. "I mean that poetical start on a talk-fest. Are you going to ring in beautiful scenery, calm, peaceful atmosphere, a sense of loneliness, and then switch off on to girls? Is that what you're driving at? Because if it is I want to know, and I'm going back and read some psychology." "You're up the wrong tree," declared Tom. "I don't know what Phil means, but my answer to his question would be that to stretch out on the ground for any length of time at this season would mean stiff muscles, not to mention rheumatism." "You fellows have no poetry in your nature," complained Phil. "Just look there, where the river curves, how the trees lean over to be kissed by the limpid water. Can't you fancy some one floating, floating down it in a boat, with heart attuned----" "It's too late for boating!" exclaimed a voice behind the trio. "My uncle says----" Phil turned quickly and tried to grab Ford Fenton. The youth with the uncle jumped back. "Why--what--what's the matter?" stammered Fenton. "Matter!" cried Phil. "Why, you little shrimp, I've a good notion to chuck you into the river!" "Yes, the river--the beautiful, meandering, poetical river," added Tom. "Quit it, Phil; you're getting on my nerves. I'm glad Fenton interrupted you with a recollection of his uncle. What were you going to say about your respected relative?" he asked. But Fenton was going to take no chances with Phil, and, turning about, he retraced his steps. "What were you saying, Phil?" inquired Sid politely, if sarcastically. "None of your business," replied the quarter-back a little stiffly. "I'm going to write a poem about it," he added more genially. "And send it to some girl, I suppose," went on Sid. "Oh, you make me sick!" What further ramification the conversation might have taken is problematical, but it was interrupted just then by the arrival of Ed Kerr, who seemed in much of a hurry. "I've been looking all over for you fellows," he panted. "Why hastenest thou thus so hastily?" asked Tom. "Is the college on fire? Has Pitchfork been taken with a fit, or has Moses sent to say we need study no more?" "Quit your gassin'!" ordered Ed. "Say, we're going to have the walk rush to-night. The freshies have just had a meeting and decided on it. Tried to pull it off quietly, but Snail Looper heard, and kindly tipped us off. Dutch Housenlager is getting the soph crowd together. You fellows want to be in it, don't you?" "Of course," answered Tom. "We have not forgotten that we were once freshmen, and that we had many clashes with the second-years. Now we will play the latter rôle. Lead on, Macduff, and he be hanged who first cries: 'Hold! Enough!' We'll make the freshies wish they had never seen Randall College." "Maybe--maybe not," spoke Phil. "They're a husky lot--the first-year lads. But we can never let them have the privilege of the walk without a fight." The "walk rush," as it was termed, was one of those matters about which college tradition had centered. It was a contest between the freshman and sophomore classes, that took place every fall, usually early in October. It got its name from the walk which circled Booker Memorial Chapel. This chapel was the gift of a mother whose son had died while attending Randall, and the beautiful stained glass windows in it were well worth looking at--in fact, many an artist came to Randall expressly for that purpose. Around the chapel was a broad walk, shaded with stately oaks, and the path was the frequenting place of the college lads. From time immemorial the walk had been barred to freshmen unless, in the annual rush, they succeeded in defeating the sophomores, and, as this seldom occurred, few freshmen used the walk, save on Sundays, when all hostilities were suspended, in honor of the day. The rush always took place on a small knoll, or hill, back of the gymnasium, and it was the object of the freshmen to take possession of this point of vantage, and maintain it for half an hour against the rush of the sophomores. If they succeeded they were entitled to use the chapel walk. If they did not, they were reviled, and any freshman caught on the forbidden ground was liable to summary punishment. Dark figures stole silently here and there. Commands and instructions were whispered hoarsely. There was an air of mystery about, for it was the night of the walk rush, and freshmen and sophomores were each determined to win. Garvey Gerhart, by virtue of the "boosting" which Langridge had given him, had secured command of the first-year forces. As soon as it was dark he had assembled them on "gym hill," as the knoll was called. There was a large crowd of freshmen, almost too large, it seemed, for the sophomores were outnumbered two to one. But Tom, Sid, Phil, Dutch Housenlager, Ed Kerr and others of the second-year class were strong in the belief of their power to oust their rivals from the hilltop. They had a moral force back of them--the conscious superiority of being "veterans," which counted for much. "We're going to have our work cut out for us," commented Tom, as, with his chums advancing slowly to the fray, he surveyed the throng of freshmen. "My, but there's a bunch of 'em! And we've got to clean every mother's son of them off the hill." "We'll do it!" cried Phil gaily. "It will be good training for us." "Of course!" exclaimed Dutch, as he put out his foot slyly to trip Sid. Tom saw the act, he executed a quick movement that sent Housenlager sprawling on the ground. "That's the time you got some of your own medicine!" exclaimed Phil with a laugh, as Dutch, muttering dire vengeance, picked himself up. The preliminaries for the rush were soon arranged, timekeepers and umpires selected, and, with the bright moon shining down on the scene, the battle began. It was wild, rough and seemingly without order, yet there was a plan about it. The freshmen were massed together on top, and about the center bunch were circles of their fellows who were to thrust back the rushing sophomores. Not until the last freshman had been swept from the hill could the second-year youths claim victory. "All ready!" yelled Ed Kerr, and at the freshmen went their rivals. There was the thud of body striking body. Breaths came quick and fast. There were smothered exclamations, the sound of blows good-naturedly taken and given. There were cries, shouts, commands, entreaties. There was a swaying of the mass, this way and that. A knot of lads would go down, with a struggling pile on top of them, and the conglomeration would writhe about until it disentangled. Tom, Phil and Sid (whose hand was now almost entirely better) tore their way toward the center. Time and again they were hurled back, only to renew the rush. "Clean 'em off!" was the rallying cry of the sophomores. "Fight 'em back!" was the retort of the freshmen. At it they went, fiercely and earnestly. The entire mass appeared to be revolving about the hill now, with the little group of freshmen on the top as a pivot. Gradually Tom, Phil and their particular chums worked their way up to the crest. Then they found that the freshmen had adopted strange tactics. Under the advice of Gerhart they stretched out prone, and, with arms and legs twined together, made a regular layer of bodies, covering the summit. It was almost impossible to separate the lads one from the other, in order to hurl them out of the way. They were literally "sticking together." "Tear 'em apart!" pleaded Tom. "Rip 'em up!" shouted Phil. "Hold tight!" sung out Gerhart. And hang tightly they did. Tom succeeded in breaking the hold of one lad, and Phil that of another. But, in turn, the two big sophomores were borne down and overwhelmed by the weight of freshmen on their backs. The referee blew a warning whistle. But two minutes of time were left. The sophomores redoubled their efforts, but the ruse of the freshmen was a good one. It was like trying to tear apart a living doormat. The sophomores could not do it. Though they labored like Trojans, it was not to be. Once more the whistle blew, indicating that the rush was ended. The sophomores had lost, and for the remainder of the term the freshmen could strut proudly about the walk of Booker Memorial Chapel. CHAPTER XVIII A FIRE ALARM "Well," remarked Phil ruefully, as he and Tom, rather sore and bruised, went to their room. There was an air of quietness about the sophomores. They did not cheer and sing, but back on the knoll the victorious freshmen made the night hideous with their college cries. "Is that all?" inquired Tom, for Phil had uttered only the one word. "That's all, son, as Bricktop Molloy would say. 'Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof.' We were dumped good and proper." "With plenty of gravy on the side," added Sid. "I was afraid of it," spoke Tom solemnly. "I said they were too many for us." "Listen to old 'I told you so,'" mocked Phil. "Next he'll be telling us that he predicted we'd lose the football championship. You make me tired!" "I'm tired already," retorted Tom good naturedly. "Some one gave me an extra good poke in the ribs the last minute." "It was Gerhart," declared Sid. "I saw him. I had a good notion to punch him for you." "I'd just as well you didn't," went on Tom. "There's no love lost between us and his crony, Langridge, now. No use making matters worse. But he certainly managed the freshies well. That was a good trick, lying down and making a mat of themselves." "Yes; hereafter I suppose it will be the regular practice for future classes," said Phil. "We'll have to think up a new plan to break up that kind of interference. My, but I'm lame!" "Better not let Lighton hear you say that." "Why?" "He'd lay you off from football. There are three candidates for every position on the 'varsity this term, and we fellows who have made the eleven will have to take care of ourselves." "That's so," admitted Tom. "Well, a hot bath will fix me up, and then for some good sleep." "I wish I could snooze," spoke Phil. "Why can't you?" asked Sid. "I've got to bone away on Greek. Got turned back in class to-day, and Pitchfork, who's a regular fiend at it, as well at Latin, warned me that I'd be conditioned if I didn't look out." "You want to be careful, son," cautioned Sid. "Remember how I nearly slumped in Latin before the big ball game last year, and only just got through by the skin of my teeth in time to play? Don't let that happen to you. It isn't good for the constitution; not a little bit." The three chums went to the gymnasium and had a warm shower, followed by a brisk rub-down, after which they all felt better. Then, in their room, they talked the walk rush all over again, until Phil threw books at Sid and Tom to make them keep quiet so that he might study. The week that followed was marked by some hard practice on the gridiron, for there was in prospect a game with the Orswell Military Academy, the eleven of which was seldom defeated. Therefore, Coach Lighton and Captain Cross worked their men well. Phil, in particular, received some very special instructions about running the team. Some new plays were practiced, and a different sequence was planned. "I want three corking good plays to be worked in sequence when we get to within reaching distance of the twenty-five-yard line," said the coach. "Maybe we can try for a field goal, but the chances are against it if the wind blows. A good sequence will do wonders." Then the coach explained the sequence plays. They were to be three, in which the right-half, the full-back and the left-tackle would successively take the ball, without a word being spoken after the first signal for the play had been given. The plays were to be executed in quick succession, and the coach depended on that to demoralize the cadet eleven. "There'll probably be such cheering when we get to within twenty-five yards of their goal that it will be hard to hear signals, anyhow," Mr. Lighton went on. "So memorize these plays carefully, and we'll try to work them. When Clinton remarks: 'We have twenty-five yards to go, fellows; walk up together, now,' that will be the signal for the sequence plays." They tried them against the scrub, and did remarkably well. Then came a day of hard work, followed by some light practice, and a rest on the afternoon preceding the game with the cadets. There was a big attendance at the grounds, which adjoined the military academy, about twenty miles from Randall College. In their first half the home eleven, by dint of trick plays and much kicking, so wore out the Randallites that they could not score, while Orswell made two touch-downs. But it was different in the second half, and after a touch-down gained by a brilliant run on Tom's part, there came a second one, which resulted from the sequence plays. Right through the line in turn went Kindlings Woodhouse, Holly Cross and Ed Kerr. The twenty-five yards were made in three minutes of play, and the score tied. Then, by a skilful forward pass and some line bucking, another touch-down was made, and then, as if to cap the climax, Holly Cross kicked a beautiful field goal. "Wow! Hold me from flying!" cried Phil, as he tried to hug the entire team after the referee's whistle blew. His fellows had responded nobly to the calls he made on them, and he had run the team with a level head. "Boys, I'm proud of you," said the coach. "It's the biggest score against the Orswell cadets in many a year." And there was much rejoicing in Randall College that night, so that Professor Tines felt called upon to remonstrate to Dr. Churchill about the noise the lads were making. "Why, I'm not aware of any unusual noise; not from here," spoke the venerable president, in his comfortable study, with a book of Sanskrit on his knee. "You could hear it if you went outside," said the Latin teacher. "Ah, yes, doubtless; but, you see, my dear professor, I'm not going outside," and Dr. Churchill smiled benevolently. "Humph!" exclaimed Mr. Tines, as he went back to his apartments. "If I had my way, football and all sports would be abolished. They are a relic of barbarism!" It was late when Phil and Tom got to their room that night. They narrowly escaped being caught by Mr. Snell, one of the proctor's scouts, and dashed into their "den" at full speed. "Can't you make less row?" demanded Sid, who was studying. "You've put all the thoughts I had on my essay out of my head." "Serves you right for being a greasy dig!" exclaimed Tom. "Why don't you be a sport? You're getting to be a regular hermit." "I want my degree," explained Sid, who was studying as he had not thought of doing his first term. It was after midnight when Tom, who did not sleep well on account of the excitement following the football game, awoke with a start. Through the glass transom over the door of the room he saw a red glare. "Fire!" he exclaimed, as he jumped out of bed and landed heavily in the middle of the apartment. "What's that?" cried Phil, sitting up. "Is there a telegram for me? Is there--is there----" He was at Tom's side, hardly awake. "It's no telegram," answered Tom quickly "Looks like a fire." He threw open the door. The corridor was filled with clouds of lurid smoke which rolled in great masses here and there. "The whole place is ablaze!" cried Tom. "Get up, Sid!" and he pulled the bedclothes from his still sleeping chum. CHAPTER XIX THE FRESHMEN DANCE "Here, quit!" cried Sid, making an effort to pull back the coverings on which Tom was yanking. "Let a fellow alone, can't you? Quit fooling! This is no freshman's room!" "Get out, you old duffer!" yelled Phil. "The place is on fire!" "Who's on the wire?" asked Sid, thinking some one had called him on the telephone. "I don't care who it is. I'm not going to answer this time of night. I want to sleep. Tell 'em to call up again." "Fire! Fire! Not wire!" shouted Tom in his ear, and this time Sid heard and was fully awake. He caught a glimpse of the clouds of lurid smoke pouring in from the corridor. "Jumping Johnnie cake! I should say it was a fire!" he cried. "Come on, fellows, let's get some of our stuff out! I want my football pictures," and with that Sid rushed to the wall and yanked down the only bit of ornamentation he cared for--a lithograph of a Rugby scrimmage. "Come on!" he yelled, grabbing up a pile of his clothes from a chair. "This is all I want. Let the books and other stuff go!" "But the sofa! The chair!" cried Tom, who had peered out into the hall, only to jump back again, gasping and choking. "We can chuck them out of the window." "That's right. Can't hurt 'em much," added Phil, who was getting into his trousers. "Grab hold, then. But wait until I button my vest," ordered Tom, who was fumbling with the garment, the only one he had grabbed up. He had switched on the electric light, and the gleam shone through a cloud of the reddish smoke. "What's the matter with this blamed thing, anyhow?" he cried, as he fumbled in vain for the buttons. "You've got it on backwards!" cried Sid, who had tossed his clothes out of the window, following them with the picture, and was now ready to help his chums. "Great Jehosophat!" cried Tom. "So I have!" He yanked off the garment and tossed it into a corner. Then, clad only in his pajamas, he started to carry the old armchair to the window. It was almost too much for him, and Sid came to his aid. "Let that go, and get the sofa out first!" cried Phil. "The chair can fall on that. Say, listen to the row!" Out in the corridor could be heard confused shouts, and the sound of students running to and fro. Every now and then some one would cry "Fire!" and the rush would be renewed. "The whole place must be going!" cried Sid. "Hurry up, Tom, shove it out! Maybe we can save some other things." "Better save ourselves first!" exclaimed Phil. "The stairs and halls are all ablaze!" He came back from a look into the corridor choking and gasping. "We've got to jump for it! Shove that chair out, then the sofa, and pile the bedding on top. That will make a place to land on." "Here she goes!" shouted Tom, and he and Sid shoved their precious old chair from the window. It fell with a great crash to the ground, two stories below. "Broken to bits!" said Tom with a groan. "Now for the sofa. There'll be nothing left of it." They had raised it to the window sill, after much effort, and were balancing it there while recovering their breaths. Their room was filled with the heavy fumes of smoke, and the noise in the corridor was increasing. "Let her go!" cried Phil. "Lively, now, if we want to get out alive!" But just as the three chums were about to release their hold on the sofa, Mr. Snell, one of the under-janitors of the college, and a sort of scout or spy of the proctor's, ran into the room. "There's no fire! There's no danger!" he called. "Don't throw anything out." "No fire?" questioned Tom. "No. Some of the students burned red fire in the halls, that's all," went on Mr. Snell. "There's no danger. The proctor sent me around to explain. It's only some illuminating red fire." Tom, Sid and Phil looked at each other, as they stood at the window, holding their precious sofa. The clouds of smoke were rolling away, and the noise was lessening. Tom looked out of the casement, and, in the semi-darkness below, saw the chair they had thrown out. Just then, from below, a crowd of freshmen, who had perpetrated the trick, began singing "Scotland's Burning." Tom glanced at his chums. Then he uttered one word: "Stung!" "Good and proper!" added Phil. "By a nest of fresh hornets!" commented Sid wrathfully. The scout withdrew. Phil looked at his trousers, and then he began slowly to take them off. Tom took one more look out of the window. "They're jumping all over our chair," he said. "They are? The young imps!" cried Sid. "Come on to the rescue! Get into some togs and capture a few freshmen." Then, as he realized that he had tossed his clothes out of the window, he groaned. "You fellows will have to go," he said. "I haven't any duds." "They're parading around with your best go-to-meeting suit," observed Phil. Sid groaned again. "Hurry, fellows, if you love me," he said. "There's a crowd of sophs after 'em now," added Tom, and so it proved. The freshmen beat a retreat, and some of our friends' classmates formed a guard around the things on the ground. The three chums were not the only ones who had tossed articles out of their windows in the moments of excitement. Many possessions of the sophomores were on the ground below, and, now that the scare was over, they began collecting them. Tom and Phil managed, with the help of some of their classmates, to get Sid's garments and the chair back to their room. The chair was in sad shape, though, and Sid groaned in anguish as he viewed it. "Oh, quit!" begged Phil, as he tossed Sid's clothes on the bed. "We can fix it up again." "It'll never be the same," wailed Sid as he tried it. "There was a place that just fit my back, and now----" He leaped up with a howl, and held his hand to the fleshy part of his leg. "What's the matter?" asked Tom. "A broken spring stuck me," explained Sid, who was too lightly clad to indulge in indiscriminate sitting about. "Oh, those freshies! What can we do to get square with them?" "That's more like it," said Tom. "We've got to pay them back in some way, and the sooner the better." It was an hour or more before matters had quieted down in the west dormitory. From various sophomores who came into their room to exchange notes, Tom, Phil and Sid learned that the freshmen had executed a well-organized fire scare by the simple process of burning in each corridor some of the powder extensively used on Fourth of July, or in political parades. "Well, there's no use talking about what they did to us," said Ed Kerr. "The question is, what can we do to them? They certainly put it all over us." "Dutch, you ought to be able to suggest something," said Tom. "You're always up to some trick. Give us one to play on the freshies." "Sure," agreed Dutch. "Let me think." Sid arose and turned out the light. "What's that for?" asked Dutch. "So you can think better. I can, in the dark. Go ahead, now. Let's have something good." Dutch was silent for a few minutes, and then he proposed a plan which was received with exclamations of delight. "The very thing!" cried Tom. "I wonder we didn't think of it before. We'll be just in time. Now, maybe we can make them laugh on the other side of their heads." The next morning there were triumphant looks on the faces of the freshmen. They had played a good joke on their traditional enemies, the sophomores, and felt elated over it. But, in accordance with a plan they had adopted the night after Dutch revealed his plan, the sophomores made no retort to the taunts of their enemies. And there was no lack of railery. Gathered on the walk about Booker Memorial Chapel, whence for many terms freshmen had, by traditional college custom, been barred, the first-year lads made all sorts of jokes concerning the scrabble that had ensued among the sophomores when the cry of fire was raised. "And we have to stand it!" exclaimed Tom, gritting his teeth. "For a couple of days," added Sid. "But it strikes me, old chap, that last term you played the rôle of the aforesaid freshies to perfection." "Oh, that was different. But let them wait. We'll put the kibosh on their fun in a few days. Has Dutch got the stuff?" "Hush!" exclaimed Phil. "The least hint will spoil the scheme of revenge! Revenge! Revenge!" he hissed, after the manner of a stage villain. "We will have our re-venge-e-e-e-e!" It was the night of the freshman dance, an annual affair that loomed large in the annals of the first-year students and their girl friends. It was to be held in a hall in Haddonfield, and many were the precautions taken by the committee to prevent any of the hated sophomores from attending, or getting to the place beforehand, lest they might, by some untoward act, "put it on the blink," as Holly Cross used to say. The hall was tastefully arranged with flowers and a bank of palms, behind which the orchestra was to be hidden. About the balcony were draped the college colors, with the class hues of the freshmen intermingled. Early on the evening of the dance, Garvey Gerhart, who was chairman of the committee on arrangements, left the college on his way to town to see that all was in readiness. "Doesn't he look pretty!" exclaimed Phil, who, with a group of sophomores, stood near Booker Chapel. "I wonder if he has his dress suit on?" asked Tom. "We ought to see if his hair is parted," put in Sid. "Freshmen don't know how to look after themselves. Have you a clean pocket handkerchief, Algernon?" and he spoke the last in a mocking tone. "Look out; there may be another fire," retorted Gerhart with a grin, and the sophomores could only grit their teeth. They knew the freshmen still had the laugh on them. "But not for long?" muttered Phil. "Is Dutch all ready?" "All ready," answered that worthy for himself. "We'll slip off to town as soon as it's dusk." "Think you'll have any trouble in getting in?" asked Ed Kerr. "Not a bit. I bribed one of the doorkeepers. Be on hand outside to listen to the fun." A little before the first arrivals at the freshman dance had reached the hall, a figure might have been seen moving quickly about the ballroom in the dim illumination from the half-turned-down lights. The figure went about in circles, with curious motions of the hands, and then, after a survey of the place and a silent laugh, withdrew. The music began a dreamy waltz, following the opening march. Freshmen led their fair partners out on the floor, and began whirling them about. The lights twinkled, there was the sweet smell of flowers, fair faces of the girls looked up into the proud, flushed ones of the youths. Chaperons looked on approvingly. The music became a trifle faster. The dance was in full swing. Suddenly a girl gave a frightened little cry. "What's the matter?" asked her partner. "My shoes! They--they seem to be sticking to the floor. I--I can't dance!" From all over the room arose similar cries of dismay from the girls and exclamations of disgust from the boys. The dancers went slower and slower. It was an effort to glide about, and some could scarcely lift their feet. The floor seemed to hold them as a magnet does a bit of iron. Garvey Gerhart, releasing his pretty partner, leaned over and touched the floor. "It's as sticky as molasses!" he cried in dismay. CHAPTER XX PHIL GETS A TELEGRAM The music stopped with a discord. A strange spell seemed thrown over the dancers. Some, who had come to a stop, now tried to move, and found that their feet were fast to the floor. It was an effort to lift them. The surface that had seemed well waxed was now as sticky as if glue had been poured over it. To walk was almost impossible; to dance, out of the question. "Maybe it's only in a few places, and we can scrape it off," suggested Will Foster, a chum of Gerhart. "Let's try." He endeavored, with his knife, to remove some of the sticky stuff, but he might as well have tried to dig up a board in the floor. "What is it?" asked Gerhart's partner. "I don't know," he answered ruefully. "Something very sticky has gotten on the floor." "Maybe some of the waiters spilled ice cream or coffee, or some candy got there," she suggested. "This is stickier than any of those things," spoke Gerhart. "I--I guess some one has played a trick on us." "A trick?" "Yes; the sophomores. I should have been more on the lookout, but I didn't think they could get in. I told the men at the door not to let any one in who didn't have a freshman pin. But--well, we'll wait a bit and see if it dries up," he concluded. But the stuff on the floor didn't dry up. Instead, it became more sticky. The ballroom was like one big sheet of adhesive flypaper, and the dancers, walking about, felt their shoes pull up with queer little noises every time they took a step. They tried to dance once more, but it was a miserable failure. One might as well have tried to waltz or two-step on the sands of the seashore. Then from a window there sounded the old song: "Clarence McFadden, He Wanted to Waltz." The chagrined dancers turned to the casement, to behold a circle of mocking faces. Gerhart looked, too. [Illustration: "Clarence McFadden, He Wanted to Waltz"] "The sophs!" he cried, as he caught sight of Tom, Phil, Sid, Dutch Housenlager and several others. "At your service!" cried Phil. "Guess you'll have to dance to slow music to-night!" And then, to show that it was in revenge for the fire scare, the sophomores sang: "Scotland's Burning." "It worked to perfection, Dutch. However did you manage it?" asked Tom, as the sophomores, having satisfied themselves that the freshman dance had been spoiled, walked back to college. "Easy," answered the fun-loving student. "I mixed up a sticky preparation of glue, varnish, gum and so on, made it into a powder, and put it in alcohol. Then I sneaked in past the doorkeeper I had bribed, and sprinkled the stuff all over the floor. There was no color to it, and they didn't notice it. The alcohol kept it from sticking until after the march, and then, when the alcohol evaporated, it left the gum ready to do its work." "And it did it," commented Sid. It certainly did, for the disconcerted freshman and the pretty girls soon left the hall. It was impossible to dance on the floor until the sticky stuff had been scraped off. "It was rather a brutal trick, after all," said Tom to Phil a little later, when the three were in their room. "It would have been all right on the freshies alone, but the girls--they had to suffer, too." "Of course," said Sid. "Why not? _Secundum naturam_, you know, according to the course of nature it had to be. The good with the bad. The freshies brought it on themselves, eh, Phil?" "Oh, I suppose so," replied the quarter-back, who was busy with paper and pencil. "Still, it was a bit rough on the lassies. There were some pretty ones----" "Oh, you fellows and the girls!" exclaimed Sid in disgust. "You make me sick!" "That's all right," went on Tom easily. "You'll get yours some day, and then we'll see----" "Hello, where'd that picture come from?" asked Sid, pointing to another photograph on the wall beside those of Ruth and Madge. Tom blushed a bit, and did not answer. Phil looked up and exclaimed: "Why, it's another picture of my sister! She must have had some new ones taken. Where did it come from?" "She gave it to me," explained Tom, and his shoelace seemed suddenly to have come unfastened, so it was necessary to stoop over to tie it. "Hum!" murmured Phil, with a queer look at his chum's red face. "She didn't say anything to me about it. But if you're going to add to our collection, Tom, I guess it's up to me to get another one, too." "Whose will you get now?" asked Sid. "Haven't you got enough girls' faces stuck up around here? Do you want another?" "Not another," spoke Phil slowly, "but another of the same one. Miss Tyler promised me one of her new photographs." "She did?" cried Tom, and he turned quickly. "Yes; have you any objections?" and Phil gazed straight at Tom. "No--oh, no. Of course not," he added hastily, "only I didn't know---- What are you doing?" he asked rather suddenly, changing the subject, as he saw Phil's paper and pencil. "I'm working on a new football play," replied Phil, and he, too, seemed glad that the subject was changed. "That's more like it," commented Sid. "Now you're talking sense. Let's hear it." "It's this way," explained Phil, as he showed his chums what he had drawn. "It's a fake tackle run, and a pass to the right half-back. Nothing particularly new about it, as it's often used, but my plan is to work it immediately after we run off a play of left-tackle through right-tackle and right-end. After that play has been pulled off, it will look as if we were trying to repeat it, and we'll catch the other fellows off their guard. In this play, the left-tackle, after the signal, turns back and takes the ball from me. He passes the ball to the right-half, who turns to the left for a run around our left-end. Our full-back charges on the opposing left-tackle, crossing in front of our right-half to better conceal the ball. The left half-back helps the left-tackle to make his quick turn, and then blocks off the opposing right-end, while I help make interference for the right-half, who's got the ball." "That sounds good," commented Tom. "Go over it again." Which Phil did, and his two chums both declared it ought to work well. They tried it in practice against the scrub next day, after Coach Lighton and Captain Holly Cross had given their approval to it. The play operated like a charm, and was good for a touch-down. It completely fooled the second eleven. "It remains to be seen whether it will do the same thing against another team," said the coach. "But we'll try it Saturday against the Dodville Prep School. Now, boys, line up, and we'll run through it again? Also the forward pass and the on-side kick." The players were in the midst of a scrimmage, and Joe Jackson had just made a fine run, when Wallops was seen coming across the gridiron. The messenger had an envelope in his hand, and at the sight of him Phil Clinton turned pale. "Get back, Wallops!" cried the coach. "You're in the way." "I have a telegram for Mr. Clinton," said the messenger. "Oh, all right. Come on." Phil's hand were trembling so he could hardly open the message. He read it at a glance. Tom went close to him, and put his hand on his shoulder. "Is it--is it----" he began. "Dad says to hold myself in readiness to come at any time," said Phil slowly. There was silence among the players, all of whom knew of the serious illness of Phil's mother. Coach Lighton went up to the quarter-back and said: "Well, we won't practice any more to-day. It's too bad, Clinton." Phil swallowed two or three times. He forced back a mistiness that was gathering like a film over his eyes. He thrust the telegram into his jacket. "Let's go on with the practice," he said sturdily. "We aren't perfect in that fake tackle run yet, and I want to use it against Dodville." It was a plucky answer, and many a hardy player on the Randall eleven felt a new liking for the quarter-back as he went to his place behind Snail Looper, who stooped to receive the ball. CHAPTER XXI STRANGE BEDFELLOWS The practice was over. Phil stuck to it until he had, with the assistance of the coach and the captain, drilled the 'varsity into an almost perfect running of the trick play. Of course, how it would work against fierce opponents was another matter. But, in spite of the shock engendered by the receipt of the telegram, Phil would not give up until the men fairly "snapped" into place, after he had given the signal for the fake tackle run and pass to the half-back. Now he and Tom were on their way to their room. "What are you going to do, Phil?" asked Tom. "I don't know," was the despondent answer. "I--of course, I'll have to go when I get word." "Do you think she's worse?" "I'm afraid so; or else they're going to operate. But don't let's talk about it. It breaks me all up." "I should think it would. I don't see how you could stay in practice after you got the message." "I felt as if I had to, Tom. Of course, I know I'm only a small factor in the eleven----" "I think you're a pretty big one," interrupted the left-end enthusiastically. "Well, thank you for that; but I mean relatively. I'm only one of eleven players, and my place could be filled. Still, I do flatter myself that I've got the team into some kind of machine-like precision, which is very needful in a game. I don't mean that I've done it all alone, for I haven't. Every man has done more than his share, and with a coach like Mr. Lighton, and a captain like Holly Cross, a fellow can do a lot. But I'm a cog in the wheels of the machine, and you know how it is when you put a new wheel in a bit of apparatus. It may be just as good, or better than the old one, but it's got to take time to work off the rough spots and fit in smoothly. "That's the way I feel. I want to stay in the game and at practice as long as I can, for when I drop out, and a new quarter-back comes in, it's bound to throw the playing off the least bit, and I'm not patting myself on the back when I say that, I hope." "Indeed, you're not! But it must be nervous work running a team when you know--well, er----" and Tom stopped in some confusion. "I know," said Phil simply. "But you can do lots of things when you try hard. I'm going to do this. I'll hold myself in readiness to jump down to Palm Beach when I get the word, but until then I'm going to stick by the team." There was a look on Phil's face that Tom had never seen there before. It was as if some inner power was urging him along the difficult path that lay before him. He seemed to be drawing on a hidden reserve supply of grit and pluck, and, as he passed up the stairs, with an easy, swaying motion of his athletic body, Tom could not help but admiring his good-looking, well-formed chum. "I--I hope nothing happens to take him away before we play our last game," whispered the 'varsity pitcher. "He's the best quarter Randall ever had, if what the old-timers say is true. If we don't win the championship I'll miss my guess." He kept on up the stairs after Phil. In the corridor stood Ford Fenton. Phil nodded at him, but did not feel like speaking. His fingers were clasped around the telegram in his pocket. "Hello!" cried Fenton. "I saw you at practice. That's a dandy trick you worked, Phil. My uncle says that----" "Ford," began Tom gravely, "have you ever had smallpox?" "Smallpox? My good gracious, no! You don't mean to say that there's a case of it here?" "We haven't been exposed to smallpox," went on Tom, "but we are both suffering from a severe attack of Uncleitis, so if you don't want to catch it you'd better keep away from us." "Hu! I guess you think that's a joke!" exclaimed Ford as he turned and walked away. Then Tom and Phil entered their room. Something in the look of their faces attracted the attention of Sid. "What's the matter?" he asked, despite Tom's frantic gestures behind Phil's back, which motions were made with a view to keeping Sid quiet. "I'm afraid I'll have to go--go where my mother is, any minute," said Phil brokenly. "I--I guess I'll pack up so--so's to be ready." Then the tension broke, and the nervous force that had girt him about when he was on the gridiron gave way, and he sobbed brokenly. Tom instantly began rearranging the books on the table, where they were piled in artistic confusion, and raised such a dust that Sid sneezed. The latter was in the old armchair, which had been mended, after a fashion, following the throwing of it from the window in the fire scare. As Sid tried to get up from the depths of it, there came a crash, and the antique piece of furniture settled heavily on one side, like a ship with a bad list to port. "There you go!" cried Tom, glad to have a chance to speak sharply. "What are you trying to do--smash it all to pieces? Can't you get out of a chair without busting it?" "I--I didn't mean to," spoke Sid so gently, and in such a contrast to Tom's fiery words, that Phil could not restrain an exclamatory chuckle. It was just the thing needed to change the current that was setting too strongly toward sadness, and a moment later the three were carefully examining the chair. "It's only a leg broken," said Phil at length, and during the inspection he kept his face in the shadow. "I can fix it to-morrow," he went on, and when he arose he was himself again. "Better put an iron brace on, if Sid is going to do double back somersaults in it," went on Tom with simulated indignity. "This isn't a barn, Sid. It's a gentlemen's room." "Oh, you shut up!" cried Sid, and then the chums were more natural. Phil arranged that night to leave college at once, in case further bad news was received, and he also communicated with Ruth, planning to take her with him. But there was no need, for in the morning another message was received, saying that Mrs. Clinton had somewhat recovered from the relapse that threatened. Phil said little, but there was a different air about him all that day, and when he went into practice he actually seemed to carry the team along on his shoulders, so that they crumbled the scrub opposition into nothingness, and made five touch-downs in the two short halves they played. Since the episode of the freshman dance the first-year students had "sung small" whenever the sophomores were about. It was the most humiliating trick that had been "pulled off in so many years that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary," as Holly Cross put it in one of his favorite quotations. Gerhart was much downcast at first, for, as he was in charge of the affair, it was considered a sort of reflection on his ability. And he laid it all to Tom, Sid, Phil and Dutch Housenlager. "You wait; I'll get even with you some day," he had said to Tom. "We're perfectly willing," answered Tom good-naturedly. "If you think you can put anything over our home plate, why go ahead, and more power to ye, as Bricktop Molloy would say." "You just wait," was all Gerhart answered. It was the night before the game with Dodville Preparatory School, which institution had an eleven not to be despised. They had met Randall on the diamond and were anxious to come to conclusions with them on the gridiron. Following some light practice, during which the fake tackle run and pass to half-back was worked to perfection, Sid, Tom and Phil went for a stroll along Sunny River. The placid stream had an attraction in the early evening that was absent at other times, and the three chums felt its influence as they walked along the banks. "Do you feel nervous about to-morrow's game?" asked Tom of Phil. "Not as much so as if it was against Boxer Hall," replied the quarter-back. "Of course I--I shall be worrying a bit for fear I'll get a message from Florida, but I'm going to try to forget it. I want to roll up a big score against Dodville." "And against Boxer Hall, too," added Sid. "Of course. But that's some time off, and we'll improve in the meanwhile. I fancy the game to-morrow will develop some weak spots that will need strengthening." They walked and talked for about an hour, and it was dark when they returned to their room. "No study to-night," remarked Phil, as he began to disrobe. "Me for pounding the pillow at once, if not sooner." "Same here," came from Tom, and he began taking off his things. "Last fellow to undress puts the light out," he added, and then there was a race. Tom and Phil leaped into bed almost at once, and Sid, leaving the light turned on, was scarcely a second behind them. There was a protesting howl from Phil and Tom at their chum's perfidy, but the next instant Tom uttered a yell. "Wow! Ouch! Something's in my bed!" he cried as he leaped out. "And in mine, too!" came from Sid. "It's a snake!" and reaching down between the sheets, he pulled out a long reptile. "Cæsar's Haywagon!" cried Phil. "I've drawn something, too!" and with that he held up a mudturtle. "Ten thousand thistles!" yelled Tom as he began pulling off his pajamas. "I'm full of needles!" CHAPTER XXII A CHANGE IN SIGNALS The scene in the room was one of confusion. Tom was dancing about, rubbing first here and then there on his anatomy. The snake which Sid held was wiggling as if in protest at being suspended by the tail, and was tying itself into all sorts of complicated knots and geometrical figures. "Look out, it may bite you!" cried Phil, who was holding the mudturtle by the tail, the feet of the animal working back and forth in a vain effort to get a grip on the air. "It isn't a poisonous snake," declared Sid, who was something of a naturalist. "But I wonder who played this trick on us? What ails you, Tom?" "Yes; what are you wiggling around in that fashion for, son?" inquired Phil, who began to laugh, now that the extent of the scare was evident. "Wiggle! I guess you would, too, if some one had filled your bed with needles that came right through your pajamas," replied Tom. "Needles?" from Sid. "Needles?" reiterated Phil. "Yes, needles; ten million of them, by the way I feel!" Phil placed the mudturtle in the wash basin, where it vainly tried to climb up the slippery porcelain sides. Then he went over to Tom's bed. "There are no needles here," he said. "No? What are they, then?" demanded Tom, continuing to rub himself. "Chestnut burrs," replied his chum, after a more careful inspection. "Some one has taken the stickers off a lot of chestnut burrs and scattered them in your bed. No wonder they went through your pajamas. I'd rather have the mudturtle than them." "Or a snake," added Sid. "I wonder who did it?" Phil pulled back the covers from Tom's bed. At the foot, between the sheets, was a piece of paper. The quarter-back made a grab for it and read: "Compliments of the freshmen. Maybe you won't be so smart next time." "The freshmen!" cried Tom. "We'll make them smart for this!" "They've made you smart already," commented Sid, as he put his snake in a pasteboard box, and carefully closed it with a weight on top. "I guess they got ahead of us this time." "This is Gerhart's writing," went on Phil, looking closely at the note. "He originated the scheme. Let's see if any other fellows have suffered." They partly dressed, and stole silently to the rooms of some of their classmates. No one else had felt the vengeance of the freshmen, and our friends concluded that the performance had been arranged for their special benefit, on account of the friction they had had with Gerhart. "How am I going to sleep in that bed to-night?" asked Tom ruefully, when they had returned to their room. "It's like being in a beehive." "I'll show you," said Phil, and he carefully took off the sheets, folding them up so that the chestnut stickers would not be scattered. "You can do without sheets to-night, I guess." "I guess I'll have to," went on Tom. "But I'm going to get another pair of pajamas. Those feel too much like a new flannel shirt," and he went to his trunk, which he began ransacking. "What can we do to get square?" asked Sid, as he again prepared to get into bed. "We've got to teach Gerhart a lesson." "That's what," agreed Tom. "We'll discuss it in the morning." But it was not so easy as they had supposed to think up a joke to play on the inventive freshman, that would be commensurate with the trick he had perpetrated on them. Besides, Gerhart kept pretty well with his own crowd of classmates, and, as there was safety in numbers, and as our three friends did not want a general class fight, they were, to a certain extent, handicapped. By Gerhart's grins they knew that he was aware of their discomfiture of the night previous. Tom was sorely tempted to come to fistic conclusions with the freshman, but Sid and Phil dissuaded him, promising to unite with him on some scheme of vengeance. The mudturtle and snake were retained by Sid, who had a small collection of live things. "We must keep this to ourselves," suggested Phil that morning, as they started for chapel. "Only our own fellows must hear of it." "Sure," agreed Tom and Sid, but they soon found, from the greetings of the juniors, seniors and freshmen, that the story was all over the school. In fact, to this day the yarn is handed down in the annals of Randall College as an example of how a freshman, single-handed, played a joke on three sophomores; for it developed that Gerhart had done the trick alone. It was a day or two after this, when Tom and Phil were walking along the river after football practice, that, down near the bridge, they saw Gerhart just ahead of them. "There's a chance to take a fall out of him," suggested Tom, whose appetite for vengeance was still unappeased. "That's so," agreed Phil. "Let's catch up to him and toss him into the river." They quickened their steps, but a moment later they saw a young man come from the bushes at one end of the bridge and join Gerhart. The two walked briskly on, and, as Tom and Phil could see, they were engaged in earnest conversation. "We can't do anything now," spoke Tom. "That's a stranger. He's not of Randall College. Look at his cap." "He's from some college," declared Phil. "That cap seems familiar. I wonder who he is." "Give it up," spoke Tom. "We might as well go back now." They were about to turn when suddenly the lad with Gerhart swung about and made a violent gesture of dissent. Then Tom and Phil heard him say: "I'll have nothing to do with such a dirty trick, and you ought to be ashamed to make the offer!" "Oh, is that so?" asked Gerhart, and he did not seem nonplussed. "Well, maybe some other fellow will be glad to get what I have to offer." "I don't believe it!" exclaimed the other. "I'm done with you, and that settles it," and he crashed into the bushes and disappeared, leaving Gerhart alone on the road. "Did you see who that was?" asked Tom, looking at Phil. "No; I couldn't make out his face." "It was George Stoddard, captain of the Boxer Hall eleven." "That's right," agreed Phil. "I knew I'd seen him before. But he didn't look as he used to in a baseball uniform. I wonder what he and Gerhart had on the carpet." "Oh, probably Gerhart wanted him to go to some sporty gambling affair. I hear he plays quite a high game at cards." "Who?" "Gerhart. Lots of the freshmen of our college have found his pace too fast for them. He and Langridge are thicker than ever. Probably Gerhart wanted some new easy-marks to win from, and is trying to take up with the Boxer Hall boys." "Shouldn't wonder. But Stoddard turned him down cold." "Yes; didn't make any bones about it. Well, I s'pose we could catch up to Gerhart now. But what's the use?" "That's right. Hello! There's Langridge joining him now, Phil," and as Tom spoke they saw the sophomore come from a side path and walk along with the freshman. The two began talking earnestly, and from the manner of Gerhart it seemed that something had gone wrong, and that he was endeavoring to explain. Tom and Phil forgot the little scene of the afternoon when they got down to studying that night, and as lessons were getting to be pretty "stiff," to quote Sid, it was necessary to put in considerable time over books. The three "boned" away until midnight, and after an inspection of their beds, to make sure that no contraband articles were between the sheets, they turned out the light and were soon slumbering. The next day Phil was turned back in Greek, and had to write out a difficult exercise. "Tell Mr. Lighton I'll be ready for practice in half an hour," he said to Tom, as the latter hurried off to get into his football togs. "I'll come as soon as Pitchfork lets me off." "All right," answered his chum. When Tom got to the gridiron he found most of the 'varsity eleven there. Coach Lighton was in earnest conversation with Captain Holly Cross. "Where's Phil?" asked the coach as Tom came up. The left-end explained. "Come into the gym, fellows," went on the coach. "I have something important to tell you. Phil will be along soon." Vainly wondering what was in the wind, and whether, by any chance, it concerned Phil, Tom followed the sturdy lads across the field. Phil joined the throng before the gymnasium was reached. "What's up?" he panted. "Aren't we going to practice?" "Yes," replied the coach; "but first we've got to arrange for a new set of signals." "New signals?" cried half a dozen. "Yes. I have just learned, in an anonymous communication, that an offer was made to a rival college to sell our signals. The offer, I am glad to say, was indignantly refused; but if some one is in possession of our system, we must get a new one. Now, if you will come in here I will change the signals, and we will then go to practice." Tom and Phil instinctively looked at each other. The memory of the scene between Gerhart and Stoddard, and Langridge's later presence with the freshman, came to them both at once. CHAPTER XXIII BATTERING BOXER HALL There was a little buzz of talk, following the announcement of the coach. Each player looked at his neighbor, as if to learn whether or not he was the guilty one. But Mr. Lighton at once called a halt to this. "I will say," he continued, "that no member of the 'varsity team, nor has any substitute, been guilty of this mean, sneaking piece of business. I don't even know who it was. I don't want to know. I don't know to whom the offer was made. I don't want to know. But we are going to protect ourselves, and change the signals." It was a comparatively simple matter, the way the signals had been devised, to so change them so that another team, even with a copy of the originals, would have found it impossible to know in advance what the plays were to be. Half an hour was spent in going over the new combinations while the team was in the gymnasium, and then they went out on the field to play against the scrub. It was a little awkward at first for Phil to run the eleven under the new system, and he made one or two blunders. But the scrub was beaten by a good score. "You'll do better to-morrow," commented the coach. "It is a little troublesome, I know, to use the new letters and figures, but we'll practice on them constantly until we meet Boxer Hall on Saturday." This was to be the first game of the season with Boxer Hall, the college, which, with Fairview Institute and Randall, formed the Tonoka Lake League. The Randallites were on edge for it, and they had need to be, for Boxer had a fine eleven, better than in many years. "We'll have all we want to do to beat them," said Phil to a crowd of his chums after practice one day. "They're in better shape than Fairview was." "So are we," declared Tom. "We're going to win." "I hope you do," remarked Ford Fenton. "They have a peculiar way of playing the game in the first half. My uncle says----" "Wow!" It was a simultaneous howl from the crowd of lads. They sometimes did this when Ford's reminiscences got on their nerves. The lad with the uncle turned away. "I was going to put you on to some of their tricks," he continued in injured tones. "Now I won't." "Write it out and hand it to Holly Cross," suggested Phil. "Well, Phil," remarked Tom to his chum on Saturday, about an hour before the big game, when the team was dressing in the Randall gymnasium, "do you feel as if we were going to win?" "I certainly do," spoke the quarter-back as he laced his canvas jacket. "I never felt in better shape. Only for one thing----" He paused suddenly, but Tom knew what he meant. It was the fear that, in the midst of the game, he might get bad news about his mother. Since receiving the telegram advising him to be ready to leave for Florida on short notice, Phil and his sister had had word that their mother had rallied somewhat, but that no permanent hope was held out for her recovery. "Try not to think about it, old man," advised Tom. "I--I do try," responded Phil. "But it--it's hard work," and he bent over to tie his shoe. Out on the gridiron trotted the Randall players. They were received with a burst of cheers, led by Bean Perkins, whose voice was more than ever like a foghorn. "Give 'em the 'Conquer or Die' song," he called. "No; wait until they need it," suggested Sid Henderson, who was in the grandstand. "Let's sing 'We're Going to Make a Touch-down Now!' That'll be better." The verses and chorus welled out from several hundred lusty throats, and the Randall team, which was at quick practice, looked up in appreciation. "I wonder if any of the Fairview girls will be here," said Tom as he and Phil were passing the ball back and forth. "I don't know about all of 'em," replied the quarter-back, "but Ruth and Madge are coming." "Since when have you been calling her 'Madge'?" asked Tom, with a sharp look at his chum. "Since she gave me permission," was the answer, and Phil booted the pigskin well down the field. "And how long is that?" "What difference does it make to you?" and there was a shade of annoyance in Phil's voice. "Nothing, only I--er--well---- There they come!" cried Tom suddenly, but it was not to the girls that he referred. The Boxer Hall team had just trotted out, to be received with a round of cheers from their partisans. "Husky-looking lot," observed Ed Kerr, as he and the other Randall players gazed critically at their opponents. "They are that," conceded Bricktop Molloy, one of the biggest guards who ever supported a center. "I'm afraid they'll do us," came from Snail Looper, who was not of a very hopeful turn of mind. "Nonsense! Don't talk that way, me lad!" objected Bricktop, lapsing into brogue, as he always did when very much in earnest. "Just because they're a lot of big brutes doesn't argue that we can't smash through them. _Omnis sequitur_, you know." "Oh, you and your Latin!" exclaimed Tom. "Don't we get enough of that in class." "It's a fine language," went on Molloy, who was a good classical scholar. "But suppose we line up and run a bit." The practice was over, the preliminaries had all been arranged, the new ball was brought out and handed to Boxer Hall, for Captain Stoddard had won the toss, and elected to kick off. The yellow spheroid was placed on the center line, on top of a little mound of earth. "Are you all ready?" asked the referee, and Captain Holly Cross cast a quick eye on his team, which, spread out on their field, was like an aggregation of eager foxhounds, waiting for the start. "Ready," answered Holly. "Ready," responded Stoddard. The whistle sounded shrilly, and a moment later Pinkey Davenport's good right toe had met the pigskin with a resounding "thump," and the ball was sailing toward the Randall goal. Jerry Jackson caught it and began scuttling back toward the center of the field. Tom, with Ed Kerr and Bricktop Molloy, formed interference for him, and with their efficient aid Jerry rushed the leather back for thirty yards, or to within five yards of the middle of the gridiron. There he was downed with a vicious tackle by Dave Ogden, who had managed to get through between Tom and Bricktop, though they flung themselves at him. Jerry lay still for a moment after falling, with the ball tightly clasped in his arms. Captain Cross ran to him. "Hurt?" he asked anxiously. "No. Only--only a little wind knocked out of me," answered the plucky left half-back. "I'm all right now." "Line up, fellows!" cried Holly, and Phil began rattling off a string of numbers and letters. It was a signal for Kindlings to take the ball through tackle, and, as he got it, the right half-back leaped for the hole that was opened for him. Right through he plunged, staggering along, half pulled, half shoved, until it was impossible to gain another inch, and Kindlings was buried out of sight under an avalanche of players. But the required gain had been made, and Phil signaled for another try at the Boxer Hall line. Captain Stoddard was vainly calling on his men to brace and hold their opponents, while from the grandstand came wild cheers at the first sign of prowess on the part of Randall. This time Holly Cross went through guard and tackle for a fine gain, and next he was sent between right-tackle and end. So far there had not been a halt in the progress of bucking the line, but when, on the next play, Ed Kerr was called on to go through between left-end and tackle, he felt as if he had hit a number of bags of sand. There was not a foot of gain, and Ed barely saved the ball, which bounced from his arms; but he fell on it like a flash. "Don't try there again," whispered Kerr to Phil, as he took his position once more. Phil, however, had seen that the Boxer Hall line was weak, and he determined for another try at it, but in a different place. This time Jerry Jackson was called on for a run around right-end, and so successful was it that he went to the twenty-five-yard line before he was heavily thrown. The tackling of the Boxer Hall lads was severe when they got a chance at it. Phil, in a flash, determined for a field goal trial. The chances were in favor of it, for there was no wind, and the position was right. Besides, if it was successful it would add immensely to the spirit of his team, and give them a rest from the hard line bucking. Quickly he gave the signal, and Holly Cross ran to the thirty-yard line for a drop kick. The ball came back and was cleanly caught. The Randall line held, and Holly booted the pigskin in fine shape, but with a groan almost of anguish the players and supporters of the college by the river saw the ball strike the cross-bar and bounce back. The attempt had failed. The leather was brought out to the twenty-five-yard line, and Boxer Hall prepared for her turn at it. On the first try they gained fifteen yards through a hole that was ripped between Grasshopper Backus and Dutch Housenlager. They then gathered in ten more by a run around Tom's end, though he made a desperate effort to stop the man with the ball. "Right through 'em, now, fellows!" called Captain Stoddard to his players. "Rip 'em up!" "Hold 'em! Hold 'em!" besought Holly Cross. And hold the Randallites did. The wave of attack fell back in a sort of froth of players as Pinkey Davenport tried in vain to gain through center. Snail Looper was like a great rock. Once more there was a try at the line, Dave Ogden being sent in with a rush. But he only gained three yards, and it was inevitable that Boxer would punt. The backs of the Randall team ran toward their goal, but Boxer worked a pretty trick, and on a double pass made fifteen yards before the man was stopped. "That's the stuff!" cried the Boxer coach, and he ran on the field to whisper to Captain Stoddard. But the thoughtless action of the coach brought its punishment, for Boxer was penalized ten yards on account of their trainer coming on the field without permission. There was much kicking at this, but the officials insisted, and it stood. Then, with a net gain of less than was needed, and on the last down, Boxer had to kick. Holly Cross got the ball and rushed it well back before he was downed. So far the playing had been pretty even. Though Boxer was a bit weak on defense, they played a snappy game, and seemed to be able to outgeneral their opponents. Now Randall had another chance to show what they could do. "Give 'em the 'Conquer or Die' song now!" cried Bean Perkins, and the strains of "_Aut vincere aut mori_" welled out over the gridiron. It seemed to give just the stimulus needed, and when Kindlings had been sent crashing into the line for a twelve-yard gain, Phil quickly resolved on the fake tackle and pass to half-back play. First, however, he called for Ed Kerr to make a try through right-tackle, and when this had been accomplished, with a smashing force that temporarily demoralized the Boxer Hall players, Kindlings was once more requested to oblige. He took the ball from Ed, who had received it from Phil, and around right-end he went, with beautiful interference. It completely fooled the other team, and when the Boxer full-back finally managed to stop Kindlings it was on the ten-yard line. "Touch-down! Touch-down!" yelled the Randall supporters. "Touch-down it shall be!" exclaimed Phil. Smash and hammer, hammer and smash, batter and push it was for the next three minutes! Boxer was desperate, and with tears in their eyes her players sought to stem the tide rushing against them. But Randall was not to be denied. Again and again her men went battering against the wall of flesh and blood, until, with what seemed a superhuman effort, Holly Cross was shoved over the line for a touch-down. Oh, what yelling and cheering there was then! Even the voice of Bean Perkins, strident as it was, could not be heard above the others. The grandstands were trembling with the swaying, yelling, stamping mass of enthusiasts congregated on them. Holly Cross kicked a beautiful goal, and with the score six to nothing against them, Boxer Hall prepared to continue the game. There was no let up to the play. It was fast and furious. For a time it seemed that Boxer would score, as, after getting possession of the ball by means of a forward pass, they ripped off twenty yards, and followed that up by gathering in ten more by a smashing play through center. Snail Looper was knocked out, and had to go to the side lines, Rod Everet replacing him. This, to a certain extent, weakened the team, and Randall could not seem to hold. The ball was rushed along until it was within three yards of the maroon and yellow goal. Then, responding nobly to the entreaties which Holly Cross, made, his players held stiffly, and Randall got the ball on downs. No time was lost in booting the pigskin out of danger, and before another formation could be made the whistle blew, and the first half was over. "Fellows," remarked Coach Lighton in the dressing-room during the rest, "I needn't tell you that you've got to play for all you're worth to win this game. We're going to have trouble this half. With Looper gone, though I expect Everet will do nearly as well at center, it means a certain loss of team work. But do your best. Their line isn't as strong as I feared, but they play much fiercer in the attack than I expected. However, I think you can rip 'em up. Get another touch-down--two if you can--and prevent them from scoring. They may try for a field goal. If they do, get through and block the kick. Now rest all you can." The second half started in fiercely. Randall kicked off, and succeeded in nailing the Boxer Hall man with the ball before he had run ten yards. But when the line-bucking began something seemed to be the matter with the Randall players. They were shoved back very easily, it appeared, and, with constant gains, the ball was carried toward their territory. So eager did the Randallites get at one stage that they played off-side, and were penalized ten yards. Again there was holding in the line, and ten yards more were given to Boxer Hall for this. The opponents of Randall were now within thirty yards of the goal. By a smash through center they ripped off five more. Then Pinkey Davenport dropped back for a trial for a field goal, and made it. The score was now six to five in favor of Randall. When Randall got the ball again there was a change at once noticed. More confidence was felt, and so fiercely did her players assail the line that they carried the pigskin, in three rushes, well toward the middle of the field. Phil gave the signal for a forward pass, and it was well executed. Then came a fake kick, and this was followed by an on-side one. Both netted good gains, and once more Randall was jubilant. "Right through the line!" cried Phil. "Eat 'em up, fellows!" His players responded to his call. Through tackle, guard and center, then around the end, the plays being repeated, the ball was carried. The men were tiring, but Phil would not chance a kick. They had no sure thing of a field goal now, as a little wind had sprung up. Up and up the field the spheroid, yellow no longer, but dirty and grass-stained, was carried. On the Randallites took it, until they were on the twenty-five-yard line. There was a form of madness among the college supporters now. Once more came the fierce cries for a touch-down, and once more Phil called to his teammates to respond. The signal for some sequence plays was given. It was well these had been practiced, for Phil's voice could scarcely be heard. One after another four plays were reeled off. They were all effective, and though Boxer Hall tried to stem the rush, it was impossible. Over the line went the Randall lads, to the inspiring chorus of: "Tear 'Em Apart and Toss 'Em Aside!" "Touch-down! Touch-down! Touch-down!" came the frantic cries, the players mingling their voices with those of the spectators on the grandstand. The goal was missed, but the score was now eleven to five in favor Randall. Again came the line-up after the kick off. By a fumble Boxer lost the ball, and Tom Parsons fell on it. Then began another fierce attack on the Boxer eleven. But the terrific line-smashing was telling on both teams, though more so on Randall. There was less power in her attack. Boxer held for downs, and the kick was a weak one, the ball going only a short distance. Then Boxer Hall began to rush it back, and by a trick play got it so far down the gridiron that another field goal was kicked. It began to look dubious for Randall, but there was no give-up in her playing. Securing the ball, Phil kept his players on the rush. Down the field they went, a forward pass netting a good gain and wonderfully saving the wind of the now almost exhausted team. An on-side kick was also used, and then, seeing a weak place in the adversary's line, Phil in turn sent Kindlings, Jerry Jackson and Holly Cross at it. In vain did Boxer Hall try to stop up the gap, but their left-tackle and guard were about all in. In two minutes more Bricktop Molloy was shoved over the line for a third touch-down, and, as goal was kicked, the score was seventeen to ten. "One more touch-down!" cried Holly Cross, but there was no time for it. Two minutes more of play and the whistle blew. Randall had won one of the fiercest games she had ever played. "A cheer for Boxer Hall!" cried Holly Cross, and the despondent players, grieving over their defeat, sent back an answer. Then came cheer upon cheer from the grandstand, where waved the yellow and maroon of Randall, and Bean Perkins led in the song: "We Have Come and We Have Conquered!" "Great, old man!" cried Tom to Phil, who was limping slightly. "Are you hurt?" "I shouldn't care if I was in pieces after the way we walloped them! Come on over here. I see my sister and Madge!" Tom followed, his head singing from a severe knock he had received. CHAPTER XXIV GERHART HAS AN IDEA Phil's sister hurried down from the grandstand to greet him. "Oh, Phil!" she cried. "Did you get hurt?" for she saw him limping, and she held out her hands to him. "Just a little twist," he explained. "Not worth mentioning. How are you, Madge?" he went on, after patting his sister on the shoulder, and he held his hands eagerly out to Miss Tyler. "Fine!" she exclaimed. "Oh, wasn't it a great game?" "For us," put in Tom, who had greeted Ruth, and now turned to the other girl. "Good afternoon, Tom," spoke Madge, and Tom fancied there was just a tinge of coldness in her voice. She continued talking to Phil. "Did you think you would win?" asked Phil's sister of Tom as she looked eagerly up into his face. "Well, not all the while," replied the left-end. "Once or twice I began to think we'd lose. But you can't down Randall." "No; it takes Fairview to do that, not Boxer Hall," put in Madge quickly. "Now, be nice--be nice!" pleaded Phil with a laugh. "I thought you were a friend of mine, Madge." "So I am," she replied gaily; "but I can't help saying that." "We'll beat you next time," went on Phil, and he dodged back to escape a little blow which Madge aimed at him with her small flag. Then the two laughed. Tom, who was chatting with Ruth, heard them, and he half turned to see what was going on. He was just in time to see Phil grasp both Madge's hands, and his face turned red. Ruth noticed it, and she said: "Phil and Madge seem to get on well together." "Almost too well," was Tom's thought, but he said nothing and changed the subject. "Well, Tom," said Phil at length, "I suppose we'd better go dress like respectable citizens. You've got a spot of mud on your nose." "And you have one on your ear," added Ruth. "I think Tom--I mean Mr. Parsons--looks quite artistic with that beauty spot." "We can dispense with the 'Mister,' if you like, Ruth," said Tom boldly. "Oh!" laughed Ruth. "I don't know what my brother will say. Eh, Phil?" "Oh, I guess it's safe to call 'Dominie' Parsons by his front handle," said Phil. "He's warranted not to bite. Go ahead, sis." "All right," she agreed with a laugh. "There--Tom"--and she hesitated prettily at the name--"better run along and wash up." "Will you wait here for us?" asked Tom. "We'll take you over to Fairview, then, eh, Phil?" "Surest thing you know!" exclaimed the quarter-back. "That is, if Madge is agreeable." He looked at her. She blushed just a trifle, and, with a little gesture, answered: "If Ruth insists on having her brother, why----" "But I don't want my brother!" cried Ruth gaily. "Whoever heard of a sister walking with her own brother? I'm going to let you have him, and I--er--I----" She paused, blushing. "I'll fill in!" cried Tom quickly. Madge looked at him, but said nothing. A little later on Tom, beside Ruth, and Phil, walking with Madge, started for the trolley to Fairview. As they were crossing the campus, which was thronged with players, visitors and some of the Boxer Hall team and its supporters, Wallops, the messenger, came along with a telegram in his hand. "Is that for me?" asked Phil eagerly, and his face was pale, while his voice trembled. His sister looked quickly at him. Evidently she feared the same thing he did. "No; it's for Professor Tines," replied the messenger, and Phil breathed a sigh of relief as Wallops passed on. Garvey Gerhart, who, with Langridge, was standing near Phil at the time, started. Then a curious look came over his face. "Langridge," he asked the sophomore, "have you anything to do?" "Nothing special. Why?" "Well, if you haven't, come along with me. I've just thought of an idea." "They're mighty scarce," retorted the former pitcher. "Don't let it get away." "Take a walk over by the chapel, and I'll tell you," went on Gerhart. "There isn't such a crowd there." Phil and Tom, with the two girls, were soon on the way to the co-educational college. The trip was enlivened by laughter and jokes. Madge and Phil seemed very good friends, and, as for Tom, though he wondered at the sudden companionship that had sprung up between the quarter-back and the pretty girl he had once been so anxious to get away from Langridge, he could not help but congratulate himself on knowing Ruth. Still, he could not altogether understand Madge. He had been fond of her--he was still--and he knew that she had liked him. The slender tie of relationship between them was no bar to an affection that differed in degree from cousinly. Yet Madge plainly showed her liking for Phil. Could it be, Tom thought, that she was jealous of him, and took this method of showing it? He did not think Madge would do such a thing, yet he felt that part of her gaiety and good spirits, when in company with the handsome quarter-back, were assumed for some purpose. "If it wasn't that Ruth is such a nice girl, and that Phil and I are such friends, I'd almost think that he and I were--well--rivals," thought Tom. "Oh, hang it all! What's the use of getting sentimental? They're both nice girls--very nice--the--the only trouble is I don't know which I think the nicer." The two chums left the girls at the Fairview College campus, for it was getting late. Tom shook hands with Ruth, and then walked over to Madge to say good-by. She had just finished speaking to Phil. "Well, when can your 'cousin' come over to see you again, Madge?" asked Tom with a smile. He held out his hand, but Madge affected not to see it. Tom felt uncomfortable, and then, as if she realized it, she said to him: "Well, 'Cousin' Tom, I don't know that you'll _care_ to come over to see me again," and with that she turned and walked away. Tom remained staring after her for a moment. Then, with a shrug of his shoulders, he wheeled and joined Phil, who had been a silent witness to the little scene. "Say, aren't girls odd?" asked Tom. "Very," agreed his chum. "But you said that once before, you know." "No; did I?" asked Tom, and he was rather silent on the way back to Randall. Meanwhile, Langridge and Gerhart had spent much time strolling about the chapel walk. It was getting dusk, and the fading light of the perfect fall day was shining through the wonderful, stained-glass windows of the little church. The long casements, with representations of biblical scenes, were a soft glow of delicate hues. But the two lads had no eyes for these beauties. "I think that will put a crimp in his playing!" Gerhart remarked, as he paused to light an oriental cigarette, or, rather, something that passed for one. "But it's risky," expostulated Langridge. "If it's found out, and it's sure to be, you'll have to leave college." "I don't care. I'd be willing to, if I could have my revenge on him for keeping me off the team. I don't like it here, anyhow. The other game I put up on him didn't work, but this one will." "And when will you try it?" "At the last and deciding game. The way I figure it is that the final tussle will come between Randall and Boxer Hall. I'll be ready with it then. It will certainly knock him out." "But it may lose us the game and the championship." "What do I care! I'll be square with Clinton, and that's what I want. I got the idea when I saw how frightened he was when Wallops had that telegram. Don't you think it will work?" "Sure it will work. It's a great idea, but--but----" and Langridge hesitated. "It's a brutal trick, just the same." "Oh, you're too chicken-hearted. Come on and I'll buy you a drink. That will put some life in you." "All right," said Langridge weakly, and he went. CHAPTER XXV PHIL GIVES UP Out on the athletic ground Grasshopper Backus was practicing the standing broad jump. It was one of the things he was always at, whence his nickname. But, as Holly Cross used to say, "Grasshopper had about as much chance of making the track team as he had of making a perfect score at tennis," a game which the big lad abhorred. For, though Grasshopper was very fond of jumping and practiced it every time he got a chance, there was something wrong with his method, and he never could get beyond the preliminaries in a contest. Still, he kept at it. "Why don't you give up?" asked Phil, who, with Tom and Sid, strolled down where the lone student was leaping away as if the championship of the college depended on it. "Say, you let me alone," objected Grasshopper, as he prepared for a jump. "I beat my own record a while ago." "By how much?" asked Phil. "Well, not much; a quarter of an inch, but that shows I'm improving." "Yes; at that rate you'll be through college, and a post graduate like Bricktop before you make enough gain to count," declared Tom. "Oh, you let me alone!" exclaimed the exasperated one. With that he jumped, and then, with a measuring tape, he carefully noted the distance he had covered. "Any gain?" asked Sid. "No; I went back an inch then," was the reply. "Like the frog in the well," went on Phil. "He jumped up three feet every day, and fell back four feet every night." "Aw, quit!" begged Grasshopper, who was sensitive, in spite of his enormous bulk. "You go high enough, but you don't go far enough," commented Sid. "Now, if they allow hurdling in football, you'd be right in it for jumping over the line to make a touch-down." "Maybe they'll change the rules so as to allow it," spoke Grasshopper hopefully. "Get out, you old Stoic!" cried Phil. "Come and take a walk with us. Tom is going to blow us to ginger ale." "No; I'm going to keep at it until I beat my best mark," and the jumper again got on the line. "Curious chap," commented Phil, as the three chums walked on. "But as good as they make 'em," added Tom. "That's what!" spoke Sid fervently. Snail Looper soon recovered from the effects of the hard Boxer Hall game, and practice was resumed with the 'varsity bucking against the scrub. There was a big improvement shown in the first team, for the players had demonstrated that they could meet with an eleven counted among the best, and win from it. "Well, fellows, are you all ready for the trip Saturday?" asked the Coach at the conclusion of the practice. "None of you are falling behind in studies, I hope?" Captain Cross assured Mr. Lighton that every man on the team was A1 when it came to scholarship. "Now, a word of advice," went on the coach. "Don't get nervous over this out-of-town trip. We're going up against a hard team, and on strange grounds, but just think of it as if you were going to play Fairview, or Boxer Hall, or Dodville Prep right here. The worst feature of out-of-town games is that they throw the men off their stride. Don't let that happen to you." They all promised that it should not, and then the players separated. The coach had arranged for a game with a distant college--Wescott University--which boasted of a superb eleven. It meant a long trip on the train, two days spent away from Randall, and a day to come back in. The journey to Wescott University was much enjoyed by the eleven and the substitutes. They reached the city at dusk, and were at once taken to the hotel, where quarters had been secured for them. A big crowd of students had planned to come from Randall to see the game, a special excursion train having been arranged for. "Now, fellows, early to bed to-night," stipulated the coach after supper was over. "No skylarking, and don't go to eating a lot of trash. I want you all to be on edge. We'll devote to-morrow to practice, and the next day to wiping up the gridiron with Wescott." Tom and Phil roomed together, and at midnight Tom, who had just fallen into a doze, after envying the sound slumber of his chum, was awakened by the latter. "I'm sick, Tom," said Phil faintly. "What's the matter, old man?" asked the left-end anxiously, and he jumped out of bed, turning on the electric light. "I don't know, but I'm dizzy, and I feel--well, rotten, to put it mildly." "That's too bad. Can I get you anything?" "Better call Mr. Lighton. I don't want to take a lot of dope unless he says so." Tom quickly dressed and called the coach, who was on the same floor where all the football players had their rooms. He came in quickly, and after one glance at Phil insisted on calling the hotel physician. The doctor went through the usual procedure, and left some medicine for Phil. "What is it?" asked the coach of the physician. "Nothing, only his stomach is a little upset. Change of diet and water will sometimes do it. He'll be all right in the morning." Phil was better the next day, but when he went out to practice with the lads, there was a lassitude in his movements, and a lack of snap in his manner of running the team, that made several open their eyes. Mr. Lighton said nothing, but Tom whispered to his chum to "brace up." Phil tried to, and managed to get through the practice with some return of his former vim. He went to bed early that night, and slept soundly--too heavily, Tom thought, as it might indicate fever. The day of the game, however, Phil seemed all right. His face was paler than usual, and there was a grimness about his lips that Tom seldom saw. The Randall boys had light practice in the morning, running through the signals, and then took a rest until it was time to go on the field. There was a big attendance, and the cheers of the small contingent of Randall supporters could hardly be heard. The preliminary practice seemed to go all right, and when the whistle blew there was a confident eleven that lined up against Wescott. The play was hard and snappy, with much kicking and open work. The rivals of Randall had a couple of backs who were excellent punters, and the visitors were kept busy chasing the ball. But there came a change, and when Randall had the pigskin Phil rushed his men up the field to such good advantage that they scored the first touch-down, to the no small dismay of the Wescott team. "Now, Phil, some more work like that," said Holly Cross, but the quarter-back did not answer. Wescott got possession of the ball toward the close of the first half, and with surprising power rushed it up the field. In less time than had been thought possible they had a touch-down. Randall lost the pigskin on fumbles, and when Wescott got it again they kicked a field goal. This ended the half. Phil staggered as he walked to the dressing-room for the rest period. "What's the matter?" asked the coach quickly. "Nothing--I'm--I'm all right," answered the quarter-back, and he gritted his teeth hard. Wescott kicked off in the second half, and Holly Cross managed to run the ball well back. "Rip out another touch-down!" the captain cried as he got in place for the first scrimmage. Phil began on the signal. He hesitated. The players looked at him quickly. He was swaying back and forth on the ground. Once more he tried to give the combination of letters and figures. But the words would not come. He put his hands out to steady himself, and a moment later, with a groan, toppled over. "He's hurt!" cried Tom as he sprang to the side of his chum. "But I never knew Phil to give up." Holly Cross was bending over him, while the other Randallites crowded up, and the Wescott lads stretched out on the field. A doctor ran in from the side lines on a signal from the coach. He felt of Phil's pulse. "Why, the chap has a high fever!" he exclaimed. "He has collapsed from it. He can't play any more! Take him off the field!" A groan went up from the Randall players. CHAPTER XXVI SID IS BOGGED Phil Clinton opened his eyes. His face, that had been pale, was now flushed. The reaction had set in, and he tried to struggle to his feet. "Signal!" he cried. "Eighteen A B X--two twenty-seven Z M!" He tried to get in position to take the ball from Snail Looper, who was standing up, regarding him curiously. "What's the matter?" cried Phil. "Why don't you get down to snap it back, Snail? Isn't it our ball? Have we lost it on a fumble? Are they beating us?" "You--you can't play," spoke Holly Cross brokenly. "Can't play! Nonsense! Of course I can play! I'm all right! I was just knocked out for a minute. Get down there, Snail. Signal----" But Phil fell back into the arms of Tom and the doctor, and lapsed into unconsciousness. "Carry him off the field," said the medical man softly. "He's got lots of grit, but a horse couldn't play with the fever he has." Sorrowfully they carried the stricken quarter-back from the gridiron. It was a hard blow to the Randall team, for it meant that a new man would have to go in and play what was probably the most exacting position on the team. "Jerry Jackson, go to quarter," called Holly Cross. "I'll put Hayden at left half-back," and the substitute was summoned from the side lines. The play went on, but, as might have been expected, Randall was at a disadvantage. When they had the ball they managed to gain considerable ground, and as much punting as possible was done. But Wescott tore through for another touch-down, while the solitary one gained in the first half was the limit of the scoring the visitors could do. There did come a brace on the part of Randall toward the close of the game, and when the whistle blew they had the ball on the ten-yard line of their opponents. They had put up a plucky fight against big odds, and the Wescott players realized it, for they cheered lustily for their enemies. There was lack of heartiness, not alone from the sense of defeat, in the cheer and college yell with which Randall responded. Then they filed sorrowfully off the field, while Tom, Holly Cross and the coach, as soon as possible, went to the hotel where Phil had been taken in an automobile. They imagined all sorts of things, and were not a little relieved when the doctor told them that, at worst, Phil only had a bad attack of bilious fever. The change of diet, necessitated by the trip, had brought it on. With rest and quiet he would be all right in a week, the medical man said. "And when can he play football?" asked Holly Cross anxiously. "Not for two weeks," was the reply, and the coach and captain groaned. They had a game with Fairview in prospect, and must needs win it if they were to have a chance for the championship. "I wonder if we can't postpone it?" asked Holly dubiously. "Impossible," answered the coach. "We'll have to play Jackson at quarter. I'll take him in hand at once. We only have a week, but in that time the Jersey twin will do better than Moseby, who's been playing quarter on the scrub. It's the best we can do." Phil was too sick to accompany the team home, and Tom volunteered to stay with him for a couple of days, the coach and captain agreeing to explain matters at college. So the despondent players returned to Haddonfield, while Tom remained with Phil at the hotel. Three days later, thanks to the skill of the doctor, Phil was able to travel, though he was quite weak. He was broken-hearted at the way he had collapsed in the critical part of the game, but Tom would not listen to any of his chum's self-reproaches. "I'll make up for it when we play Fairview!" declared Phil. He was in a bad state when told that he could not play that game, but there was no help for it. Ruth called to see her brother, accompanied by Madge Tyler. He was sitting in the dilapidated easy chair when the girls came in, and apologized for it. "Oh, we're glad to see you even in that state, Phil, as long as it's no worse, aren't we, Madge?" spoke Ruth. "Of course," answered Madge brightly. "I wish you were better, so you could play Saturday against our college." "We'd be sure to win, if he did," interposed Tom. "As it is, your fellows have a better chance." "I--I don't care if we do lose!" exclaimed Madge, and she blushed prettily. "That is----" and she paused in some confusion. "Why, Madge Tyler!" exclaimed Ruth. "That's treason!" "I don't care," was the answer, with a toss of the head. "Don't you want your brother to get well?" "Of course, but----" "Well," was all Madge said, and Tom wondered what she meant. But Randall did not lose to Fairview in the second game. It was a hard one, but the Jersey twin did good work at quarter, and Hayden proved a "star" end, making a brilliant run and a touch-down. The score was seventeen to five, a solitary field goal being all that Fairview was able to accomplish. "Well, now we'll have a chance at the championship, when we meet Boxer Hall next," said Phil, who had watched the contest from the grandstand, though he was as nervous as a colt all the while. The 'varsity quarter-back was allowed to begin practice the following week, and was soon playing with his old-time form. In fact, the little rest seemed to have benefited him, and this, added to the fact that encouraging news had been received concerning his mother, made him less apprehensive when he was on the gridiron. There were two more rather unimportant games in prospect before the final contest with Boxer Hall, and all the energies of the Randall eleven were now turned to the deciding contest. "I say, you fellows," remarked Sid one sunny November afternoon, when all three chums were in the room after lectures, "don't you want to take a walk with me? I've got to do some observation work in my biology course, and I'm going to take my camera along and make some pictures." "Where you going?" asked Tom. "Oh, along the river. Then I'll strike across country, and fetch up somewhere. We'll not be gone over three hours, and we'll get back by dark. Come along; it will do you good." "Shall we go with the old gazabo, Phil?" asked Tom. "If he guarantees not to get us lost in the woods, so we'll have to stay out all night," replied the quarter-back. "Oh, I'll get you home safe," declared Sid. "We'll have a nice walk. I'll be ready in a jiffy," and he proceeded to load his camera with films. It was a large one, and he often used it to make pictures which had a bearing on his class work in biology and evolution. The three chums were soon strolling along the banks of the river, Sid on the lookout for late-staying birds or some animal or reptile which he might add to his photographic collection. "You must be fond of this sort of thing, to lug that heavy camera around with you," commented Phil. "I am," said Sid. "It's very interesting to study the habits of birds and animals. You'd ought to have taken that course." "I wish I had, instead of mathematics," put in Tom. "I'm dead sick of them, but I guess I'll have to stick at 'em." For a mile or more Sid saw nothing on which to focus his camera. He suggested that they leave the vicinity of the river and strike across country, and, as his chums left the matter entirely to him, this plan was followed. Suddenly, as they were going through a clump of trees about a mile from the stream, Sid uttered an exclamation. "Hold on, fellows!" he cried. "I can get a beautiful snapshot here," and he motioned them to stand still, while he got his automatic hand camera into position. "What is it?" whispered Phil. "A _vulpes pennsylvanicus argentatus_!" answered Sid as he turned the focusing screw. "What's that, for the love of Mike?" spoke Tom. "Blessed if I know," retorted Phil. "I don't see anything. Maybe it's a snake." "It's a fox, you chumps!" came from Sid. "Keep still, can't you? I've got him just right. He can't see me, and the wind is blowing from him to me. I'll have his picture in a minute!" But, as bad luck would have it, just as Sid was about to press the lever, releasing the shutter, Phil leaned too heavily on one foot. A stick broke under him with a snap, there was a sudden rustling in the bushes, and Sid uttered a cry of dismay. "There he goes!" cried the naturalist. "What's the matter with you fellows, anyhow? Can't you keep still? Now it will take me an hour to trail him, and the chances are I can't do it." "It wasn't my fault," explained Tom. "Phil did it." "I couldn't help it," came from the guilty one. "What do you want to photograph such scary things as foxes for, anyhow?" "Humph!" was Sid's exclamation. "Well, there's no help for it. Come on." "Where?" inquired Tom. "After the fox, of course," and Sid started resolutely forward. Tom and Phil followed for a short distance, then Phil called out: "Say, it's getting swampy here." "What of it?" asked Sid, whose enthusiasm would not let him notice such small matters. "Lots of it," came from Tom. "We're getting our feet wet." "Ah, don't be babies!" retorted Sid, plunging into a deep, muddy hole. "Come on." "I'm going to find a dryer path," said Phil, and Tom agreed with him. They turned aside, but Sid kept on. Soon he was lost to sight in the woods. Phil and Tom looked in vain for a better route, and, finding none, decided to turn back. "We'll wait for you out on the main road," Phil called to his unseen chum. An indistinguishable answer came back. The two picked their way to higher ground, and edged off toward the road which skirted the woods. "Photographing in a swamp is too rich for my blood," commented Phil. "Same here," agreed Tom. "But Sid doesn't seem to mind it. Smoked mackerel, look at my shoes!" and he glanced at his muddy feet. "I'm in as bad," added Phil. "Let's walk through the grass and----" Just then they heard Sid calling from afar. "What's he saying?" asked Tom. "Listen," advised Phil. Again the cry was heard. "Sounds as if he was calling for us to come to him," ventured Tom. "That's it, but I'm not going. I'm just as well satisfied to look at the photograph after he's developed it. I'm going to stay here," came from Phil. "Sure," added Tom. The cries continued, and then ceased. Tom and Phil waited nearly an hour for Sid to reappear, and when he did not come they started back for college, thinking he had gone another way. But poor Sid was in dire straits, as we shall soon see. CHAPTER XXVII WOES OF A NATURALIST Sid Henderson was of a very hopeful disposition, otherwise he never would have undertaken to get a picture of that fox after it had once been alarmed. But he fancied he could trail it to its burrow, and he wanted very much to get a photograph of the animal in its home surroundings. So, unmindful of the desertion of his chums, he plunged on into the swamp. The footing became more and more treacherous as he advanced, and he had to go slowly, looking here and there for grass hummocks to support him. His camera, too, was a handicap. "But I'm going to get that fox!" he exclaimed. "I just need a picture like that. Besides, I may find in this swamp some material I can use in my biological experiments." On he went, leaping from hummock to hummock. Once he nearly slipped and barely saved himself from falling into a slough of black water. "I wonder how deep that is?" he remarked, and taking a dead branch he thrust it straight down. He found that the hole was deeper than he had anticipated. Keeping a sharp lookout for the animal he was after, he was at length rewarded by a sight of it slinking along through the bushes. He started forward eagerly, so eagerly, in fact, that he did not pick his steps. A moment later he slipped from a grass hummock and went into the muddy bog, up to his waist. "Wow! Whoop! Help! Here, fellows! Come here and help me! Bring a fence rail!" he called, for he felt himself sinking down deeper and deeper. Tom and Phil heard his cries, but thought he was only calling to them to come and see some natural curiosity or view the fox, so they did not respond. Sid called again and again, but got no answer. Then he tried to scramble from the bog, and found it hard work, for he had to hold his camera high up that it might not get wet. At last he managed to free his legs from the sticky mud and reached a comparatively firm place. But what a plight he was in! Plastered with swamp-ooze to his waist, he looked like some sewer laborer. Though he did not know it, his face was spotted with globules of mud, splashed up in his struggles to get from the bog. "Well, I certainly am in bad," he remarked to himself. "Lucky I put on old clothes. I can't get much worse, that's one satisfaction. I might as well keep on. Maybe I can get that fox now." So he continued through the swamp. His speed was better, for he no longer paused to pick his steps, but splashed on, careless of the mud and water. The fever of the chase was in his veins, and another glimpse of the fox convinced him that the animal was heading for its burrow. At last, after a tramp of a mile, Sid was successful, and, in the fast fading light of the fall day, he snapped the creature, just as it was entering the hole, when it turned for a final look at its tireless pursuer. "Well, it was worth it all," sighed the naturalist as he closed up his camera and started for home. "Now I wonder where Phil and Tom are." Remembering that they had called to him that they would wait out on the road, he took that highway back to college. On the way he found several specimens which he needed in his evolution work, and in thinking about them, and his success in photographing the fox, he forgot about the plight he was in. He did not meet his chums, of course, and it was dusk when he got back to college. The mud had dried somewhat on his trousers and shoes, and, incidentally, on his face and hands, for he had, unconsciously, run his hands over his countenance once or twice, so that the mud globules had increased in surface area. It was a very strange and somewhat disreputable figure that entered the west dormitory a little later and started up the stairs, but Sid did not know that, having no looking glass at hand. Now it so happened that Professor Tines was just leaving the dormitory. He had called to see one of his pupils who was ill--a "greasy dig" student--to use the college vernacular to designate a lad who burned midnight oil over his studies. The professor having finished his call came upon Sid in the corridor. The instructor saw before him a young man, mud covered, carrying a square, black box, and the countenance, spotted with specimens of swamp muck, was unfamiliar to him. Professor Tines at once suspected a student trick. "Here! Where are you going?" he cried, blocking the way of Sid. "To my room," answered the luckless naturalist, who, of course, not appreciating that he was most effectually disguised, thought that the Latin teacher had recognized him. "Your room! What do you mean by such nonsense? What student put you up to this joke? Tell me, and I will have him punished at once. How dare you come in here?" "Why, I--I belong here, Professor Tines," said Sid. "Belong here? You work on the coal trestle! Don't tell me! You are covered with coal dust now! What have you there? Are you going to play some trick at the instigation of the freshmen? I demand an answer!" "I'm Henderson," went on Sid desperately. "I room here--with Phil Clinton and Tom Parsons." "How dare you trifle with me in this fashion?" demanded the irate Latin instructor. "I shall call the proctor and have you arrested!" and he was so much in earnest that Sid, beginning to appreciate the state he was in, determined to prove absolutely that he was himself. "Professor Tines," he said, "you can knock on that door there, and ask Clinton and Parsons if I'm not Henderson. I've been out after a fox, and I fell in the bog." "Ha!" cried the professor. "I see it now. You are trying to play a joke on me, with the aid of Clinton and Parsons. But you shall all three suffer for it! I _will_ knock on that door. I _will_ confront your fellow conspirators with the evidence of their silly act. Come here," and he placed his hand on Phil's shoulder and led him toward the room of the three chums. "You shall not trifle with me!" he added fiercely. Holding Sid firmly by the shoulder with one hand, Professor Tines with the other knocked loudly at the portal. Phil and Tom were within, and the latter quickly opened the door, for the summons was imperative. The two chums in the room started back at the sight of the instructor having in custody the mud-covered figure. "Young gentlemen," began the professor sternly, "this--this person asserts that he is Henderson, and that he rooms here. I caught him in the corridor, and at once detected the joke he was about to play. He appealed to me to bring him here for identification. Have you three conspired to play a trick on me? Is this Henderson or is it not?" Tom and Phil stared at the disreputable figure. They knew at once that it was their chum, but the spirit of mischief entered into Tom. He nudged Phil, and then answered promptly: "Certainly not, Professor Tines. We don't know the person!" Then he shut the door, while, with a cry of rage at the desertion of his friends, Sid tried to break away from the Latin teacher. CHAPTER XXVIII TOM IS JEALOUS "Ha! I knew you were up to some trick!" cried Professor Tines. "You are no student of Randall College at all! I'll take you to Proctor Zane, and he'll give you in charge of an officer! Perhaps you are a thief, and have stolen that camera!" "It's mine!" exclaimed Sid, unable to understand the action of Tom and Phil. "I tell you I am Henderson, professor!" "Indeed! Then how do you account for Parsons and Clinton failing to identify you?" "That's a--a joke!" Sid was forced to say. "Ha! I knew there was some trick in it! So you admit you were trying to play a joke on me in having them identify you?" "No, no!" cried Sid, alarmed at this misunderstanding. "They were joking when they said I wasn't Henderson." "Well, who are you, then?" "Why, I _am_ Henderson. This is my camera." "Don't make it any worse, young man," warned the teacher sternly. "Come with me to the proctor!" There was no help for it, Sid had to go. He might have broken away from the professor, but he did not like to try it, for Mr. Tines seemed very determined, and the ensuing tumult would bring into the corridor a throng of students, so that Sid would never hear the last of the joke that had turned on him. He went along quietly, thankful that it was dark, and that no one would see him in the walk across the campus to the proctor's quarters. "Here is a young man--a thief, if nothing worse, perhaps--whom I caught in the corridor of the west dormitory," explained Professor Tines to Mr. Zane a little later as he stood with his quarry before the proctor. Sid caught a glimpse of himself in a looking glass in the brightly-lighted office. "Oh--I--do I look like that?" he gasped as he saw his slimy trousers, and his face, which was like unto that of a chimney sweep, his hands also being covered with the swamp mud. "You certainly do!" said Professor Tines heartily. "Are you now ready to confess, before we send for an officer?" "But I tell you I'm Henderson!" insisted the luckless Sid. "It was only a joke when Phil and Tom went back on me. I tell you I'm Henderson, of the sophomore class!" The proctor glanced sharply at him. Mr. Zane had good eyes and a memory for voices, which Professor Tines lacked. "I believe it _is_ Henderson," spoke the proctor at length. "But where in the world have you been?" "Photographing a fox," explained Sid, and then he told the whole story. A dawning light of belief came into the countenance of Professor Tines, and when Sid had been allowed to wash his face and hands, there was no further doubt as to his identity. "Well," remarked the proctor, trying hard not to laugh as he glanced at the student's mud-encased trousers, "I would advise you to wear rubber boots when you go on your next nature excursion." "I will," promised Sid. "May I go to my room now?" "I suppose so," rasped out the Latin instructor. "But--ahem! I am not altogether sure yet that you are not up to some mischief." "I'll develop the picture of the fox and show you!" exclaimed Sid eagerly. "And here are some snails I picked up in the swamp," and with that he plunged his hand into the pocket of his coat and drew out a lot of the slimy creatures. Some of them dropped on the floor and started to crawl away, leaving a shimmering track. "That will do! The evidence is sufficient, I think!" exclaimed the proctor, who had a horror of such things. "Take them away at once, Mr. Henderson!" And Sid went down on his knees to gather up the _helix molluscæ_, while Professor Tines hurried from the room. "Do you want to see the picture of the fox?" asked Sid as he arose, his hands filled with snails. "No, thank you," answered the proctor. "I'll take your word for it, Mr. Henderson. But please be more careful," and he looked at the mud spots on his rug. A little later Sid burst into the room where his two chums were pouring over their books. "Say! What in blazes did you fellows go back on me that way for?" he demanded. "What's that? He speaks in riddles!" said Phil softly. "Why, Siddie," he went on, as a mother might chide a little boy, "wherever have you been? You're all mud! Oh, such a state as your trousers are in! Whatever will papa say, Siddie?" "What a dirty beast!" cried Tom in simulated horror. Poor Sid looked from one to the other. "Why did you tell Pitchfork I wasn't Henderson?" he demanded savagely. "Tell Pitchfork you weren't yourself?" asked Phil, as if he had never heard of such a thing. "What do you mean?" inquired Tom innocently. "We haven't seen you since we left you going after the fox, and we got tired and came home." "Do you mean to tell me," began Sid, "that you didn't----" And then he stopped, at the grins that appeared on the faces of his chums. "What's the use?" he asked wearily. "All right, I'll get even with you two," he concluded as he put his camera away and proceeded to change his clothes. But a little later, when he had developed the picture of the fox, and found it to be a fine one, he forgot his anger and the ordeal he had gone through, for Sid was a true naturalist. It was approaching the date for the great game with Boxer Hall, and the football squad was practicing with a fierce energy; for, more than any other contest, they wanted to win that one. The team was fairly "on edge and trained to the second," as Holly Cross said. They had won the two games that came before the final one, and now but two weeks elapsed before they would clash with Boxer Hall on the Randall gridiron. "Are you going to the _Kappa Delta_ dance?" asked Phil of Tom one night, referring to an annual affair of one of the Greek letter fraternities. "Sure," replied Tom. "I think we need something like that to get us in shape for the game with Boxer Hall. You're going, I suppose?" "Of course. Who you going to take?" "Haven't quite made up my mind yet. Are you going with a dame?" "Sure." "Who, if you don't mind me asking?" "Madge Tyler," answered Phil, and he seemed to be very busy arranging his tie. "Madge Tyler?" repeated Tom quickly. "Yes. Any objections?" Tom was silent a moment. He was struggling with a strange sensation. "Well," asked Phil, turning and facing his chum--Sid was out of the room--"any objections?" "Of course not," answered Tom slowly. "I took her last term, and--er--I was rather counting on----" "You were going to take her again this year," interrupted Phil, "but you waited too long. Sorry I cut you out, old man. No hard feelings, I hope?" "No--no," answered Tom hesitatingly. "Of course not," he added more genially. "I was too slow, that's all." "You'll have to ask some one else," went on Phil. "Are you sure you don't mind, old chap?" and he came over and stood beside his chum. Tom did not answer for a few seconds. There was a strained quality in his voice when he replied, as cheerfully as he could: "Of course not. You're first in war, first in football, and first in--the affairs with the ladies," he paraphrased. "Whom will you take?" persisted Phil. "Nobody!" exclaimed Tom, as he got up from the couch and started from the room. "I'm not going to the affair, after all," and he slammed the door as he went out. "Whew!" whistled Phil. "Tom's jealous!" CHAPTER XXIX A STRANGE DISCOVERY The _Kappa Delta_ dance was a brilliant affair. Phil took Madge, and very charming she looked in a new gown of--oh, well, what difference does it make what her dress was like, anyhow? Besides, I don't know whether it was bombazine or chiffon, and the more I try to describe it the worse I will get tangled, so if you'll take my word for it, as well as Phil's, who ought to know, she looked very pretty indeed. The girls said she was "sweet," whatever that means. "Isn't Ruth coming?" asked Phil of his partner after the first waltz. "Why, I thought so," answered Madge slowly. "She was getting ready to come when I left." "Who with?" "I don't know. Didn't she tell you?" "She never does," replied Phil. "I thought you'd know." "Well, I usually do, but this time Ruth was quite mysterious about it." "There she comes now!" exclaimed Phil, looking toward the entrance to the ballroom. "Who's that with her?" "I can't see. She's in front--why, it's Tom--Tom Parsons!" added Madge quickly. "Tom!" exclaimed Phil. "The sly beggar! He was going to take her all the while, yet he pretended to be jealous because I said I was going to take----" He stopped in some confusion. Madge looked at him quickly. "Was he--was he jealous about me?" she asked softly. "He pretended to be," said her partner. "Only pretended? How ungallant of you!" she cried gaily, yet there was more meaning in her tones than Phil was aware of. "Why don't you say he was madly jealous of me; and that you two quarreled dreadfully over me?" "Well, I s'pose I could say it," replied Phil slowly, "but you see---- Let's try this two-step," he interrupted, glad of the chance to get out of an awkward explanation. "I was going to wait and speak to Ruth," said Madge. "Later will do," answered Phil, and they swung out on the polished floor together. "You frowsy beggar, why didn't you tell me you were going to bring my sister?" cried Phil to Tom, when the two-step finished and the four had come together. "I wasn't sure she'd go," replied Tom in a low voice, and Phil missed the usual friendly note in his tones. "Will you come down and have an ice?" he asked Ruth, and before Phil could say anything more Tom had led his fair partner away. "Hang it all! There's something the matter with Tom!" thought honest Phil as he looked at Madge. "I'll have it out with him when this affair is over. We can't let girls come between us." It was late when Phil got back to his room, after taking Madge home. Sid was asleep, and the quarter-back moved about softly, so as not to disturb him, for Sid had foresworn such dissipations as fraternity dances. Just as Phil was about to get into bed, Tom came in. "Say, old man," burst out Phil in a whisper, "what's the matter?" "Matter?" asked Tom, as if greatly surprised. "Yes, matter. You've been different ever since I told you I was going to take Madge to the dance. Now, am I trespassing on your preserves? If I am, say so. But I thought you liked Ruth." "So I do!" "That's what I thought. I knew you used to go with Madge, but since---- Oh, hang it all, I can't explain--I'm Ruth's brother, you know. But if you think I want to cut you out----" "It's all right," broke in Tom with a forced geniality that Phil noticed. "Forget it, old man. Of course, you had a perfect right to go with Madge. I dare say she'd a heap sight rather have you than me." "I don't know about that," interposed Phil; "but I was afraid I was treading on your corns." "It's all right," repeated Tom quickly. "Fine dance, wasn't it?" "Very. But are you sure----" "Oh, dry up!" exclaimed Tom, more like himself. "Here's a letter Ruth gave me to give you. It's from your mother. Your sister meant to hand it to you at the dance, but she forgot. Came late to-night--or, rather, last night--it's morning now. She's a little better, it seems." "That's good!" exclaimed Phil eagerly. "But I wonder why she didn't write to me." "She couldn't manage but one letter, I believe Ruth said," went on Tom gently. "Say, I wish you fellows would cut out that gab!" suddenly exclaimed Sid, turning over in bed. "I want to sleep. I don't go out to dances, where there are a lot of silly girls, and then sit up all night talking about it." "Get out, you grumpy old misogynist!" exclaimed Phil, shying a sofa cushion at his chum. "Wake up and hear the glad tidings of the dance!" "Glad pollywogs!" grumbled Sid. "Get to bed and douse the glim." Which Phil soon did, as Tom showed no further inclination to talk. In spite of Tom's assertions to the contrary, Phil could not help feeling that a coldness had sprung up between himself and his chum. That it was about Madge, Phil could not deny, yet he hesitated to speak further of it to Tom. "Maybe it will work itself out," he said to himself. "I hope so, anyhow." Meanwhile, the time for the final and deciding championship football game was drawing closer. Randall and Boxer Hall were easily the two best teams, not only in the Tonoka Lake League, but in that section of the country. Neither had done any remarkable playing, nor could it be said that their goal line had not been crossed, but the championship lay between them. The practice was exacting and constant, and the 'varsity eleven was "as hard as nails," to again quote my friend, Holly Cross, who had an extensive sporting vocabulary. They were eager for the contest. Tom and Phil, between whom there was still a shadow of coldness, came walking together from the gridiron. They were talking about a wing-shift play that had been tried with some success. "I don't like the signal for it," said Phil. "It's too complicated, and the other fellows may get on to it. I think I can work out a better combination. I'll use some of the old signal letters and numbers that we discarded. I've got a copy of them in my room." "Maybe it wouldn't be a bad idea," commented Tom. "I think, myself, that the signal takes too long to understand. It ought to be snappier." "That's my idea. We'll see if we can't work out a better one." Hurrying from the gymnasium, where they had changed their clothes, Tom and Phil went to their room. Sid was there studying. Phil went over to the wall, where he had placed the new picture of Madge Tyler she had given him, and took it down. "That's right!" exclaimed Sid. "It's about time you removed some of these flags, banners, ribbons and other effeminate decorations. Start in, Tom, on your share. We'll get this room to looking right, after a bit." "Oh, I'm not taking it down," declared Phil as he removed the photograph from the wall. He had had it placed in rather a heavy and deep gold frame. "I want to get my copy of the football signals--the ones we discarded--from behind it," he explained. "I hid them there, as being the place least likely to be disturbed. I'm going to frame up a new signal----" He stopped suddenly, and looked first from the picture to the floor, and then from the floor to the picture. "What's the matter?" asked Tom. "The copy of the signals--it's gone," he said quickly. "I had it fastened to the back of the picture by a bit of wire." "Are you sure?" inquired Sid, getting up from the old easy chair, and making a cloud of dust in the operation. "Of course!" exclaimed Phil. "They're gone--some one must have taken the signals." Tom dimly recalled a certain scene he and Phil had witnessed, and also remembered the words of the coach when he had made a shift of the signals. Phil looked at Tom. He was thinking of the same thing. Suddenly Phil uttered a cry. From the deep, curved frame of the picture he held up a small gold watch-charm. "Look!" he exclaimed. "A freshman charm!" spoke Sid slowly, as he recognized the device affected by a certain first-year secret society. "Whose is it?" asked Tom. "There's no telling," replied Phil. "Yes, there is," went on Sid. "They always have their initials on the back of the charm. Look and see." Phil turned it over. "Whoever left this here must have taken the copy of the signals," he said slowly. "He probably took down the picture and removed the paper. In doing so the charm slipped from his watch-chain and fell in the deep frame. He must have held it about at his belt to bend up the wire, for it was stiff." "Whose initials are on the back?" asked Tom in a low voice. Phil looked at them. "They are 'G. A. G.,'" he announced. Sid reached for a college roster, and turned to the freshman class list. The room was strangely silent, not even the ticking of the alarm clock being heard, for it had run down. "Well?" asked Tom. "The only fellow with the initials 'G. A. G.' is Garvey A. Gerhart," answered Sid. CHAPTER XXX A BITTER ENEMY The breathing of the three chums was distinctly audible in the silence that followed. Varied thoughts rushed through their minds, but all centered around the idea that there was a traitor in college--some one who would go to extreme lengths to see the football eleven lose. That this person was Garvey Gerhart was the belief of Tom, Phil and Sid. The quarter-back was the first to break the silence that was becoming strained. "The cowardly sneak!" he burst out. "He ought to be tarred and feathered and ridden around the campus on a rail. The dirty cad!" Phil clenched his fists. "And I'm going to do it, too!" he added fiercely. "Do what?" asked Tom. "I'm going to tell what we discovered. I'm going to let Holly Cross and Mr. Lighton know. It was Gerhart who stole the copy of the signals. He sneaked in here when we were out and found them, though how he knew enough to look behind the picture is more than I understand. Probably he wanted to see if the girl's name was on the back, and saw the paper by accident. Anyhow, he took it, and he lost the charm at the same time, though he didn't notice it. Then he went and bargained to sell the signals to Stoddard, of Boxer Hall. That was when we saw them talking together down by the bridge." "But Stoddard didn't take his offer," interposed Tom. "No; Stoddard isn't that kind of a chap," went on Phil. "He let Mr. Lighton know anonymously. But what Stoddard did doesn't lessen Gerhart's guilt. He wanted to throw the team, and only for the fact that he made his offer to an honest chap we would have lost the game. I'd--I'd like to smash him into jelly!" and Phil fairly shook in righteous anger, for the team was very dear to his heart. He felt everything that affected the eleven more, perhaps, than any other lad in Randall College, not even excepting the captain, Holly Cross. So it is no wonder that Phil raged. He started from the room. "Where are you going?" asked Sid, interposing his bulky frame between Phil and the door. "I'm going to tell the coach and Holly Cross what I've discovered. I'm going to show them this charm. I'm going to propose that we tar and feather Gerhart and ride him out of college to the tune of the 'Rogues' March.'" "No, you're not," spoke Sid very quietly. Phil looked at him for a moment. Then he burst out with: "What do you mean? Don't you want me to tell? I'm going to, I say!" "No, you're not," repeated Sid, and he did not raise his voice. "You're going to sit right down," and he gently shoved Phil toward the yawning easy chair. Puzzled by his chum's action, Phil backed up, and before he knew it he had flopped down upon the cushions, raising an unusual cloud of dust. "Say, Henderson, what's the matter with you?" he cried, as he struggled to get up. "Are you crazy? Don't interfere with me again! I'm going to inform on the dirty, sneaking cad who wanted to see his own college beaten!" Sid put a hand on his chum's shoulder and pushed him back into the chair. "You're going to do nothing of the sort, my son," went on the big first baseman slowly. "Tom, lock the door and put the key in your pocket." Tom as though acting under the influence of some hypnotic spell, obeyed. "Are you both crazy?" burst out Phil. "I tell you the whole college must know what a white-livered hound we've got here!" "That's just what they mustn't know," said Sid quietly. "Now listen to me," he went on more sternly. "In the first place, you don't know that Gerhart is guilty." "Don't know? Of course I know it!" almost shouted Phil. "Haven't I got the evidence?" and he held out the charm. "Easy," cautioned Sid. "I grant that; I even grant that the charm is Gerhart's; but does that prove he took the signals?" "It proves that he was in the room," declared Phil. "Yes, I admit that. I saw him in here once myself--just before that accident to my hand. But that doesn't prove anything." "He was in here some other time then, when none of us was here. He must have taken the picture down, else the charm would never have been caught in the frame and remained there." "Granted; but you are still far from making out a case, Phil." "Don't you believe he did it?" asked the quarter-back. "I do, when it comes to that, but we've got to offer more evidence than our own beliefs when it comes to convincing other people. Besides, I don't see what need there is of proving your case." "Don't you think the college ought to know what sort of a coward and sneak we've got at Randall?" "No," said Sid decidedly, "I don't. That's just the point. That's just why I don't want you to go and tell Holly what we've found. I think Gerhart took those signals," he continued, "and I believe that when we saw him talking to Stoddard he was trying to dispose of them to him. But just because I feel morally certain of it doesn't justify me in spreading the news broadcast. Besides, do we want every one to know what a cad we have here? I take the opposite view from you. I think we ought not to wash our soiled linen in public. The more we can hush this thing up the better. I wouldn't let it get beyond us three. It ought to stop right here. We would be the laughingstock of Fairview and Boxer Hall if it got out. To think that the Randall spirit was capable of falling so low that there was a traitor among us! I'm glad Stoddard kept still. Evidently he didn't tell a soul, but warned Lighton privately, and the team has kept quiet about it. "Now," continued Sid earnestly, "do you want to go and publish it? Do you want to let every one see our shame? I don't believe you do, Phil." Phil was silent for several seconds. He was struggling with some emotion. Tom stood with his back to the door, though it was locked. Sid stood before his chum, looking anxiously at him as he sat in the big chair. Then, with a long breath, Phil said: "I guess you're right, Sid. I--I didn't look at it that way. I'll keep still." "I thought you would," spoke Sid significantly. Phil put the charm in his pocket. The strain was over. They all seemed relieved. But Phil, so much was his heart bound up in the eleven, could not forget the great affront that had been planned against it. Two days later, meeting Gerhart alone on the campus, he approached him, and showing the freshman the watch-charm, exclaimed: "Take care, you dirty coward! We know where you lost this!" Gerhart started, turned first pale and then red. He soon recovered himself, and answered: "I don't know what you mean." "Yes, you do," snapped Phil. "You stole my signals!" "That's a lie," said Gerhart coolly, and he walked on. But if Phil could have seen him a little later, when he joined Langridge, the quarter-back would have wondered at the rage and fear shown by the freshman. "Clinton knows! He found my charm! I was afraid I'd lost it in his room," said Gerhart. "Well?" asked Langridge. "One of us has got to leave Randall!" exclaimed Gerhart savagely. "It's he or I; and it will be he, if I can accomplish it!" CHAPTER XXXI "IT'S TOO LATE TO BACK OUT!" Gerhart and Langridge were walking along the road that led to Haddonfield. The freshman was filled with unreasoning rage against not only Phil, but Tom and Sid, as well. "Probably all three know," said Gerhart. "I was a fool not to look to see if I left any clues behind when I was in the room." "Maybe you were a fool for ever trying that signal and liniment trick at all," suggested Langridge, who did not mince words. "Maybe," admitted his crony. "But I thought I could get back at Clinton, Cross and Lighton, for not letting me play. Only that Stoddard was such a white-livered chump I'd have pulled off the signal trick." "As it was, you lost." "Yes; but the game isn't over yet. There's still the Boxer Hall contest." "You don't mean to say you're going to try and give away the signals in that game, do you?" cried Langridge. "No; but I'm going to keep Clinton out of the game. If I can do that I'll feel that I'm even with him--the beast!" "But can you do it? If you do it, it may make our team lose, for Clinton is one of the best players, and it's hard to substitute a quarter-back." "I can do it; and I wish the eleven would lose! That's what I want to see!" "You haven't got much college spirit," observed Langridge. "I've as much as you. Weren't you in with me on this scheme?" "I suppose so." Langridge didn't seem to derive much satisfaction from the admission. "Of course you were. You hate Clinton and his bunch as much as I do." "Yes." "And you'd like to see 'em laid out good and proper, wouldn't you?" "Yes," hesitatingly, "I guess so." "Of course you would! Well, you're going to if you stick to me. I've got the best plan yet." "What is it?" "Come along to town, and you'll see part of it. I've got to get certain things, and then I'll be ready." "You want to be careful you don't leave any evidence after you this time." "No danger. Will you help me?" "I guess so, as long as it isn't anything rash." "No, it won't cause any permanent harm to any one, but it will knock Clinton out from playing the game, and that's what I'm after. Now come on. I want to get to Haddonfield before the college crowd starts. It won't do to be seen where we're going, or there might be an inquiry afterward." About an hour later Langridge and Gerhart were in the telegraph office at Haddonfield. There might have been noticed about the sophomore a trace of nervousness as he walked up to the little window and inquired how long it would take to get some money from his uncle in Chicago. "I want it to come by telegraph," Langridge explained. "I need it in a hurry." "Yes, you college chaps usually do," said the agent. "Well, you can get it late to-night, I suppose, if you send a wire to Chicago now. How much would you need?" "Oh, a couple of hundred; maybe five hundred." The agent whistled. "That's more than we have on hand here at a time," he said. "I'd have to get it from the bank, and that couldn't be done until morning." "Well, there's no great hurry," went on Langridge. "Would I have to be identified to get it? My guardian--that's my uncle--frequently sends me money by telegraph when I'm off on trips." "Oh, yes; you'd have to get some one to vouch for you," said the agent, "but that will be easy." "Then I guess I'll telegraph for some," continued the sophomore, and he began filling out a blank under the directions of the telegrapher. Langridge, for a youth who had received money by wire before, seemed to require minute directions, and he kept the agent at the window for several minutes, holding his attention closely. "There, I guess that will do," said the student at length. "I'll call to-morrow for the cash. Hope you have it for me." "Oh, I'll have it if your uncle sends it." "He's sure to do that," retorted Langridge with a smile. "Lucky dog!" murmured the agent as he turned back to his desk. "Some of those college chaps have more money than is good for them, though." Langridge hurried from the office. He was joined outside by Gerhart, who had preceded him out of the door by a few seconds. "Did you get it?" asked the sophomore. "Sure," was the gleeful answer, and Gerhart showed several yellow slips. "Lucky the door was unlocked, so I could sneak in. I just took the blanks and envelopes off his desk when you held him in conversation. You know, they keep the receiving blanks in a private drawer, but the sending ones which you used they leave out where any one can reach them. But it's all right now. I'll soon put it through." "I wonder if I'll get that money?" spoke Langridge. "I took a big chance, but it seemed the only thing to do." "Of course you'll get it, and I'll help you spend it. That's a fair division of labor, as Sam Weller used to say." "Well, you'll have to do the rest," declared his crony as they walked back to college. "I'll do it. Don't worry." They proceeded in silence. Langridge grew less and less talkative, and to the jokes of Gerhart, who seemed in unusually good spirits, he returned monosyllabic answers. "Say, what's the matter with you?" Gerhart finally exclaimed. "Well, if you must know," answered Langridge, "the more I think of this the less I like it. It's a brutal thing to do. I wish I hadn't agreed to help you." "But you have!" insisted Gerhart. "It's too late to back out now!" "Yes, I suppose so," was the gloomy answer, and Langridge plodded on behind his crony. CHAPTER XXXII TOM GETS A TIP It lacked but two days of the big game with Boxer Hall. The Randall eleven had bucked against the scrub until that aggregation of substitutes was weary, worn and sore. For the 'varsity team was now a magnificent fighting machine. The men played together like clock-work, and were a joy to the heart of Coach Lighton. As for Holly Cross, no captain was ever prouder of an eleven than he was. The ends were fast, the backs could go through the line for gains every time, guards, tackles and Snail Looper at center were like a wall of flesh. The punting, while not all that could be desired, was good, and several trick plays had been worked up well nigh to perfection against the scrub. How they would work against Boxer Hall was yet to be seen. But if Randall was in fine shape for the coming struggle on the gridiron, so was Boxer Hall. Reports from that institution showed that the eleven was the best that had been turned out in many a season, and by comparing the games played by Randall (the loss of one game to Fairview and the winning of the other) and those played by Boxer Hall against the same teams, an expert would have been hard put to pick the winner of the championship struggle. "But we're going to win, fellows!" cried Tom after two halves of hard practice. "Aren't we, Phil, old chap?" "Of course," was the rather quiet answer. "How's your mother, Phil?" asked Holly Cross. "I hope she is getting better." "I haven't heard for two days," replied the quarter-back, and his face showed a little worry. "Well, she must be all right, or your father would have wired," went on Dutch Housenlager. "My, but I'm tired!" he added. "Don't go stale," cautioned the coach. "I think I can let up a bit on you fellows now. We'll have only light practice to-morrow, and the morning of the game we'll do some kicking and run through the signals. Don't forget to listen for the word to change the system. We may have to do it if they get on to our curves, so to speak. But I don't believe they will. And don't forget that the signals for trick plays have been altered a bit. Also remember the tip for the sequence plays. I depend on them for at least one touch-down. Now amuse yourselves some quiet way to-night. Get to bed early, and sleep well. I hope none of you have any lessons to worry over." "We'll not let study worry us, no matter what happens, until after the game!" cried Grasshopper Backus. "Wow! But what a celebration there'll be if we win! The baseball championship, and then the football on top of it! Wow!" and Grasshopper gave a leap into the air to show how exuberant he felt. But Dutch Housenlager slyly put out his foot, and Grasshopper went down in a heap. "I'll punch your head for that, Dutch!" he cried, springing up; but Dutch, in spite of his bulk, was a good runner, and got away. "Well, I suppose you gladiators are all ready for the fray," spoke Sid that evening, when Phil and Tom were in the room, one on the sofa and the other curled up in the easy chair. Sid was stretched out on his bed. "Ready to do or die," answered Tom. "I hope it's a nice day." "Why, you don't mind playing in the rain, do you?" asked Sid. "I thought you chaps were regular mudlarks." "So we are," went on Tom. "Only I want to see a good crowd out. It's more enthusiastic." "I know what you want," declared Sid. "You want a lot of girls from Fairview Institute to be on hand. And, what's more, you want some particular girl to see you make a star play. So does Phil, I'll wager." "Well, from what I hear there will be a good crowd of Fairview girls to see the game," said Phil. "Fairview is sore at being walloped twice by Boxer Hall, and the co-eds want to see us put it all over that crowd. So they'll be on hand to cheer us." "Are you sure?" asked Tom. "Sure--Ruth told me," went on Phil. "Oh, it will be a glorious occasion! Don't you wish you were playing, Sid?" "Not for a minute! Baseball for mine! When I want to wallow in the mud and get my mouth and ears full of it, I know an easier way than playing football." "Yes; go out with a camera and get stuck in the swamp!" cried Tom, and he got up, ready to dodge any missile which Sid might heave at him in revenge for having his misadventure recalled. But the naturalist only answered: "That's all right. I got the best picture of a fox you ever saw. The mud will come off." "Oh, you're a hopeless case!" exclaimed Phil as he got up and began to change his clothes, laying out a particularly "sporty" necktie. "Hello!" exclaimed Tom in some surprise. "Where are you going?" "Out," replied his chum noncommittally. "I thought you were told to stay in and take it easy to-night," said Sid. "Well, I'm not going to any exciting place," came from Phil as he struggled with a stiff collar. "I'll be in early." "Going to town?" asked Tom. "Not Haddonfield." "Where?" "I'll bet he's going to see some girl!" exclaimed Sid. "He's got perfume on his handkerchief, and he never wears that tie unless there's a damsel in the offing." "Well, I don't mind admitting that there is a young lady in the case," spoke Phil. "I'm going to call on my sister, and you can put that in your pipe and smoke it, you hard-shelled old misogynist!" "I thought so!" cried Sid. "I knew it. But tell that yarn about your sister to your grandmother. It's somebody else's sister you're going to see. You'd never tog up like this for your own sister." "Maybe," admitted Phil coolly as he finished dressing. As he stooped over to lace his shoes an envelope fell from his pocket. Tom picked it up and handed it to him. He could not help seeing the address, and, with something like a start, he noticed that it was in the handwriting of Madge Tyler. He handed it to Phil without a word, and he noticed that a dull red crept up under the bronze skin of his chum's face. But Phil shoved the note into his pocket and made no comment. "He's going to see her--Madge," thought Tom, and he tried to struggle against the bitter feeling that seemed to well up in his heart. "Leave the door unlocked," was Phil's parting injunction as he went out. "I'll be in early." "Girls, girls, girls!" grumbled Sid as he rolled over to a more comfortable position. "I'll be hanged if I room with you fellows next term if you don't go a bit easier on this dame question. You don't give me any attention at all. It's all football and the ladies." "It will soon be over," murmured Tom. "Which; football or the ladies?" "Football," was the answer, given with a laugh. Sid was asleep when Phil came quietly in, but Tom was wide awake. Still, he said nothing as Phil went about, getting ready for bed, and when his chum came close to him, Tom shut his eyes and feigned slumber. There was something coming between Tom and Phil. Both realized it, yet neither liked to broach the subject, for it was a delicate one. "Well, how was your sister?" asked Sid pointedly of Phil the next morning. "Very well," replied Phil calmly. "By the way, Tom, she was asking for you." "Yes," answered Tom, and there was coldness in his tones. He did not wait for Phil to go to lectures with him after chapel, but hurried off alone, and Phil, feeling humiliated, wondered if he had done or said anything to hurt Tom's feelings. Tom took care to keep out of Phil's way all that day, and when the last practice was over, save for some light work the morning of the game, the left-end hurried to his room. As he entered it he saw a note thrust under the door. He picked it up. It was addressed to him, and an odd feature of it was that the letters were all printed. "Who brought this here?" he asked of Sid, who was studying his biology. "Didn't know anybody had brought anything." "Some one shoved this note under the door for me," went on Tom, ripping open the missive. He could not repress a start as he read, in the same printed letters that were on the envelope, this message: "There is danger threatening Phil Clinton. Watch for it." "Anything wrong?" asked Sid. "No--no," spoke Tom slowly, as he tore the note into bits and tossed them into a basket. "It's just a tip, that's all, but I guess it doesn't amount to anything." He walked over to the old sofa and sat down. His brain was in a whirl. What danger could threaten Phil? Whence had come the mysterious warning? "It doesn't amount to anything," thought Tom. "If it had, who ever sent it would have signed his name. It's meant as a joke. I'll pay no attention to it. I'll not tell Phil. It might worry him. Besides, I guess he can look out for himself," and Tom shrugged his shoulders. Ah, Tom, would you have said that but for what had happened in the last few weeks? But for the fact that Phil and a certain pretty girl had become fast friends? Tom felt those questions arising in his mind, but he put them resolutely from him. He did not want to answer them. He went over to the basket and carefully picked out the torn bits of the note. He thrust them into his pocket. Sid watched him curiously, but said nothing. He thought the note was from some girl. Phil came in a little later. Tom was busy studying, and hardly looked up; nor did he say anything about the warning he had so mysteriously received. CHAPTER XXXIII "LINE UP!" Out upon the gridiron they trotted; a mass of lads in suits which showed contact with mother earth many times, and which, in places, were marked with blood-stains. The eleven were as full of life as young colts, and some in their exuberance leaped high in the air, putting their hands on the shoulders of their mates. Others turned somersaults, and some gave impromptu boxing exhibitions. From the grandstand burst a mighty cheer as the Randall supporters greeted their team. The spontaneous shout was followed by the booming of the Randall college cry. Then Bean Perkins, with wild waves of his arm, signaled for the "Rip 'Em Up!" song. "What a crowd!" murmured Tom as he walked beside Phil. "I never saw such a bunch." "Yes, there's a good mob," answered Phil, but somehow there was a note of indifference in his voice. He had not failed to notice Tom's recent change of demeanor, and it hurt him. Yet he was too proud to speak of it, or ask the reason, though, perhaps, he may have guessed what caused it. As for Tom, the words of the mysterious warning rang in his ears. Several times he was on the point of speaking to Phil, but he feared he would be laughed at. "After all," thought Tom. "I guess all that it amounts to is that some one has heard a rumor that there'll be an attempt on the part of some Boxer Hall players to knock Phil out. They may think they can cripple him and, without him, our team will go to pieces. But I'll be on the watch for any dirty playing, and if I catch any one at it I'll smash him. I'll do my best to keep Phil from getting hurt." But, if Tom had only known, it was a different sort of danger that threatened his friend. Once more the cheers rang out, the shrill voices of the girls forming a strange contrast to the hoarse voices of the boys and men. For there were many men present, "old grads," who had come to do honor to Randall, and many others who came, hoping to see Boxer Hall win. Women there were, too; and girls, girls, girls! It seemed that all the pretty students of Fairview Academy were there. They were waving flags and bunches of ribbon--their own college colors mingled with those of Randall, for Fairview was on the side of Randall to-day, in retaliation for a severe drubbing Boxer Hall had administered to the co-educational institution. "Is--is your sister here?" asked Tom of Phil. He had meant to ask if Madge was present, but somehow the words would not come. "Yes," replied his chum. "She and Madge are over in the A section," and he motioned with his arm to a certain portion of the grandstand. Tom looked, hoping he might distinguish two girls out of a crowd of several hundred. Of course, he could not, and his attention was suddenly called away from this by the sharp voice of the coach. "Catch some punts, Parsons!" called Mr. Lighton. "After that we'll line up for practice." The Randall eleven was lining up when the Boxer Hall team fairly burst from their dressing-rooms under the east grandstand. What a roar went up as they appeared on the white-marked field! The burst of yells seemed fully to equal the jumble of noise that had been made by the Randallites. For all of Boxer Hall was on hand to cheer mightily for their eleven, and the college was a slight favorite over Randall, who, in years past, had not been known to do anything remarkable on the gridiron. Encased in their clumsy garments, the Boxer players looked like young giants, and when they lined up and ran through several formations they did it with the precision of clock-work. "They've improved a heap," was the somewhat dubious remark of Holly Cross. "So have we!" exclaimed the coach heartily. "We beat them once, and we can do it again. Get that idea into your mind and don't let go of it." "I guess we'll be all right if Clinton doesn't have to get out of the game," spoke the captain. "Why? Do you think he'll be hurt?" "Well, maybe. Boxer Hall sometimes plays a dirty game, and we'll have to be on the watch. I wish you'd warn the umpire to look out for holding in the line and slugging. They may do it. They'd go to almost any length to win this game. They don't want to lose the championship." "Well, they're going to!" exclaimed the coach. "But about Clinton; you don't think he's any more likely to be hurt than any other player--nor as much, do you? He's well protected." "Yes, I know; but Phil hasn't been himself for the last two days. I don't know what it is that's bothering him, but it's something. He doesn't say anything. First I thought it might be a scrap he'd had with Tom, but they're such good friends I didn't give that much concern. Then I imagined he might be worrying about his mother, but he told me yesterday that the chances for a successful operation were good. I don't know what it is, but he's certainly not himself." "Oh, you imagine too much!" declared Mr. Lighton with a laugh. "Clinton is all right. He's a plucky lad. He'll play as long as he can stand. Look at that game with Wescott." "Yes, I know; but I----" "Now, you stop worrying. You're as bad as a girl. But I guess it's almost time to begin." Song after song came from the supporters of the rival colleges. The grandstands were packed to their capacity, and looked like some vast chessboard with many colored squares, the dark garments of the boys mingling with the gay dresses and hats of the girls, and the many-hued ribbons and flags waving over all. Captain Cross met and shook hands with Captain Stoddard, of Boxer Hall, preliminary to the toss-up. They were to play similar positions--full-back. The coin was sent spinning into the air, and Captain Stoddard won. He elected to defend the south goal, which gave the ball to Randall to kick off. The referee, umpire and linesmen held a final consultation. Captain Cross gathered his men together for a word of encouragement. "All I've got to say," he remarked simply, "is to play until you can't play any more." "That's right," added the coach. "And don't forget about the possibility of a change in signals being made in the middle of play; nor about the sequences. I'll depend on you for that, Clinton." "All right," responded Phil. The field was slowly being cleared of stragglers. The newspaper reporters were getting their paper and pencils ready, and photographers, with their big box-cameras, were snapping individual players as a sort of practice for catching lightning-like plays later on. Across the field, toward the group of Randall players, came a lad. He walked as if undecided as to his errand. "Get back," warned Holly Cross. "I've got a message for a feller named Clinton!" cried the lad. "There he is over there," and Holly, who was in conversation with the coach, pointed at Phil. The latter started as he took the envelope from the messenger. "Who--who gave you this?" asked the quarter-back huskily. "Feller outside. Give me a half a dollar fer bringin' it in. Any answer?" "Wait," replied Phil. His bronze face was strangely white as he tore the envelope and hastily read the few words on the paper within. He seemed to sway, but, with a catch of his breath, he recovered his composure. He read the message again. A mist seemed to come before his eyes. He murmured to himself: "I mustn't tell them--until after the game--I--I must play the game out. But--but can I?" He clenched his hands, and his jaw became more square with the force of his teeth closing tightly together. "Any answer?" asked the lad. "No!" said Phil in a low voice, and he crushed the telegram in his hand, and thrust the rustling paper inside his jacket. The lad turned to go, anxious to get a place where he could view the game. None of Phil's companions seemed to have noticed that he had received a message. He looked around at his chums. "I--I've got to play the game," he murmured. The next instant the whistle blew. "Line up!" came the cry, and Snail Looper, holding the new yellow ball, placed it on a little mound of earth ready for the kick-off. CHAPTER XXXIV THE GAME With a mighty swing of his foot Snail Looper sent the ball well into Boxer territory. Lamson, their right half-back, caught it in his arms, and, with a good defense, began to rush back with it. Over the chalk-marks he came, but Tom Parsons was rushing toward him, and dodging through the intervening players he made a vicious tackle, bringing Lamson to the ground with a thud on Boxer's thirty-eight-yard line. There was a quick line-up, and Stoddard, the full-back, made a good try to encircle Joe Jackson at right end. But the Jersey twin and his mates piled up on the mass of Boxer players with such good effect that hardly three yards were gained; and at this showing of the defense of Randall a punt was decided on. Pinstock, Boxer's left half-back, made a magnificent drive, and Holly Cross had to skip nimbly back to catch it. But once he had the pigskin in his grasp he eluded the Boxer ends, and was well toward the center of the field before he was downed. "Our ball!" cried Tom gleefully, and then there came the chance for Randall to show what she could do. "Signal!" cried Phil, and his companions wondered at the odd note that had crept into his voice. It was not of the confident style of orders that the quarter-back was wont to give. But, as the string of numbers and letters came rattling out, Phil, in a measure, recovered control of himself. He gave the word for Kindlings to take the ball at Boxer's left-end, and smash! into the line went the brawny right half-back. He gained ten yards so quickly that Boxer Hall was fairly stunned, and when Holly Cross ripped out eight yards additional the crowd of Randall supporters were in a mad frenzy of delirious joy. "Swat 'em! Swat 'em! We have got 'em!" howled Bean Perkins, and forth from hundreds of throats came booming that song. Grasshopper Backus and Dutch Housenlager opened a great hole between their opposite guard and tackle, and into this breach Jerry Jackson was pulled and hurled for several yards, until he fell under a crushing weight of husky players at Boxer's thirty-yard-line. Once more Phil's voice sang out in a signal, and back he snapped the ball to Holly Cross, who, like some human battering ram, went through for five yards more. It looked as if Randall was going right down the field for a touch-down, and Bean Perkins and his cohorts rendered the "Down the Line" song with good effect. A touch-down might have resulted from the next play, but unfortunately for Randall Jerry Jackson made a fumble, and in their anxiety several of his mates held in the line. There was a prompt penalty enforced, and back to the forty-yard line the pigskin was taken, where it was turned over to Randall for another try. Randall's hard work had not gained her much, and there was an ominous silence on the part of the cheering throng. Once more came rushing tactics, and they succeeded so well that in two downs the ball was carried to Boxer's thirty-yard line. Then Holly Cross decided to try for a field goal, but the wind carried it to one side, and his mates groaned. So did Bean Perkins and his comrades. "Isn't that a shame!" exclaimed Madge Tyler to Ruth Clinton. "Hush, Madge!" answered Ruth. "I want to watch the game. I can't talk. I want to see what Phil does. I'm afraid he'll be hurt." "Aren't you worried about Tom Parsons, too?" "Yes--of course. Aren't you?" "Not so much." Ruth looked at her friend sharply, but there was no time for further talk, as Boxer had brought out the ball to their twenty-five-yard line, and elected to line up with it instead of punting. At Randall's line they came, smashing with terrific force, but so well did Holly and his players hold that only four yards were made. Another attempt brought even less gain, and then Boxer had to kick. Kindlings saw the ball coming toward him, and managed by a desperate effort, to get it in his arms. Back he rushed to the forty-three-yard line, where he fell under a human mountain. The first play tried by Randall after this was a forward pass, and the ball went out of bounds. Holly Cross kicked a twisting punt, and when Lamson, the Boxer right half, caught it, Tom Parsons downed him almost in his tracks, so swiftly did the left-end get down under the kick. "Go through 'em!" implored Captain Stoddard to his men, and at the line they came smashing with crushing force. For the first time since the play had begun Randall seemed to give way. Holes were torn in her line, and through the openings the backs came rushing. They had gained fifteen yards, in almost as good style as had Randall in the initial play, when they varied the smashing work by a try around Tom's end. But he was alert, and got his man in the nick of time. Another try at center failed to result in a gain, and Boxer Hall had to kick. Jerry Jackson rushed the ball back for a good distance, and then, with a fierceness that the Boxer Hall lads could not seem to withstand, Randall came at their line, going through for substantial gains on every try. "That's the stuff! That's the stuff!" cried Dutch Housenlager during a breathing spell, when one of the Boxer Hall players had to be walked about to recover his wind. "Eh, Phil? Aren't we putting it all over them?" "I--I guess so," answered Phil, and he passed his hand over his head as if he was dazed. "Somebody hit you?" asked Tom, blaming himself for not having kept a closer watch over his chum. "No--no; I'm all right." The injured player limped back into line, and the game went on. Smash! bang! came the Randall players, and they went up to the ten-yard line with scarcely a stop. In vain did the cohorts of Boxer Hall implore them to brace. It seemed that they could not. But, just as it looked for all the world as if the ball would be carried over by Holly Cross, for it was decided to smash through and not kick, the brace did come, and the Randall players had to give up the pigskin. In a jiffy Captain Stoddard had punted out of danger. There was an exchange of kicks, and it ended with Boxer getting the ball on her forty-yard line. Then, all at once, a new spirit seemed infused into her players. They came at Randall with a viciousness that argued well for their spirit. It was rough work, not noticeable, perhaps, but Tom felt that what he feared was about to happen; that some plan was afoot to injure Phil. He played in as far as he dared, but the opposite end was constantly drawing him out. At the line came Lamson, the Boxer right-half. He ripped out five yards, bowling over Sam Looper with such force that the Snail had to have a little medical treatment. He barely recovered in the two minutes, and was a bit wobbly when the attack was again directed at him. But Holly Cross and Jerry Jackson leaped in to his aid, and stopped the advance. Then Boxer went around right-end, and had ten yards before they were stopped. The game looked to be going the other way now, and there were strained looks on the faces of the Randall players and their supporters. As for the cheering contingent of Boxer Hall, they made the air ring with their song: "It's Time We Did a Little Business Now!" "Don't let 'em get through you. Hold 'em! Hold 'em!" cried Holly. "Brace up, boys!" Randall tried to, but Boxer had found a weak place between Snail Looper and Grasshopper Backus, and kept hammering away at it, until they had advanced the ball to the fifteen-yard line. Then Boxer Hall played a neat trick. There was every indication that a try for a field goal was about to be made, and Holly Cross got back. Instead, there was a double pass, and a play between tackle and right-end. Through the Randall line burst Frothon, the right-tackle, with the ball tucked under his arm. Holly Cross saw him just in time, and made a dive for him. But the Randall full-back's foot slipped, and he went down, making a vain grab for Frothon, who sped on, and planted the ball behind the goal posts. Boxer Hall had made the first touch-down, and the crowd of supporters went wild, while there was corresponding gloom on the grandstands where Randallites were gathered. The goal was missed, and a scrimmage had hardly begun after the next kick-off before the whistle blew. The half was up. What a buzz of excitement there was in the grandstands! Every one seemed talking at once. "That was hard lines," remarked Ford Fenton to Sid, next to whom he was sitting. "If our fellows had only been a little quicker then, this would never have happened. My uncle says----" "Fenton!" exclaimed Sid so fiercely that Ford almost turned pale, "if you mention 'uncle' again during this game, I'll throw you off the grandstand," and, as Fenton was rather high up, he concluded to keep quiet. CHAPTER XXXV VICTORY--CONCLUSION There was despondency in the quarters of the Randall players, where they gathered between the halves. Gloom sat upon the brow of every one, and the cheery words of the coach could not seem to dispel it. "There's only one touch-down against you," he said. "You always play better uphill than down. Go at 'em now, and tear them apart! They play a fierce game, but you can play a fiercer! Are any of you hurt? How about you, Looper?" "Oh, I'm all right now. It was only my wind. I've got it back. They won't get through me again," declared the Snail. "I hope not. You're too fat; that's what's the trouble. How are you holding out, Clinton?" and the coach turned anxiously to the quarter-back. Phil was pacing up and down the dressing-room. There was a strained look on his face, and his hand was inside his blouse, where his fingers touched a crumpled paper. He did not seem to have heard Mr. Lighton's question. The coach repeated it. "Me? Why, I--I guess I can last the game out," said Phil slowly. "Last the game out? Why, are you hurt?" The coach was a bit disturbed. "No. Of course not. It was just my way of speaking. It's all right--it's all right," and Phil resumed his pacing of the narrow quarters. "Guess he feels that we're going to lose," whispered Dutch Housenlager to Tom. But Tom shook his head. There was something else the matter with Phil, and he wondered what it was. "Do you think they're on to our signals?" asked Holly Cross. "No," said Phil shortly. "There's no need to change them. I'll use the same ones." "Time's almost up," remarked the coach, looking at his watch for about the fifth time within two minutes. To the lads it seemed as if they had not had more than a minute's respite, but they were ready for the fray again, and there was an eagerness in the manner in which they leaped out on the gridiron which betokened that snappy playing would follow. Nor was it long in coming. When Boxer Hall kicked off, amid the chorus of a spirited song, Kindlings caught the ball, and came back with it on such a rush, and so well protected by his teammates, that he got past the center of the field before he was downed. Then at the line went the Randall lads. Smashing through it, there was no stopping them. Right up the field they came, surprising even their own coach by their steady advance. Phil was handling the players with a skill he had never shown before. Play after play he called for, and the lads responded with vim. Even a risky on-side kick was tried and was successful. Then a forward pass netted fifteen yards, and with joy in their hearts the Randall lads saw themselves approaching their opponent's goal-line. "Now, boys, play like Trojans!" cried Phil heartily, this being the signal for four sequence plays. They were ripped off one after the other, so quickly that, as Holly Cross said, "it made the hair of the Boxers stand up." For, almost before the visitors were aware of it, though they tried their best to stem the human tide, the ball was only a few feet from the line. "Touch-down! Touch-down! Touch-down!" implored the cheering throng. "Touch-down it shall be!" whispered Phil fiercely, and he snapped the ball to Holly Cross, who went through like a battering ram. There was a mass of players on top of him, the ball and the line. Not until they got up could it be seen if the pigskin was over. The referee rushed in. Slowly the players disentangled. The ball was over the line! "Touch-down!" fairly screamed Tom Parsons. "Touch-down!" His cry was echoed from the Randall grandstands, and Dutch Housenlager began a dance around the team, carrying Holly Cross, Grasshopper and the Jersey twins with him. "Kick the goal, and we'll be one point ahead of them!" cried Bricktop Molloy to Holly. "Put all the power ye have to spare into your toe, me lad, and boost the ball over." "I'll try," promised the captain, but the wind had increased, and the pigskin struck the bar and bounded back. But the score was tied, and Randall felt that she was coming into her own. "Fast and snappy play, now!" called Phil Clinton, and once more he passed his hand over his head. There was an air of desperation about him, and Tom noticed it. "Maybe he's feeling sick," he thought, and he hurried over to his chum and asked him. "I don't feel just right," answered Phil. "But I'm not sick. I'm all right. Don't say anything. We're going to win. We're going to win!" he repeated fiercely. "I'm going to run the team to another touch-down. After that--after that," he faltered--"well, it doesn't matter, after that." The ball was kicked off. An exchange of punts followed the scrimmage, and Boxer Hall got the ball. Her players began some good work, but Randall was ready for it. Several of the best men were tackled so hard, though not unfairly, that time had to be taken out for them to recover. Then Pinstock had to retire because of a twisted ankle, but, to offset this, Jerry Jackson was knocked out and Everet took his place. For a few minutes it seemed as if Boxer Hall was going up the field for another touch-down, but Randall braced in time. Then a sudden change appeared to come over Phil. He had been playing for all he was worth, but now he seemed a perfect whirlwind as he called snappily to his men to take the ball through. And they did it. Through holes torn first on one side between tackle and guard, or guard and center, and then on the other wing, Everet, Holly Cross or Kindlings butted their way. Phil varied this with some end runs and then called for his favorite play, the fake right-half back and tackle shift, when Kerr took the ball on the fly and went through the opposite side of his opponents' line with it. The play netted fifteen yards, and placed the ball on Boxer Hall's twenty-yard line. The time was fast drawing to a close. Could Boxer hold the line sufficiently to prevent Randall from scoring again, making the game a tie? Or could Randall break through? Those were the questions every one was asking. "Now, fellows, for the 'Conquer or Die' song," called Bean Perkins, and during a silence that followed a brief consultation between Phil and Holly Cross there welled out over the gridiron the inspiring strains of "_Aut Vincere Aut Mori_!" "Signal!" cried Phil, and he gave one for a forward pass. He got the ball off in good shape, but Nottingham, the burly guard of Boxer Hall, broke through, and jumped right at the quarter-back, hoping to break up the play. Phil went down under him, and when Kindlings had been stopped, after a few yards' advance, the quarter-back did not get up. "Phil's hurt!" cried Tom, and his heart reproached him for keeping quiet about the warning. "That was done on purpose!" There was a rush to where Phil lay. Nottingham was bending over him. [Illustration: "There was a rush to where Phil lay"] "By Jove, old man!" he exclaimed contritely. "I didn't mean to hurt you. Hope I didn't tackle you too hard." He began rubbing Phil's hands. Holly Cross passed his fingers over the quarter-back's head. "He got a nasty bump!" he exclaimed. "Bring some water." The cold fluid revived the injured lad. He struggled to get up. "Lie still!" insisted the captain. "I'm--I'm all right," replied Phil, though faintly. "My head hit a stone, I guess. Give me a little water, and I'll go on with the game!" "He's got pluck!" exclaimed Nottingham admiringly, but neither he nor any of the others knew the full extent of the quarter-back's pluck. "I'm awfully sorry, old man," went on Nottingham, who was one of the best fellows in the world. "I didn't mean to come at you so hard." "That's all right," spoke Phil gently, and he tried to smile. "We're going to beat you for that." He got to his feet inside the required two minutes. "Signal!" he cried, but there was lacking in his tones some of his old-time vigor. He called for a play between guard and tackle. Right at Nottingham the play was directed, and Dutch Housenlager was to make it--big Dutch, who seemed to be all bone, muscle and sinew. A gleam was in Phil's eyes as he gave the last letter of the signal. There were but four yards to go to make a touch-down. Could Randall do it? "They must do it! They would do it!" Phil was deciding for the whole team. He felt that they must make that distance, if he had to carry the entire eleven on his shoulders. Snail Looper was about to snap the ball back. Boxer Hall was bracing as she had never braced before. It was now or never. If Randall got a second touch-down it would mean practically that she would win the game and the championship. Back came the ball. Phil passed it to Dutch, and up against the solid wall of flesh went the big right-tackle. You could almost hear the impact over in the grandstand. Behind him were his mates. In front of him, pulling and hauling on him, were more of them. On either side were the Boxer Hall players, who had been torn from their places to make a hole. From either side they came leaping in to stop the gap--to stop the advance of the man with the ball. On and on struggled Dutch. He felt that he was not himself--that he was but a small part of that seething, struggling mass--an atom in a crushing, grinding, whirling, heaving, boiling caldron of human beings. Breaths were coming short and quick, eyes were flashing. It was push and shove, haul, slip, stumble. Player was piled on player. Tom Parsons and the other ends were on the outside. Holly Cross was pushing and shoving, glad if he felt the mass in front of him give but the fraction of an inch. Then, from somewhere beneath that mass of humanity, came the voice of Dutch Housenlager. "Down!" he called faintly. The heaving human hill slowly settled down, as when the fire is withdrawn from under a boiling kettle. The whistle blew. Slowly the mass was disintegrated. Sore, bruised, scratched; bleeding some of them, lame most of them, desperately anxious all of them, the players fell apart. Dutch was lying on his face, his big back arched. The ball was not to be seen. Had there been a fumble? The goal line passed beneath the stomach of the big tackle. Slowly he arose, and then such a shout as rent the air. For the ball was under him! It was over the line! He had made the touch-down! Oh, how the stands vibrated with the yells, the cheers, the songs, the delirious leaping up and down, the stamping of feet and the clapping of hands! How the Fairview girls shrilly screamed their college cry! How it was caught up, swallowed and silenced by the booming cheers from the Randall cohorts! For Randall had won. Even if she could not kick the goal, she had won, as there remained but one minute more of play. But the goal was kicked. Holly Cross saw to that, and then, with a final, useless kick-off, and after the final whistle had blown, the Randall players gathered together, their arms about each other, and cheered heartily and mightily for the victory. Dutch was hoisted to the shoulders of his mates protestingly, and carried about. The Boxer Hall eleven was cheered, and they gave back a perfunctory, complimentary yell for their opponents. They had been beaten where they hoped to win. Beaten twice in the season by their former victims. It was humiliating. "Here!" cried Holly Cross. "Up with Phil Clinton. He piloted the team to victory!" "That's right!" shouted Bricktop. "Up with him!" But Phil was running toward the grandstand at top speed; toward the A section where, he had told Tom, Madge and Ruth sat. "He's hurrying to receive the congratulations of Madge," thought Tom bitterly. Holly Cross took after the fleeing quarter-back. "Come here!" he cried. "Can't," answered Phil desperately, and the captain saw that his face was drawn and strained. "Why not?" demanded Holly. "Because--read that!" and Phil held out a crumpled telegram. Slowly Holly deciphered it: "Come at once. Your mother is dying." It was signed with Phil's father's name. "When did you get this?" asked the captain slowly, while the other players gathered about. "It came just--just before the game," answered Phil. "I must go--and get my sister. We must start for Florida--at once." "Just before the game?" said Holly in a low voice. "Just before the game? And you played, knowing that--that your mother was--was----" Holly faltered. There was a huskiness in his voice. "I played the game," said Phil simply. "I--I didn't want to tell you fellows, for fear you'd put a substitute in. But I'm going, now," and he turned toward the grandstand. "Talk about pluck!" exclaimed Holly Cross. "If that isn't the best exhibition of it, I never want to hear of any." "Pluck!" murmured Bricktop Molloy. "He's pluck personified. Poor Phil!" and the big left-guard turned aside. Slowly Phil's mates watched him making his way to where his sister sat. The gridiron was swarming with spectators now. Bean Perkins came running over. "We'll have a great celebration to-night!" he cried to the players and the substitutes. "No!" said Holly Cross simply. "Why not?" "Because Phil's mother is dying. He's got to go to her." Up the grandstand leaped Phil. Tom had hurried after him, ready to do what he could to aid his chum to get a train. Phil saw Ruth and Madge together. At the sight of her brother Ruth cried: "Oh, Phil, wasn't it glorious? I'm so glad you won! Why--wh--what's the matter?" she gasped at the sight of his pale face. "Mother!" he exclaimed huskily. "Didn't--haven't you a telegram?" "Yes. Did you get one, too?" and she fumbled in her muff. "Oh, Phil, I'm so happy! She's all better! The operation was a success, and she's going to get well! I got mine just before the game, and I supposed you did, too. I was waiting for you to come to me, but I guess you didn't have a chance. Oh, I'm so glad!" and she threw her arms around her brother's neck. "Going to get well? Operation a success? Why, I--I didn't get a telegram like that!" exclaimed Phil in bewilderment. "There's mine," said Ruth, producing it. "I left word to forward any that might come to Fairview to me here. I gave the number of my seat here to the Fairview operator, and I got the message just before play began. But didn't you get yours?" Before Phil could answer a diminutive messenger boy pushed his way through the crowd. "Is dis Phil Clinton?" he asked boldly. "That's me," replied Phil quickly, but he hardly knew what he said. "Den here's a message fer youse. I tried t' git it t' youse before de game, but de cop wouldn't let me in on de grass. So I stayed and seen de scrap. Hully chee! But it was a peach! I'm glad youse fellers won. Sign dere!" and the lad held out his book with the message in. As in a dream Phil signed, and then tore open the envelope. The message was a duplicate of the one his sister had. "Any answer?" asked the lad, as he gazed in admiration at Phil, and Tom, who stood close beside him. "Hully chee! But youse is husky brutes," spoke the modern Mercury, but it was only his way of properly admiring the football heroes. "Yes, there's an answer," said Phil, and he scribbled on a piece of paper a bystander thrust into his hand this telegram: "Dear Dad: Best news I ever got! We won the game!" And he signed it with the names of his sister and himself. "May I add my good wishes, not only on the recovery of your mother, but on the way you played the game?" asked Madge, blushing, and holding out her hand to Phil. He clasped her fingers in his. "Same here!" cried Tom, as he caught a roguish glance from the eyes of Ruth. "Oh, but I'm glad for your sake, old man!" and he gave Phil such a clap on the back as to make the teeth of the quarter-back clatter. "I'm so glad!" "I know you are," said Phil simply, and as he shook hands with his chum he knew, somehow, that the little cloud that had come between them had passed away. "Tra, la, la! Merrily do we sing and dance!" cried Tom in the exuberance of his feelings. "Come down on the field, Phil, Madge, Ruth, and we'll play 'Ring Around the Rosy'!" Laughingly they descended with him, and added to the merriment of the throng by gaily circling about in it. But, with all his joy, Phil was puzzled. Where had the first telegram come from? Had it been a mistake? Had the operator blundered? He said nothing to his sister about the message received just before the game. The good news quickly spread among the Randall players, and they soon arranged for a celebration. A big fire was kindled, on it were thrown their football suits, for the season was over, and then the champion eleven broke training. A dinner was served that night in the gymnasium, and many girls from Fairview, including Ruth and Madge, attended. "But I can't understand where this message came from," Phil was saying to Tom and Sid a few hours later in their room. "Jove, but it almost knocked me out when I got it! But I knew I had to play the game." He was examining the telegram he had first received. "Let's see that message," said Sid, and he scanned it closely. "That's a fake!" he said suddenly. "A fake!" repeated Tom and Phil. "Yes. There's no check number on it. No message is ever sent out without a check number on it. This never came over the wire. Some one got hold of a receiving blank and an envelope, and played this brutal trick. Maybe it was one of the Boxer Hall fellows. He wanted to get your nerve, so you'd drop out of the game." "I don't believe it was a Boxer Hall chap," said Phil. "Then it was some one who had a grudge against you," insisted Sid. "We can inquire at the telegraph office and find out, maybe." Tom uttered an exclamation. He had suddenly thought of the mysterious warning he had received. Quickly he brought out the torn pieces of paper. He saw it all now. The warning had been intended to cover the telegram--not a physical danger, but a mental one. Rapidly he explained how he got the note. "I didn't say anything to you, Phil," he concluded, "because I was--I was afraid you'd laugh at me. And I kept my eyes open in the game." "I understand," spoke the quarter-back. "But who sent this warning?" Sid was eagerly examining it, for Tom had pasted the torn pieces together. "I have it!" cried Sid. "Langridge sent this!" "How do you know?" came from Phil and Tom at once. "Because that's the kind of paper he uses. It has a peculiar water-mark. I'll show you. I have an old baseball note I got from him last term." Sid brought out his note. The two were compared. The paper was exactly similar, and there were even some characteristic similarities in the writing, though one was in script and the other printed. "Langridge sent this," decided Sid, and the others agreed with him. "Then who sent the fake telegram?" inquired Phil. "Gerhart, for all the world!" exclaimed Sid. "The cad! To play such a brutal trick!" Sid caught up his cap. "Where are you going?" asked Tom. "I'm going to confront him with this evidence, and have him run out of college!" burst out Sid. "This ends his course!" But Gerhart had anticipated what was coming, when he saw that the cruel telegram he had sent Phil had had no effect, and that the plucky quarter-back continued playing. He evidently knew the game was up, and fled. For, when Sid called at the fashionable eating club, where Gerhart and Langridge had recently taken a room, he found only the former 'varsity pitcher there. "Where's Gerhart?" asked Sid savagely. "Gone," said Langridge, and he began to shake. He trembled more when Sid threw down the incriminating evidence, and blurted out the story. "It's all true," confessed Langridge. "Gerhart stole the telegraph blank and an envelope, while I kept the agent busy talking about some money I expected to get. Gerhart made me go in the scheme with him, but I--I couldn't stand it, and I sent Tom the tip. I'm done with Gerhart. He faked the message to Phil and hired a boy to deliver it. I'm through with him!" "I should think you would be!" burst out Sid, walking about the room. It was in confusion, for Gerhart had hurriedly departed. Sid's eye saw a bottle on the closet shelf. "What's this, Langridge?" he asked. "Why, it's liniment! The same kind Phil had, and which stiffened my hand! How did it get here? It's the same bottle that was broken--no, it can't be, yet there's the same blot on the label. How in thunder----" Then Langridge confessed to that trick of Gerhart's also. "He ought to be tarred and feathered!" cried the angry Sid. "If I had him here! But you're almost as bad, Langridge. You helped him!" "I know it. I'm going to leave college, if you'll only keep still about this. Will you?" pleaded the cringing lad. "Yes; for the sake of the college, not for you," spoke Sid, and that is how only the three chums knew the real story of the dastardly meanness of the two cronies. They thought they were well rid of their enemies, but they were mistaken. Those of you who care to read further of the happenings at Randall College may do so in the next book, to be called "Batting to Win." In that volume we shall meet all our friends again, and learn what Sid did during the greatest baseball game of the next season, and when the collegiate championship hung in the balance. "Well, it's all over but the shouting," said Phil to his chums, as they sat in their room that night. From without came the joyous cries of those who were celebrating the football victory. "All but putting a bronze tablet in the gym, to commemorate the pluck you showed," added Tom. "Aw, forget it!" spoke Phil, as he got into a more comfortable position on the creaking sofa. "Anybody would have done the same to see his team win." "Maybe," said Sid softly as he got up from the easy chair to look at his favorite football picture. Then came a silence in the room, and the fussy little alarm clock had matters all to itself. It ticked away at a great rate. Tom, who had been standing near the window, crossed to the opposite wall, and stood before the picture of a laughing girl. Phil saw him, smiled, and then, he, too, slowly arose from the decrepit sofa and went closer to a photograph of another girl. Thus the three stood, and the clock ticked on with quick, impatient strokes, and not a word was spoken. THE END THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES BY LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Mr. Chadwick has played on the diamond and on the gridiron himself._ 1. THE RIVAL PITCHERS _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons, a "hayseed," makes good on the scrub team of Randall College. 2. A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK _A Story of College Football_ A football story, told in Mr. Chadwick's best style, that is bound to grip the reader from the start. 3. BATTING TO WIN _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons and his friends Phil and Sid are the leading players on Randall College team. There is a great game. 4. THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN _A Story of College Football_ After having to reorganize their team at the last moment, Randall makes a touchdown that won a big game. 5. FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL _A Story of College Athletics_ The winning of the hurdle race and long-distance run is extremely exciting. 6. THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS _A Story of College Water Sports_ Tom, Phil and Sid prove as good at aquatic sports as they are on track, gridiron and diamond. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE JACK RANGER SERIES BY CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Lively stories of outdoor sports and adventure every boy will want to read._ 1. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL DAYS _or The Rivals of Washington Hall_ You will love Jack Ranger--you simply can't help it. He is bright and cheery, and earnest in all he does. 2. JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP _or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range_ This volume takes the hero to the great West. Jack is anxious to clear up the mystery surrounding his father's disappearance. 3. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL VICTORIES _or Track, Gridiron and Diamond_ Jack gets back to Washington Hall and goes in for all sorts of school games. There are numerous contests on the athletic field. 4. JACK RANGER'S OCEAN CRUISE _or The Wreck of the Polly Ann_ How Jack was carried off to sea against his will makes a "yarn" no boy will want to miss. 5. JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB _or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail_ Jack organizes a gun club and with his chums goes in quest of big game. They have many adventures in the mountains. 6. JACK RANGER'S TREASURE BOX _or The Outing of the Schoolboy Yachtsmen_ Jack receives a box from his father and it is stolen. How he regains it makes an absorbing tale. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE GREAT MARVEL SERIES BY ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Stories of adventures in strange places, with peculiar people and queer animals._ 1. THROUGH THE AIR TO THE NORTH POLE _or The Wonderful Cruise of the Electric Monarch_ The tale of a trip to the frozen North with a degree of reality that is most convincing. 2. UNDER THE OCEAN TO THE SOUTH POLE _or The Strange Cruise of the Submarine Wonder_ A marvelous trip from Maine to the South Pole, telling of adventures with the sea-monsters and savages. 3. FIVE THOUSAND MILES UNDERGROUND _or The Mystery of the Center of the Earth_ A cruise to the center of the earth through an immense hole found at an island in the ocean. 4. THROUGH SPACE TO MARS _or The Most Wonderful Trip on Record_ This book tells how the journey was made in a strange craft and what happened on Mars. 5. LOST ON THE MOON _or In Quest of the Field of Diamonds_ Strange adventures on the planet which is found to be a land of desolation and silence. 6. ON A TORN-AWAY WORLD _or Captives of the Great Earthquake_ After a tremendous convulsion of nature the adventurers find themselves captives on a vast "island in the air." 7. THE CITY BEYOND THE CLOUDS _or Captured by the Red Dwarfs_ The City Beyond the Clouds is a weird place, full of surprises, and the impish Red Dwarfs caused no end of trouble. There is a fierce battle in the woods and in the midst of this a volcanic eruption sends the Americans sailing away in a feverish endeavor to save their lives. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York _The Boy Hunters Series_ _By Captain Ralph Bonehill_ 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid. [Illustration] FOUR BOY HUNTERS _Or, The Outing of the Gun Club_ A fine, breezy story of the woods and waters, of adventures in search of game, and of great times around the campfire, told in Captain Bonehill's best style. In the book are given full directions for camping out. GUNS AND SNOWSHOES _Or, The Winter Outing of the Young Hunters_ In this volume the young hunters leave home for a winter outing on the shores of a small lake. They hunt and trap to their heart's content, and have adventures in plenty, all calculated to make boys "sit up and take notice." A good healthy book; one with the odor of the pine forests and the glare of the welcome campfire in every chapter. YOUNG HUNTERS OF THE LAKE _Or, Out with Rod and Gun_ Another tale of woods and waters, with some strong hunting scenes and a good deal of mystery. The three volumes make a splendid outdoor series. OUT WITH GUN AND CAMERA _Or, The Boy Hunters in the Mountains_ Takes up the new fad of photographing wild animals as well as shooting them. An escaped circus chimpanzee and an escaped lion add to the interest of the narrative. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers NEW YORK THE BOB DEXTER SERIES BY WILLARD F. BAKER _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _This is a new line of stories for boys, by the author of the Boy Ranchers series. The Bob Dexter books are of the character that may be called detective stories, yet they are without the objectionable features of the impossible characters and absurd situations that mark so many of the books in that class. These stories deal with the up-to-date adventures of a normal, healthy lad who has a great desire to solve mysteries._ 1. BOB DEXTER AND THE CLUB-HOUSE MYSTERY _or The Missing Golden Eagle_ This story tells how the Boys' Athletic Club was despoiled of its trophies in a strange manner, and how, among other things stolen, was the Golden Eagle mascot. How Bob Dexter turned himself into an amateur detective and found not only the mascot, but who had taken it, makes interesting and exciting reading. 2. BOB DEXTER AND THE BEACON BEACH MYSTERY _or The Wreck of the Sea Hawk_ When Bob and his chum went to Beacon Beach for their summer vacation, they were plunged, almost at once, into a strange series of events, not the least of which was the sinking of the Sea Hawk. How some men tried to get the treasure off the sunken vessel, and how Bob and his chum foiled them, and learned the secret of the lighthouse, form a great story. 3. BOB DEXTER AND THE STORM MOUNTAIN MYSTERY _or The Secret of the Log Cabin_ Bob Dexter came upon a man mysteriously injured and befriended him. This led the young detective into the swirling midst of a series of strange events and into the companionship of strange persons, not the least of whom was the man with the wooden leg. But Bob got the best of this vindictive individual, and solved the mystery of the log cabin, showing his friends how the secret entrance to the house was accomplished. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS New York THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES BY CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_ [Illustration] THE MOTOR BOYS _or Chums Through Thick and Thin_ THE MOTOR BOYS OVERLAND _or A Long Trip for Fun and Fortune_ THE MOTOR BOYS IN MEXICO _or The Secret of the Buried City_ THE MOTOR BOYS ACROSS THE PLAINS _or The Hermit of Lost Lake_ THE MOTOR BOYS AFLOAT _or The Cruise of the Dartaway_ THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE ATLANTIC _or The Mystery of the Lighthouse_ THE MOTOR BOYS IN STRANGE WATERS _or Lost in a Floating Forest_ THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE PACIFIC _or The Young Derelict Hunters_ THE MOTOR BOYS IN THE CLOUDS _or A Trip for Fame and Fortune_ THE MOTOR BOYS OVER THE ROCKIES _or A Mystery of the Air_ THE MOTOR BOYS OVER THE OCEAN _or A Marvelous Rescue in Mid-Air_ THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE WING _or Seeking the Airship Treasure_ THE MOTOR BOYS AFTER A FORTUNE _or The Hut on Snake Island_ THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE BORDER _or Sixty Nuggets of Gold_ THE MOTOR BOYS UNDER THE SEA _or From Airship to Submarine_ THE MOTOR BOYS ON ROAD AND RIVER _or Racing to Save a Life_ THE MOTOR BOYS AT BOXWOOD HALL _or Ned, Bob and Jerry as Freshmen_ THE MOTOR BOYS ON A RANCH _or Ned, Bob and Jerry Among the Cowboys_ THE MOTOR BOYS IN THE ARMY _or Ned, Bob and Jerry as Volunteers_ THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE FIRING LINE _or Ned, Bob and Jerry Fighting for Uncle Sam_ THE MOTOR BOYS BOUND FOR HOME _or Ned, Bob and Jerry on the Wrecked Troopship_ THE MOTOR BOYS ON THUNDER MOUNTAIN _or The Treasure Box of Blue Rock_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES BY LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid_ [Illustration] 1. BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS _or The Rivals of Riverside_ Joe is an everyday country boy who loves to play baseball and particularly to pitch. 2. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ Joe's great ambition was to go to boarding school and play on the school team. 3. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE _or Pitching for the College Championship_ In his second year at Yale Joe becomes a varsity pitcher. 4. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ From Yale College to a baseball league of our Central States. 5. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ From the Central League Joe goes to the St. Louis Nationals. 6. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ Joe was traded to the Giants and became their mainstay. 7. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES _or Pitching for the Championship_ What Joe did to win the series will thrill the most jaded reader. 8. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ The Giants and the All-Americans tour the world. 9. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_ Joe becomes the greatest batter in the game. 10. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE _or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_ Throwing the game meant a fortune but also dishonor. 11. BASEBALL JOE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM _or Bitter Struggles on the Diamond_ Joe is elevated to the position of captain. 12. BASEBALL JOE CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE _or The Record that was Worth While_ A plot is hatched to put Joe's pitching arm out of commission. 13. BASEBALL JOE CLUB OWNER _or Putting the Home Town on the Map_ Joe developes muscle weakness and is ordered off the field for a year. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York SEA STORIES FOR BOYS BY JOHN GABRIEL ROWE _Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Colored jacket_ _=Price per volume, $1.00 Net=_ [Illustration] _Every boy who knows the lure of exploring, and who loves to rig up huts and caves and tree-houses to fortify himself against imaginary enemies will enjoy these books, for they give a vivid chronicle of the doings and inventions of a group of boys who are shipwrecked and have to make themselves snug and safe in tropical islands where the dangers are too real for play._ 1. CRUSOE ISLAND Dick, Alf and Fred find themselves stranded on an unknown island with the old seaman Josh. Their ship destroyed by fire, their friends lost, they have to make shift for themselves for a whole exciting year before being rescued. 2. THE ISLAND TREASURE With much ingenuity these boys fit themselves into the wild life of the island they are cast upon in storm. They build various kinds of strongholds and spend most of their time outwitting their enemies. 3. THE MYSTERY OF THE DERELICT Their ship and companions perished in tempest at sea, the boys are adrift in a small open boat when they spy a ship. Such a strange vessel!--no hand guiding it, no soul on board,--a derelict. It carries a gruesome mystery, as the boys soon discover, and it leads them into a series of strange experiences. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS New York THE BOMBA BOOKS BY ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With colored jacket_ _=Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Bomba lived far back in the jungles of the Amazon with a half-demented naturalist who told the lad nothing of his past. The jungle boy was a lover of birds, and hunted animals with a bow and arrow and his trusty machete. He had a primitive education in some things, and his daring adventures will be followed with breathless interest by thousands._ 1. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY _or The Old Naturalist's Secret_ In the depth of the jungle Bomba lives a life replete with thrilling situations. Once he saves the lives of two American rubber hunters who ask him who he is, and how he had come into the jungle. He sets off to solve the mystery of his identity. 2. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING MOUNTAIN _or The Mystery of the Caves of Fire_ Bomba travels through the jungle, encountering wild beasts and hostile natives. At last he trails the old man of the burning mountain to his cave and learns more concerning himself. 3. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE GIANT CATARACT _or Chief Nascanora and His Captives_ From the Moving Mountain Bomba travels to the Giant Cataract, still searching out his parentage. Among the Pilati Indians he finds some white captives, and an aged opera singer who is the first to give Bomba real news of his forebears. 4. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND _or Adrift on the River of Mystery_ Jaguar Island was a spot as dangerous as it was mysterious and Bomba was warned to keep away. But the plucky boy sallied forth and met adventures galore. 5. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE ABANDONED CITY _or A Treasure Ten Thousand Years Old_ Years ago this great city had sunk out of sight beneath the trees of the jungle. A wily half-breed and his tribe thought to carry away its treasure of gold and precious stones. Bomba follows. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOY RANCHERS SERIES BY WILLARD F. BAKER _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors_ _=Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Stories of the great west, with cattle ranches as a setting, related in such a style as to captivate the hearts of all boys._ 1. THE BOY RANCHERS _or Solving the Mystery at Diamond X_ Two eastern boys visit their cousin. They become involved in an exciting mystery. 2. THE BOY RANCHERS IN CAMP _or The Water Fight at Diamond X_ Returning for a visit, the two eastern lads learn, with delight, that they are to become boy ranchers. 3. THE BOY RANCHERS ON THE TRAIL _or The Diamond X After Cattle Rustlers_ Our boy heroes take the trail after Del Pinzo and his outlaws. 4. THE BOY RANCHERS AMONG THE INDIANS _or Trailing the Yaquis_ Rosemary and Floyd are captured by the Yaqui Indians but the boy ranchers trailed them into the mountains and effected the rescue. 5. THE BOY RANCHERS AT SPUR CREEK _or Fighting the Sheep Herders_ Dangerous struggle against desperadoes for land rights brings out heroic adventures. 6. THE BOY RANCHERS IN THE DESERT _or Diamond X and the Lost Mine_ One night a strange old miner almost dead from hunger and hardship arrived at the bunk house. The boys cared for him and he told them of the lost desert mine. 7. THE BOY RANCHERS ON ROARING RIVER _or Diamond X and the Chinese Smugglers_ The boy ranchers help capture Delton's gang who were engaged in smuggling Chinese across the border. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York Transcriber's Notes: --Text in italics is enclosed by underscores (_italics_); text in bold by "equal" signs (=bold=). --Printer, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved, except as noted below. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --Standardized instances of "Westcott" (p. 220, p. 222) to the more frequent "Wescott" University. --Retained author's long dash style. 
41665	----	Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). [Illustration: HE RAISED THE BALL IN HIS ARMS, AND PLACED IT OVER THE CHALK MARK.] THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN A Story of College Football by LESTER CHADWICK Author of "The Rival Pitchers," "A Quarter-Back's Pluck," "Batting to Win," etc. Illustrated New York Cupples & Leon Company * * * * * BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK =THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES= 12mo. Illustrated Price per volume, $1.00 postpaid THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK A Story of College Football BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN A Story of College Football (Other volumes in preparation) _Cupples & Leon Company, Publishers, New York_ * * * * * Copyright 1911, by Cupples & Leon Company THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A MYSTERY 1 II MORE BAD NEWS 8 III ON THE TRAIL 19 IV ANOTHER DISAPPEARANCE 26 V FOOTBALL TALK 36 VI IN PRACTICE 43 VII A NEW TIMEPIECE 53 VIII ANOTHER IDEA 61 IX A CLASH WITH LANGRIDGE 67 X THE BIG CALIFORNIAN 73 XI A NEW COMPLICATION 80 XII THE MISSING DEED 89 XIII THE FIRST GAME 98 XIV THE HAZING OF SIMPSON 109 XV THE MIDNIGHT BLAZE 120 XVI ANOTHER CLEW 129 XVII A CRASH IN THE GALE 136 XVIII WITH HAMMER AND SAW 141 XIX SUSPICIONS 150 XX THE CLOCK COMES BACK 158 XXI SEEKING EVIDENCE 167 XXII BASCOME DENIES 173 XXIII HALED TO COURT 181 XXIV DEFEAT 188 XXV BITTER DAYS 200 XXVI MOSES IN PHYSICS 206 XXVII THE DANCE CARD 213 XXVIII THE LEGAL BATTLE 225 XXIX ONE POINT LOST 233 XXX AN UNEXPECTED CLEW 240 XXXI AFTER THE CHAIR 249 XXXII "THIS ISN'T OURS!" 260 XXXIII A GREAT FIND 271 XXXIV THE EXCITED STRANGER 276 XXXV THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN 283 THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN CHAPTER I A MYSTERY "Great Cicero's ghost!" That was Tom Parson's exclamation. "It's gone!" A horrified gasp from Sid Henderson. "Who took it?" That was what Phil Clinton wanted to know. Then the three college chums, who had paused on the threshold of their room, almost spellbound at the astounding discovery they had made, advanced into the apartment, as if unable to believe what was only too evident. Tom came to a halt near his bed, and gazed warily around. "It's sure enough gone," he went on, with a long breath. "Somebody pinch me to see if I'm dreaming," begged Sid, and Phil gave him such a vigorous nip on the fleshy part of his leg that the tall youth howled. "Turn over; you're on your back," advised Tom, as he got down on his hands and knees to peer under the beds. "What are you looking for?" demanded Phil. "Our old armchair, of course. I thought maybe some of the fellows had been in here trying to be funny, and had hidden it. But it isn't here--it's gone." "As if it could be under a bed!" exploded Sid, rubbing his leg reflectively. "You must be getting batty!" "Maybe he thought it could be reduced to fractions or acted on by chemicals, like some of the stuff in the laboratory test tubes," went on Phil. "That's all right!" fired back the varsity pitcher, rather sharply, "it's gone, isn't it? Our old armchair, that stood by us, and----" "And on which _we_ stood when we couldn't find the stepladder," interrupted Phil. "Oh, quit your kidding!" expostulated Tom. "The old chair's gone; isn't it?" "You never said a truer word in all your life, my boy," declared Sid, more gravely. "Sort of queer, too," declared Phil. "It was here when we went out to football practice, and now----" "Well, all I've got to say is that I'd like to find the fellow who took it!" broke out Tom, dramatically. "I'd make a complaint to the proctor about him." "Oh, you wouldn't do that; would you, Tom?" and Phil Clinton stepped over to a creaking old sofa, and peered behind it, brushing up against it, and causing a cloud of dust to blow out about the room. "You wouldn't do that, Tom. Why, it isn't Randall spirit to go to the authorities with any of our troubles that can be settled otherwise." "But this isn't an ordinary trouble!" cried the pitcher. "Our old chair has been taken, and I'm going to find out who's got it. When I do----" He clenched his fists suggestively, and began to strip off his football togs, preparatory to donning ordinary clothes. "It isn't back there," announced Phil, as he leaned upright again, after a prolonged inspection behind the big sofa. "But there's a lot of truck there. I think I see my trigonometry." Getting down on his hands and knees, and reaching under the antiquated piece of furniture, he pulled out not one but several books. "Oh, come out and let the stuff back of the sofa alone," suggested Tom. "We can clean that out some other time," for the big piece of furniture formed a convenient "catch-all" for whatever happened to be in the way of the lads. If there was anything they did not have any immediate use for, and for which room could not be found in, or on, the "Chauffeurs," as Holly Cross used to call the chiffonniers, back of the sofa it went, until such time as the chums had an occasional room-cleaning. Then many long-lost articles were discovered. "Yes, there's no use digging any more," added Sid. "Besides, the chair couldn't be there." "Some of the fellows might have jammed it in back of the sofa, I thought," spoke Phil. "But say, this is serious. We can't get along without our chair!" "I should say not," agreed Tom, who was almost dressed. "I'm going out scouting for it. Bascome, Delafield or some of those fresh sports may have taken it to get even with us." "They knew we cared a lot for it," declared Sid. "Ever since we had that row about it with Langridge, the time we moved into these dormitories, some of the fellows have rigged us about it." "If Langridge were here we could blame him, and come pretty near being right," was Phil's opinion. "But he's at Boxer Hall yet--at least, I suppose he is." "Yes, he's on their eleven, too, I hear," added Tom. "But this sure is a mystery, fellows. That chair never walked away by itself. And it's too heavy and awkward for one fellow to carry alone. We've got to get busy and find it." "We sure have," agreed Phil. "Why, the room looks bare without it; doesn't it?" "Almost like a funeral," came mournfully from Sid, as he sank into the depths of the sofa. And then a silence fell upon the inseparable chums, a silence that seemed to fill the room, and which was broken only by the ticking of a fussy little alarm clock. "Oh, hang it!" burst out Tom, as he loosened his tie and made the knot over. "I can't understand it! I'm going to see Wallops, the messenger. Maybe he saw some one sneaking around our rooms." "If we once get on the trail----" said Phil, significantly. "It sure is rotten luck," spoke Sid, from the depths of the sofa. "I don't have to do any boning to-night, and I was counting on sitting in that easy chair, and reading a swell detective yarn Holly Cross loaned me. Now--well, it's rotten luck--that's all." "It certainly is!" agreed a voice at the door, as the portal opened to give admittance to Dan Woodhouse--otherwise Kindlings. "Rotten luck isn't the name for it. It's beastly! But how did you fellows hear the news?" "How did we hear it?" demanded Tom. "Couldn't we see that it wasn't here as soon as we got in our room, a few minutes ago? But how did you come to know of it? Say, Kindlings, you didn't have a hand in it, did you?" and Tom strode over toward the newcomer. "Me have a hand in it? Why, great Cæsar's grandmother! Don't you suppose I'd have stopped it if I could? I can't for the life of me, though, understand where you heard it. Ed Kerr only told me ten minutes ago, and he said I was the first to know it." "Ed Kerr!" gasped Phil. "Did he have a hand in taking our old chair?" "Your chair?" gasped Dan. "Who in the world is talking about your fuzzy old chair?" "Hold on!" cried Tom. "Don't you call our chair names, Kindlings, or----" "Tell us how you heard about it," suggested Sid. "Say, are you fellows crazy, or am I?" demanded Dan, looking about in curious bewilderment. "I come here with a piece of news, and I find you firing conundrums at me about a chair that I wouldn't sit in if you gave it to me." "None of us is likely to sit in it now," spoke Phil, gloomily. "Why not?" asked Dan. "Because it's gone!" burst out Tom. "Stolen," added Sid. "Vanished into thin air," continued Phil. "And if that isn't rotten luck, I don't know what you'd call it," put in the pitcher, after a pause, long enough to allow the fact to sink into Dan's mind. "Isn't it?" "Say, that's nothing to what I've got to tell you," spoke Dan. "Absolutely nothing. Talk about a fuzzy, musty, old second-hand chair missing! Why, do you fellows know that Ed Kerr is going to leave the football team?" "Leave the eleven?" gasped Phil. "What for?" cried Tom. "Is that a joke?" inquired Sid. "I only wish it were," declared Dan, gloomily. "It's only too true. Ed just got a telegram stating that his father is very ill, and has been ordered abroad to the German baths. Ed has to go with him. I was with him when he got the message, and he told me about it. Then he went to see Dr. Churchill, to arrange about leaving at once. That's the rottenest piece of luck Randall ever stacked up against. It's going to play hob with the team, just as we were getting in shape to do Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute. Talk about a missing chair! Why, it simply isn't in it!" Once more a gloomy silence, at which the fussy little alarm clock seemed to rejoice exceedingly, for it had the stage to itself, and ticked on relentlessly. CHAPTER II MORE BAD NEWS "And so Ed is going to leave," mused Tom, after a momentous pause. "It sure will make a hole in the team." "Oh, it's got me all broke up," gloomily declared Kindlings, who was captain of the recently organized eleven. "I don't know what I'm going to do to fill his place, and Mr. Lighton, while he says we'll make out somehow, feels pretty bad over it. But it can't be helped, of course, for Ed has to go." For the time being, the news of the loss of one of Randall's best football players overshadowed the matter of the missing chair. Tom had changed his mind about going out to see if he could get on the trail of who had taken it, and sat with Kindlings and his two other chums, discussing what could be done to replace Kerr as right half-back. "Bricktop Molloy might work in there," suggested Phil, "only he's too good a tackle to take out of the line." "Why can't you go there yourself, Phil?" asked Tom. "You've done some playing back of the line." "No, I need Phil at quarter," objected Dan. "We'll have to think of something else. If I didn't need you at end, Tom, I'd try you in Ed's place." "Oh, I'm no good bucking the line," objected the tall lad who pitched for the 'varsity nine. "What's the matter with one of the Jersey Twins?" asked Sid. "Both Jerry and Joe Jackson are too light," and Dan shook his head. There were many suggestions, and various expedients offered, and, while the discussion is under way perhaps a moment can be spared to make our new readers a little better acquainted with the main characters of this story. In the initial volume of this "College Sports Series," entitled, "The Rival Pitchers," there was told the story of how Tom Parsons, a rather raw country lad, came to Randall College, made the 'varsity nine, and twirled the horsehide in some big games, thereby doing much to help win the pennant for Randall. He had an uphill fight, for Fred Langridge, a rich bully, contested with him for the place in the box, and nearly won out. There was fierce rivalry between them, not only in baseball, but concerning a certain Miss Madge Tyler. In the second volume, called "A Quarter-Back's Pluck," there was related how Phil Clinton went into the championship game under heavy odds, and how he won out, though his mind dwelt more on a fake telegram in his pocket, telling him that his mother was dying, than on the game, and on the players whom he at last piloted to victory. A winter of study followed the games on the gridiron, and with the advent of spring, longing eyes were cast toward the baseball diamond whereon, as soon as it was dry enough, the Randall lads gathered to prepare for the season. In the third book of the series, called "Batting to Win," there was told the story of how Randall triumphed over her rivals, though at first it looked as if she would lose. A loving cup had been offered, to be played for by members of the Tonoka Lake League, of which Randall College was a member, and how it was won forms the subject of the story. Incidentally, there was quite a mystery concerning Sidney Henderson, or "Sid," as he was universally called. From the opening of the season his conduct was peculiar, and there were many unjust suspicions regarding him. It was not until near the end, when he had been barred from the games, that the cause of his actions became known. Then, at the last moment, when Randall was losing the final game of the series, which was a tie between her team and that of Boxer Hall, the ban was removed, Sid rushed upon the diamond, and batted to win. The baseball season had closed, summer had come, and with it the long vacation. Now that was passed, and from mountains, lakes and seaside the students had come trooping back to Randall. All our old friends were on hand, and some new ones, whom we shall meet from time to time. As the weather became cool enough, the football squad had been put to work under the watchful eye of Captain Dan Woodhouse, and the coach, Mr. Lighton. Before I go on with the story I want to add, for the benefit of new readers, a little bit of history about the college. Randall was located in a town of the middle west, and not far from the institution ran Sunny River, a stream that afforded boating opportunities for the students. It emptied into Tonoka Lake, which body of water gave the name to the athletic league, made up of Randall, Boxer Hall, Fairview Institute,--the latter a co-educational place of learning,--and several other smaller academies. Haddonfield was the nearest town to Randall College, and thither the lads went whenever chance afforded. Venerable Dr. Albertus Churchill was the head of the college, and even though he was privately dubbed "Moses" by the lads, it was not in any spirit of disrespect, for they all loved and admired him. It was quite the contrary with Professor Emerson Tines, the "Latin dreadful," and when I state that he was called "Pitchfork," his character is indicated in a word. Hardly less disliked was Mr. Andrew Zane, the proctor, who seemed to have a sworn enmity against the lads. But they managed to have fun in spite of him. There were other members of the faculty, some liked and some disliked, and occasionally there were changes in the teaching staff. As for Randall itself, it was a fairly large institution. There was the main building, at the head of a large campus. Off to the left was the athletic field, and somewhat to the rear was Booker Memorial chapel, the stained glass windows of which were worth going miles to see. To the right of the college proper was Biology Hall, the endowment gift of an old graduate, and not far from that was the residence for the faculty. Directly in the rear of the main building were the dormitories, the east one for the freshmen and sophomores, and that on the west for the juniors and seniors. As for the lads who attended Randall, you will meet more or less of them as this story progresses. Sufficient to say that Tom Parsons, Phil Clinton and Sid Henderson roomed together, being called the "inseparables." Among their friends they numbered many, Dan Woodhouse, Billy or "Dutch" Housenlager, "Bricktop" Molloy, Jerry and Joe Jackson, dubbed the "Jersey Twins," because they came from some town in the Garden State. Then there was "Snail" Looper, so called because of his propensity to prowl about in the dark; Pete Backus, nicknamed "Grasshopper," because he aspired to be a jumper; "Bean" Perkins, who could always be depended on to make a noise at a game, and many more. There were some students not so friendly to our heroes, notably Fred Langridge, who, because of a serious scrape, had withdrawn from Randall and was now at Boxer Hall. Garvey Gerhart, his crony, who appeared in previous books, had also left, and Ford Fenton, whose uncle always formed a subject of boasting with him, because of the latter's former ability as a coach at Randall, was among the missing. For Ford played a mean trick on his classmates, and there was such a row raised over it that his relatives advised him to quit. And now, I believe, you have met all, or nearly all the lads of whom I propose to tell you more. Of course there were the girls, Miss Tyler, and Ruth Clinton--Phil's sister,--and Miss Mabel Harrison, who attended Fairview. I will introduce them more particularly in due season. "Say, how can you fellows stand that?" asked Dan, after a pause, during which they had all done much thinking. "Stand what?" asked Tom, starting out of a day dream, in which thoughts over the loss of the chair and the loss of Kerr on the football team were mingled. "That clock. It gives me the fidgets," and Kindlings grabbing a book, made as if to throw it at the timepiece. With a quick motion, Phil stopped him, and the volume fell harmlessly to the floor. "It doesn't give you a chance to catch your breath," went on the football captain. "Always seems to want you to hurry-up." "I wish it would make Sid hurry-up some mornings, when the chapel bell rings," remarked Tom. "The frowsy old misogynist--the troglodyte--lies abed until the last minute. It would take more than that clock to get _him_ up." "Slanderer!" crooned Sid, unconcernedly, from the depths of the sofa. "No, but seriously," went on Dan. "I can't see how you stand it. It gives me the fidgets. It seems to say 'hurry-up--hurry-up--hurry-up--no-time--no-time--no-time'! Jove! I'd get one of those old Grandfather clocks, if I were you. The kind that reminds one of an open fire, in a gloomy old library, with a nice book, and ticking away like this: 'tick----tock--tick----tock.' That's the kind of a clock to have. But that monstrosity----" He simulated a shudder, and turned up his coat collar as if a wind was blowing down his back. "Oh, you're just nervous worrying about what's going to happen to the football team," spoke Phil. "Cheer up, old man, the worst is yet to come. Suppose you'd been robbed of the finest armchair that ever you sat in----" "Finest fiddlesticks!" burst out Dan. "That chair had spinal meningitis, I guess, or the dink-bots. Every time you sat in it you could tell how many springs there were in the seat and back without counting. Ugh!" and Dan rubbed his spine reflectively. "But it's gone," went on Tom, "and I'd give a five-spot to know who took it. Come on, fellows, let's go scouting around and see if we can get on the trail of it. I'm glad they didn't take the clock or the sofa," and he gazed at the two remaining articles which formed the most cherished possessions of the inseparables. They had acquired the clock, chair and sofa some time before, purchasing them from a former student on the occasion of their becoming roommates, and though they had since secured many new objects of virtu, their affections clung to these three originals. Their room was a typical college lads' apartment, hung with sporting prints, boxing gloves, foils, masks, baseball bats, fishing rods, and in certain places, like honored shrines, were the pictures of pretty girls. "Well, are you fellows coming?" asked Tom, as he started for the door. "Where?" inquired Phil, who still had on his football suit. "To hunt for the chair. It _must_ be somewhere around the college. I think it was taken for a joke, and if it was by any freshmen I'll make 'em wish they'd never come to Randall." "I'm with you!" cried Sid. "Oh, let's stay and talk about what we're going to do for the eleven!" begged Dan. "But, for the love of cats, first stop that blamed clock, if you don't want me to go crazy!" His objection was so evidently genuine, that Phil halted the ticking by the simple process of jabbing a toothpick in the slot of the timepiece regulator. "That's better," observed Kindlings. "Now, about Ed Kerr, I think the best we can do is to----" He got no further, for the door of the room was fairly burst open, and in came the Jersey Twins. "Have you heard the news?" demanded Joe Jackson. "The news?" echoed Jerry. "Sure! We knew it first," said Phil. "You mean about our chair being stolen." "Oh, hang your chair!" cried Dan. "It's nothing about chairs," said Jerry, with a curious look. "Not a word," came the echo. "It's worse," went on Jerry. "Much worse;" the echo. "Oh, you mean about Ed Kerr having to leave," spoke Dan. "How'd you hear it so soon? It will be all over college to-night, I guess." "Ed Kerr going to leave?" gasped Jerry. "Ed Kerr?" also gasped the echoing brother. "Yes. Is that what you came to tell us?" demanded Sid, as he got up from the sofa, not without some rather strenuous gymnastics, for once you sank into the soft depths, it was difficult to arise unaided. "No, we don't know anything about Ed leaving," went on Jerry, as he looked from one to the other, "but Bricktop Molloy just told us that he was going to quit next week, and go to----" "Bricktop going to leave!" gasped Dan. "More bad news! Will it never stop raining!" and he clung heavily with his arms around Tom's neck. "Say, is this straight?" demanded Phil, excitedly. "Sure! Bricktop told us himself," answered Joe. "Where's he going?" inquired Sid. "To New York. Going to take a special post-graduate course at Columbia, he said. He's got a chance to get in with some big mining firm, and he's got to work up on a few special studies. Oh, Bricktop is going to leave all right." "Then what's to become of the Randall football eleven?" demanded Dan, in a tragic voice. "Two of her best players going to leave, and hardly time enough to break other fellows into their places before the big games! Oh, fellows, this is sure beastly luck!" CHAPTER III ON THE TRAIL Oppressive silence once more filled the room--a silence unbroken by the ticking of the clock this time, for it was mute, because of the toothpick. But its accusing face seemed to look at the three chums, as though begging to be allowed to speak, even if it did but mark the passage of time. "Maybe we can prevail on Bricktop to stay until after the big game with Boxer Hall," suggested Tom, hopefully. Jerry Jackson shook his head mournfully. "I've tried it," he said. "I knew it would be a bad loss, so I asked Bricktop to stay, but he said his whole future depended on this chance, and he wouldn't feel that he was doing right if he let it slip." "Talk about futures," murmured Dan, "what of the future of Randall?" "It does seem sort of tough for Bricktop to leave just when we've all got so we play so well together," commented Sid. "And only to go to another college, too! It isn't like Ed, who has to go with his sick father. I tell you Bricktop isn't doing right! He's deserting in the face of the enemy, for both Boxer Hall and Fairview are after our scalps this fall, because of the walloping we gave them last season. Bricktop's a deserter!" "Oh, don't be ugly," begged Tom. "Maybe we don't know all the facts. I'm sure Bricktop wouldn't do anything mean." "Oh, of course not," Sid hastened to say, "but you know what I mean. If Bricktop----" "Who's takin' me name in vain?" demanded a voice at the door--a voice with just the hint of Irish brogue--and into the room was thrust a shock of auburn--not to say reddish--hair, which had gained for the owner the appellation of "Bricktop." "I say, who's desecratin' me reputation, of which I have but a shred left--who's tearin' down me character behind me back?" and Molloy, with a quick glance at his friends, entered and threw himself beside Sid on the sofa, thereby making the old piece of furniture creak most alarmingly. "Easy! For cats' sake!" cried Sid, in alarm. "Do you want to deprive us of our only remaining consolation, now that the chair is gone?" "Surely not," answered the Irish lad. "Captain, I salute thee," and Bricktop arose and bowed elaborately to Dan. "I gather from what I heard, as I made my entrance, that you have received the unwelcome news, my captain," and, though Bricktop was smiling, there was a sober look in his blue eyes. "Yes, we've heard it," answered Kindlings, shortly. "Is it true?" "It is, my captain, and it's infernally sorry I am to have to confirm it. But I've got to go, and that right soon." "Um!" murmured the captain. "Well, the sooner the quicker, I suppose. Kerr goes this week, also." "What! Kerr going?" Bricktop was manifestly surprised. "His father's sick--Europe--Ed's going with him," disjointedly declaimed Tom. "Whew!" whistled the Irish lad. "Now I _sure_ am sorry I'm leavin'. Not that I'm any better than any other player, my captain, but I know what it means to take two men out of the team at this late day." "You're not throwing any bouquets at yourself," spoke Dan. "It's the worst blow Randall has had in a long time. We were just at the point where we had begun to gain ground after the long practice, and now----" he shrugged his shoulders. "Is there no way you can stay on?" asked Phil, softly. Bricktop shook his head. "It means a big thing to me," he declared. "I know it looks like desertin', as ye call it, but, fellows, believe me, I'm not. It--it goes to me heart as much as it does to yours," and Bricktop swallowed a big lump in his throat. When he was much affected he always "degenerated to the language of his forebears of the Emerald Isle," as he used to say. And he was much affected now--there was no doubt of that. "I wish I could stay--but I can't," he concluded, brokenly. "Well, Randall will have to do the best she can," spoke Dan, after a pause, and with a heavy sigh. "Isn't there plenty of good material in the scrub, and some in the Freshman eleven?" asked Sid. [Illustration: "ISN'T THERE PLENTY OF GOOD MATERIAL IN THE SCRUB?" ASKED SID.] "Oh, it isn't so much a question of material, as it is breaking them in," answered the captain. "The great fault with some of our playing in the past was that we didn't have team work. This season we have it, and after a lot of grind we fellows were playing together like one. Look how we walked away with Dodville Prep in the first game of the season. That showed what we could do. Now the team's going to be disrupted--two of the best men----" "Thanks, captain," interrupted Bricktop, with a short laugh. "I mean it," went on Kindlings, energetically. "Two of our best men leave, and it's almost too late to get others to run with the team like the perfect machine it ought to be. But, we've got to do our best. Come on, Bricktop, we'll go see Mr. Lighton, and hear what he has to say." "There are a couple of new fellows coming soon," remarked Joe Jackson, as he and his brother arose. "Who are they?" asked Tom. "One is Frank Simpson. I heard Bascome speaking of him the other day. He's played on some western eleven, I believe, and has quite a name." "Yes, those western fellows are big and strong," put in Jerry Jackson. "Oh, you can't tell anything about it," said Dan, despairingly. "A new fellow can't be broken in at this late day. I'll have to depend on some of the scrub. Who else is coming to Randall? Do either of you twins know?" "I heard Proc. Zane talking to Moses about some new students who were going to enter," replied Jerry, "but Simpson is the only one whose name I heard mentioned." "Come on, then," urged Dan. "We'll go see the coach. Maybe he has someone in mind, and you can stay on a few days and help break him in, Bricktop." "Sure, I'll stay as long as I can," agreed the Irish lad. "It ought to be easy to get someone to work in at left guard, where I play." "We can't get anyone to beat you," spoke Dan, sincerely. "Well, I'm going." "If you see our old armchair walking around the campus, send it home," requested Phil, earnestly. "Sure!" chorused his chums. "Seriously though, fellows," said Tom, when the delegation had left the room, "we've got to do something. Let's go out and make some inquiries. It was a nervy thing for anyone to do, to come in here and carry off our chair. I don't believe it was any freshmen." "Neither do I," agreed Phil. "Wait until I dress and I'll be with you." "Same here," added Sid. "Oh, I can't wait!" cried Tom, impatiently. "I'll go out and see what I can learn. You fellows come when you get ready. We've got plenty of time before grub." Tom's first act was to seek out Wallops, one of the assistant janitors, or messengers, about the college. From that youth he inquired whether he had seen anyone taking the chair away, or whether he had heard of it being removed in a joke. "What, you mean that old big chair that was so--so----" and Wallops hesitated, evidently in embarrassment. "Yes, that's the one--the old rattletrap!" exclaimed Tom. "Don't be afraid to say it, Wallops. The chair was pretty well bunged up, but we think a lot of it, and we wouldn't have it lost for a good deal. Can you give us a clew?" "Well, Mr. Parsons, I didn't see any one take it, but there was a second-hand dealer around the college to-day. He comes every once in a while, to buy up the things the students don't want any more. He was here, and he took away a wagon-load of stuff." "He did!" cried Tom. "Why didn't you say so before? Was our chair on the wagon?" "I didn't see that one, though he had some small chairs, and a bureau." "Who was he? Where's his place? I'll go see him at once!" cried the pitcher. "I'll wager he sneaked in our room, and took it while we were out. Who was he?" "Isaac Komsky," replied Wallops. "He has a second-hand store on Water street, in Haddonfield. But I don't think----" "That's the fellow all right!" cried Tom, excitedly. "I'll make him give that chair up, if we have to tear his shop apart!" and he raced back to the room to tell his chums. CHAPTER IV ANOTHER DISAPPEARANCE "Hello! What's up?" demanded Sid, as he and Phil, about to leave their apartment, were almost hurled from their feet when Tom burst in. "What in the name of the Gaelic Wars ails you, Tom? Has some one else left the team; or is the college on fire?" "Yes, why this unseemly haste?" came from Phil, as he sank back on the sofa and endeavored to recover his breath, which was almost at the vanishing point because of the suddenness of his chum's advent. "Haste? I guess you'd be in a hurry if you just heard what I did!" exploded Tom. "I'm on the track of our chair! What's the matter with you fellows, anyhow? I thought you were coming out and help me get on the trail of it." "Oh, Sid had to look at Miss Harrison's picture before he could venture out," replied Phil, with a mocking grin at his chum. And then he dodged to escape a book, while Tom murmured: "You old misogynist! And me working like a detective to get on the trail of our beloved chair! What kept you in, Phil?" "Couldn't get his tie fixed to suit him," responded Sid, thus getting one in on the quarter-back, who was rather noted for his taste in neck scarfs. "Well, come on, now!" urged the pitcher. "We've got time enough to get to town and back before the 'eats,' and if we go now Proc. Zane won't be so apt to spot us." "What's the game?" asked Sid. "Second-hand Shylock has our chair," explained Tom briefly, as he told of the information Wallops had given him. "We'll go talk to him like a Dutch uncle, and make him tell how he dared come into our rooms while we were at practice. Come on!" "The nerve of Komsky!" cried Phil. "I'm with you," and the three lads hurried from the college, crossed the campus, and were headed for a trolley that would take them to the village. They saw the car coming, and were about to sprint for it, when Tom became aware of the figure of a small, fussy little man striding toward them from behind a row of trees, holding up his hand as if to command a halt. "Zane!" gasped the pitcher. "The proctor," added Phil, in a whisper. "He hasn't any right to stop us now!" But whether the official had the right or not, he was evidently going to exercise it, and our heroes thought it better to obey. "Well, young gentlemen," began the proctor, as he strode up to the trio, "you are evidently going to the village." "Yes, sir," answered Tom, meekly. "There goes the car," remarked Sid in a low voice. "There won't be another for half an hour, and we'll sure be late for grub. Hang Zane, anyhow." "May I ask how long you intend to remain?" went on the obnoxious college official. "Not very long," answered Phil. "We are going on an errand. We didn't know it was against the rules not to leave the college grounds in daylight, Mr. Zane." It was a sarcastic reference to the many somewhat childish rules the proc. was in the habit of framing up from time to time. "There is no rule prohibiting students from leaving the grounds in daylight, Mr. Clinton," said the proctor, severely, "but the reason I stopped you is that I wish to point out that if you go to town now you will hardly be back in time for supper, and that means that you will probably get a meal in Haddonfield. Also, there is no set rule against that, but Dr. Churchill does not like it. Staying to supper in the village might mean that you would stay later, and I need hardly point out that there _is_ a rule about being out after hours. That is all," and the little proctor walked stiffly away. "Well, wouldn't that get your goat!" murmured Tom, when the official was beyond hearing. "I should say so; and also frizzle your back teeth," added Sid. "Shall we go?" asked Phil, doubtfully. "Of course," asserted Tom. "And we'll fool Zane, too. It won't take us long to have it out with Komsky. Then we can go to one of those quick-lunch places, have a bite, and get back to college in plenty of time before locking up. We can arrange to have an expressman bring back the chair." "Good!" exclaimed Phil. "I was afraid you'd propose that we lug it back on the car, and while I'd do a good deal to get it again, I think we'd look foolish toting it home in our arms." "Afraid of meeting some girls, I suppose," sneered Tom. "Say, supposing Komsky hasn't got it," suggested Sid, while Phil blushed. "Perish the thought!" cried the pitcher. "We've _got_ to get our chair back, and if that Shylock hasn't it some of the other second-hand dealers in town have." They strolled along, talking of the chair, the chances for a good football team, and many other college matters until the next car came, when they hopped aboard, and were soon in Haddonfield. "Vell, young gentlemans, vot is it? Somedings nice vor de college room, ain't it? Yes! No? Vell, Isaac Komsky has it vot effer you like, und cheap! So help me gracious, I lose money on everyt'ing I sell! Now, vot it is?" Thus spoke the old second-hand dealer, when our three friends entered. Eagerly he had come forward, rubbing his hands and wagging his long, matted beard, while from under bushy eyebrows he peered at them with eager orbs. "We're looking for a chair, Komsky," said Tom, brusquely. "A nice, easy, soft, comfortable chair that we can sit in." "Oh, so! An easy chair is it? Vell, I haf many, und cheap! It is a shame about de cheapness. Look, here is one, vot is so--vot you call--easy, dot it vould make you schleepy efen ven you looket at it, ain't it?" He thrust forward a most uncomfortable wooden rocker, with gaudy cushions on the seat and back. The cushions were in Randall colors--yellow and maroon--and the chair had evidently been sold by some student, either because he needed the money or because he could afford better furniture. "No, that's not the kind we want," said Tom, whose eyes were roving about the cluttered-up shop. He and his chums had decided on the course of pretending to want to buy a chair, with the idea that if Komsky had taken theirs, by hook or crook, he would be more apt to show it if he saw prospective customers, than if he knew they had come demanding their rights. "We want an easier chair," went on Tom. "Oh, an easier vun? Den I haf it. See!" and he brought to light a big Turkish rocker, that was in the last stages of decay. Meanwhile Sid and Phil had been strolling about, leaving Tom to engage Komsky in conversation. The two looked in many corners, and peered under heaps of furniture, but they did not see their chair. Nor, if the dealer had it, did he show any desire to produce it. Tom looked at rocker after rocker that was brought out, and at last, convinced that his method was likely to prove a failure, he boldly stated the case, and demanded to know, whether by mistake or otherwise, the dealer had taken their old relic. The surprise of Mr. Komsky was pitiful to observe. He all but tore out his beard, and called upon his ancestors as far back as the sixteenth generation to witness that he had not even seen the chair. He was an honest man, he was a poor man, he was a man born to poverty and under an unlucky star, but never, never, _never_! not if you were to give him a million dollars, would he take a chair from a student's room, without permission. "For vy should I, ven I can buys dem efery day?" he demanded, with a pathetic gesture of his forward-thrust hands. "Well, I guess it isn't here," spoke Tom, regretfully, when they had exhausted all the possibilities. "Yet you were at college to-day, Komsky." "Vy, sure I vos at der college to-day. Nearly efery veek I am there, ain't it? Yet I have not your chair." It was evident that he was telling the truth. He did not have the chair then, though he might have had it, and have sold it to some other student, perhaps one from Boxer Hall or Fairview, for those lads also patronized the second-hand dealers, and Komsky was one of the largest. "Cæsar's grandmother!" cried Tom, in dismay, as this possibility suggested itself, "just suppose Langridge or some of those chaps had our chair! Say, maybe Langridge put up the game!" "Hardly possible," asserted Phil. "Come on, we'll have a look in some of the other shops, then we'll get grub and hurry back. I think I saw drops of blood in Zane's eye." "He sure _would_ like to get our names down in his little book," said Sid. But a round of the other second-hand dealers, where inquiries were made, developed nothing. There were many easy chairs on sale, but that of our heroes was not to be seen, and sorrowfully they returned to the college. It was long past the regular supper time, but they had satisfied their hunger in Haddonfield. And, in spite of their troubles--their worriment over the chair, and the mix-up that was sure to result in the football team--they had managed to eat a good meal. They saw Proctor Zane, as they strolled up over the campus, and the official glanced sharply at them. "He's just wishing we were coming in late," declared Tom. "I believe you," assented Phil. They entered their room, stumbling in the darkness over books and chairs, for they never took the trouble to put their apartment to rights. "I say, strike a light, some one!" exclaimed Tom, rubbing his shins where they had come in contact with a chair. There was a click as Phil turned the electric switch, and the incandescent glowed. For a moment the three chums stood in the middle of the room, gazing at each other. "Doesn't it seem lonesome without the old chair," spoke Phil at length. "Sort of makes the room look bigger though," declared Sid, as he threw himself on the sofa. It was a poor consolation at best. "I can't imagine what has become of it," said Tom, as he proceeded to get into some lounging clothes. "Well, now for some boning, and maybe we'll forget our troubles," went on Phil, as he scattered a pile of books, looking for his own. "Are you going to the football meeting to-night?" asked Tom, as he finished a hurried toilet, for a session of the squad had been called late that afternoon to consider the loss of Kerr and Molloy. "I may come over later," spoke Phil. "I think the best thing we can do is to----" He paused suddenly, and glanced quickly toward the shelf that served as a mantle. The gaze of his chums followed. The room seemed suddenly to become oppressively still. They could almost hear each other breathing. Then the same thought came to all three. "The clock!" they exclaimed in a tragic chorus. "It's gone!" gasped Tom. "Vanished!" added Phil, staring at the vacant space as though unable or unwilling to believe the evidence of his eyesight. "Another mysterious disappearance," exploded Sid, and then Tom remarked in significant tones: "I guess we'll have to chain the sofa if we want to keep that!" CHAPTER V FOOTBALL TALK "Fellows, there is just one thing about it," announced Tom, firmly, when a hurried search of the room had only made it more certain that the clock was nowhere in it, "either we are the victims of a practical joke, or there is some mystery here that we will have to fathom." "I'm inclined to think it's a joke," said Phil. "Same here," agreed Sid, "only it's a pretty poor sort of a joke. First thing we know we won't have anything left," and he looked down at the sofa on which he was stretched out, as if to make sure that it would not take wings unto itself, and fly out of the window. "Was the room locked?" asked Phil. "Sure," spoke Tom. "Whoever came in must have used a false key." "They're taking lots of risks," was Sid's opinion. "How could they tell but what we'd come back any minute and catch them red-handed?" "Well, this is no joke," insisted Tom. "We've got to do something. It's too much to have the chair and clock disappear the same day. I'm going to post a notice on the bulletin board, stating that the person who took them is known, and had better return them at once to avoid further trouble. That's how the ladies advertise in the newspaper when they don't know who took their best umbrella at a society meeting. I'll write out a notice." "No, don't!" urged Phil, quickly. "Why not?" "Because I think this thing is a joke on us, and the more fuss we make over it the more they'll laugh at us. Bascome, or some of that crowd, have had their fingers in this pie, and it's up to us to find out how they did it, and what became of our things. Now, let's work around quietly, get the evidence we need, get back the things if possible, and have the ha-ha on them." "Good idea," commented Sid. "I believe you _are_ right," agreed Tom, after thinking the matter over. "We'll keep quiet about it. Now let's get through with our boning, and go to the football meeting. They'll expect us, and, really, it's a serious matter. Randall has got to wake up considerably if she wants the championship this year." The meeting was held in the gymnasium, and was pretty well under way when our three friends arrived. Ed Kerr was not present, as he had to get ready for his trip to Europe, but Bricktop was on hand, and it required all his Irish wit to stand off the many appeals that were made to him not to desert in the face of trouble. There were tears in the eyes of the big left guard as he announced that his decision was final, and that he must leave for Columbia in two weeks. "I'd like to stay and play in the first big game against Newkirk College," Bricktop said brokenly, "but it's impossible, me lads." "Then we'd better get busy and consider how we're going to make up the team," declared Dan Woodhouse, and when the captain thus gave up hope of keeping Bricktop, his fellow players did likewise. "Yes," said Mr. Lighton, the coach, "we have none too much time to get at our team work in view of the changes. Now, Woodhouse, we'll hear what you have to say." "Wait until I make out a list, and do some thinking," spoke the captain, and while he retired to a comparatively quiet corner to do this, the coach gave the lads a little informal talk on the science of the game. Mr. Lighton illustrated several points. He showed how the guards and tackle could best work together to hold the line with the centre, he impressed on the ends the necessity for speed in getting down the field. To the backs he talked of the need for being ready to get into action on the jump, to take advantage of the holes made for them. "We have decided to play a game consisting of two halves instead of the four quarters," said the coach. "It is more satisfactory, I think. Of course, there is a certain advantage in three rest periods instead of one, but I believe that a faster, snappier game can be played by halves than by quarters. You don't run the chance of getting stiff, and you can keep limbered and warmed up." "What about the forward pass?" asked Phil Clinton. "I don't know that we will work that so much as we did last year," said the coach, "but of course we will have to be guided by what our opponents do in the games. That will be something for the captain and the quarter-back to work out together. Of course we'll practice it." "Onside kicks," came suddenly from Sid, who had been somewhat quiet. "Are we going to do anything with them?" "That is another matter that will have to be settled when you play the games," declared the coach. "It will do no harm to try them. I'm for straight football, as near the old-fashioned sort as we can get it under the new rules. We have had some hard practice, and we'll have more, for practice is what you will need in team work, especially if we have two new players. Now has the captain anything to report?" "Well," remarked Kindlings, coming from his corner, with a puzzled look on his face, "it isn't so easy as you would think, and I just want to say that I hope no fellows feel badly because I don't select them in place of Kerr and Molloy." "Sure not," came in a chorus. "'Rah! 'rah! 'rah! for Randall!" yelled Bean Perkins in his loudest grandstand voice. "Wow!" "Can some of that, and save it for the Newkirk game," suggested Woodhouse, with a grin. "Now I've thought it all over, and I've decided that I'll put Sam Looper in Bricktop's place at left guard, and----" "'Rah for the Snail!" shouted the irrepressible Bean. "Oh, I can be quick enough when I want to," declared Sam, his face shining with delight at the honor that had come to him unsought. He had practiced hard on the scrub, and while he was not a bright and shining light, he had grit and stamina, and was very strong. There were some doubtful looks over his selection, but everyone was willing to admit that while he was not as good as Bricktop, he might do after some gruelling practice. "And to fill Kerr's place I'll name Pete Backus," went on the captain. "'Rah for Grasshopper!" cried Bean. "He'll jump over their heads and make a touchdown." "Quiet!" begged Mr. Lighton, for there was a pandemonium of yells and laughter at this. "And I want Pete to jump into plays when he has the ball," continued Kindlings. "Do you approve of those selections, Mr. Lighton?" "Certainly, Woodhouse. I only want to say that of course it all depends on how these new candidates make out in practice." "Oh, sure," assented the captain. "They've got to make good, or we'll put some one else in. You understand that, Pete and Sam." "Of course," they murmured, and each secretly determined to leave nothing untried that would win for him the coveted honor of playing on the 'varsity eleven. "Then everybody be on hand for practice on the gridiron at three o'clock sharp to-morrow," announced Kindlings. "We'll run through some hard plays, do some passing and tackling, and play a fifteen minute half against the scrub. Sharp work, everybody!" "'Rah for Kindlings!" yelled Bean, and the shout that followed, if it did not exactly raise the roof of the gymnasium, at least testified to the regard in which the captain was held. There was more talk from Mr. Lighton, who had worked out a new system of signals for the present season, and he gave the lads a short drill in it before the meeting adjourned. Meanwhile Phil, Tom and Sid had been keeping their ears on the alert, and their eyes open for any hint, in talk or action, that would give them a clew to who had taken their chair and clock. But they were not successful. If any of the football squad was guilty, the fact was successfully concealed. CHAPTER VI IN PRACTICE There was a crisping tang in the air. The wind had in it just the hint of winter, but the sun shone bravely down and glinted on the green grass of the football field--a field marked off in white lines, so meaningless to one not familiar with the game, yet so full of meaning to a player. Soon what a struggle there would be to cross those same white lines--especially the last, whereon were the goal posts, and to gain which every last ounce of strength, every atom of breath, every nerve and sinew that could be urged to lend speed to the runner would be called upon to do the utmost that the ball might be shoved over for a touchdown. Now, however, the gridiron of Randall College lay peaceful and quiet under the October sun. The grass seemed to shiver in the breeze, as if in anticipation of the struggles it would soon have to bear. The silent grandstands were but waiting the cheering, yelling, singing, sport-maddened and enthusiastic throngs that would shortly occupy them, to cause them to sway as in a gale with the stress of their applause, to echo to the thunder of thousands of stamping feet. But now the gridiron was deserted. It was like a battle-field whereon had taken place many a conflict, but which, like the arena of old, had been swept and garnished with sand, effacing the marks of strife, that those who came might not see them. It was all ready for the next battle of brawn, practice for which would soon take place. Out from the gymnasium came rushing a crowd of lads--in canvas trousers and jackets, and in sweaters, the shoulders of which bulged with great leather patches. Some of the warriors had on leather helmets, and others swung rubber nose-guards from their arms by dangling strings. "Line up! Line up!" came the cry. "Come on for some punts!" "Hey, Phil, send out some drop kicks!" "Pass the ball!" "Fall on it! Fall on it!" The lads were racing about, leaping and jumping. Some were punting, others sending the ball swiftly around by a quick arm and hand motion. Still others, in the excess of their exuberance, were wrestling or tackling. For it was the first day of practice with the newly-organized team, and everyone was anxious to see what the result would be. Kerr had gone from Randall, after an affecting good-bye to his classmates, bearing with him their sincere wishes that his father would speedily recover, and that Ed would return. Bricktop, for the first time since the season had opened, was without his football togs, and he felt it keenly. But once he had made up his mind, he decided to forget practice, though he consented to stay on about a week, and help Mr. Lighton coach Snail Looper in his work behind the line. "Here you go, Tom!" called Sid, and he sent a puzzling spiral down the field. The plucky left end was down after it like a flash, extending his arms to gather it in. So swift was it, however, that it went right through his grasp, and bounded on the grass. Tom, like a flash, fell on it. "Good!" cried the coach, who seemed to be watching every preliminary play, though regular practice had not yet been begun. "That's the way to do it." There was some warm-up work, while Mr. Lighton and Dan Woodhouse consulted, and while the captain of the scrub was getting his men together. Then came the cry again: "Line up! Line up!" "We'll play a ten minute half," said the captain, and he glanced at a list in his hand. "Here's how the 'varsity will line up," he added. "Tom Parsons will play at left end, Bert Bascome at left tackle, Sam Looper at left guard, Holly Cross at centre. Billy Housenlager will be right guard. I'll play at right tackle, as usual. Joe Jackson will be at right end, and his brother can try it at full-back, only I wish he'd put on more weight. Phil, you'll go to quarter. Pete Backus will play right half-back, and Sid Henderson at left half. Now, I guess that completes the team. Get in line and see what we can do." "And remember what I told you about fast, snappy playing," cautioned the coach. "I'm going to have the scrub do its best to make a touchdown on you, so watch out. Line up!" The ball was placed in the centre of the field, and, as the 'varsity wanted to get into offense as soon as possible, the scrub was to kick off. "All ready?" asked Ned Hendrix, who was captain of the scrub, as he looked across the field to see how his own players were bunched. "All ready," answered Kindlings. Ping! That was the nerve thrilling sound of the toe of Hendrix's shoe making a dent in the side of the ball. Straight and true it sailed, and into the arms of Jerry Jackson it fell. "Now, fellows, come on! Make up some interference for him! Don't let them get through on us!" yelled the captain of the 'varsity, as the Jersey twin tucked the ball under his arm, lowered his head and started back with the pigskin. Before him ran his fellows, and speeding toward them came the eager scrub, thirsting for tackles. Jerry managed to run back twenty yards before he was downed, and as the two teams lined up for the first scrimmage, the coach shook his head rather dubiously. "The scrub is a bit quicker than the 'varsity, I'm afraid," he whispered. "I've got to whip them into shape. Well, now to see how they tear through the line." Phil Clinton was kneeling down behind Holly Cross to receive the ball. He gave a quick glance behind him, and decided to try out the mettle of Pete Backus. "Seventeen--eighty-four--ready now--twenty-two--four--sixteen--eighty-three," counted Phil, but before he had called the last number he had given the signal for the ball to come back. It was for Pete to take the pigskin in between tackle and guard, and, as he received the leather, Pete made a spring through the hole that was opened for him. He gained two yards, seeing which the coach murmured: "He's got the strength, but he needs to be a bit quicker. Well, we've got time enough to get speed out of him, I guess." The piled-up players slowly emerged from the heap, and Kindlings whispered to his new man: "Good work, old fellow. That's the way to tear through them." Phil was already calling off the next signal. He had found that quick, snappy work in beginning the signal, even though it was not quite yet time for the play, had the effect of somewhat demoralizing the other players, and also hastened the actions of his own men. Once more the ball went to the Grasshopper, but he failed to gain, and was thrown for a slight loss, for the scrub players were eager in breaking through. "That won't do," objected the captain, gloomily. "I--I didn't know he was going to give it to me so soon again," spoke Pete, pantingly. "You must always be ready," was the comment. Phil was calling for a kick now, on the last down, and Joe Jackson dropped back for it. The ball was sent out of danger, but coach and captain shook their heads. The 'varsity had not gained as much ground as they should have done. "Better luck next time," said Kindlings hopefully. "Your men need it," responded Mr. Lighton. It was now the turn of the scrub to see what they could do, and they quickly formed over the pigskin, while their quarter-back called off the signals. At the sturdy line of the 'varsity, they plunged, trying to tear a hole between the left guard and tackle. They had quickly found the weakness of Pete, and Bert Bascome was not a tried warrior of the gridiron. The scrub penetrated for a couple of yards, and then, seeing what the danger was, the other players massed their strength there, and stopped the advance of the man with the ball. Again the scrub hurled themselves against the line, trying on the other side this time. They could not gain, and Joe Jackson dropped back to receive the kick he expected would come. But the scrub's quarter gave the signal for a fake punt, and when the 'varsity had spread out, the right half-back was sent forward with the ball. But they did not gain what they expected, for Kindlings, ever on the alert for a play like that, was watching, and, cleverly dodging through the interference, he downed the man with the ball in a fierce tackle. The scrub had gained their distance, however, and still had possession of the pigskin. "Hold 'em this time!" begged the captain, as he got rid of some dirt that had been ground into his mouth under his nose-guard. And hold the 'varsity did after that. Not an inch could the scrub gain, for the wall in front of them was like stone, and they were relentlessly hurled back. Twice they tried it, and on the third down they kicked--no fake affair now. The 'varsity had the ball again. Phil did not try Pete this time, but gave the leather to Sid, who, like an old time warrior, lowered his head and plunged into the line for three yards. "Come on! Come on!" yelled Phil, pushing and pulling on his chum to help him through. There was a mass of crowding, struggling players all about Sid. The scrub, with desperate energy, tried to stem the progress of the human tide. Still Sid worked on, worming to get every inch, and he broke through the scrub line, staggered on and on, and when he was finally downed, with half a dozen of the players clinging to him like hounds to a stag, he had gained three yards, through a hard defense. "Wow! Wow!" yelled Bean Perkins. "That's what I ought to have done, I suppose," murmured Pete, regretfully, as he saw what a gain Sid had made. "Oh, you'll do it yet," said Tom consolingly. "It takes a little practice. Those fellows are out for blood to-day. A lot of them are hoping to get on our team." "Well, they won't!" declared Pete, and when he was given a chance with the ball a little later, he tore through for a two-yard gain in great fashion. The 'varsity was now playing fiercely, and had the "measure" of the scrub. Those unfortunate lads tried in vain to stem the human torrent. The first team had the ball, and were not going to give it up. Down the line they rushed, shoving the second lads to one side--bowling them over. "Touchdown! Touchdown!" came the cry when the five-yard line was reached. "Touchdown!" And a touchdown it was, Sid being pushed and dragged over the line. It took eight minutes of play to make it, though, and the scrub felt in their hearts that they had done good work, as indeed they had. There was another line-up, after a kick-off, and the scrub had another chance to show what they could do, but they failed to gain in two trials, and kicked. Then the 'varsity once more had the ball, and in the little while remaining to play, for the half had been lengthened to fifteen minutes, they rushed it up the field. A forward pass was tried, but did not work well, nor did an onside kick, and Mr. Lighton wisely decided to defer these plays until the team worked together better in straight football. "Well, what do you think?" asked Kindlings, as he walked to the gymnasium with the coach. "It might be worse," was the non-committal answer. "But they all mean well, and as soon as Sam and Pete get more confidence, they'll do better. But--oh, well, what's the use of crossing a bridge until you get out of the woods, as Holly Cross would say. We have a game with Newkirk in two weeks, and if we can't beat them, even with the team we have----" "We'd better go out of business," finished Dan. "Exactly," agreed the coach, with a shrug of his shoulders. CHAPTER VII A NEW TIMEPIECE "Anything on for to-night fellows," asked Tom Parsons, as he limped along with Sid and Phil. "No. Why?" inquired the quarter-back. "Are you going to see a girl? If you are, I heard Ruth say that she and Madge had a date at some Fairview affair, or something like that." "No, I'm not going to see a girl," retorted Tom somewhat savagely, and a spasm of pain shot over his face. "I'll leave that for you and Sid this time. I'm going to lay off and bone." "What's the matter?" asked Phil, anxiously. "Sick?" "No, but I'm tired, and some one stepped on my ankle in that last mix-up." "By Hannibal! I hope you don't go lame," put in Sid. "The team is crippled enough as it is." "Oh, I'll be all right," asserted Tom. "All it needs is a rest and some liniment." "I wrenched my knee a bit," spoke Phil, "but it doesn't bother me now." "And I'd like to get hold of the fellow who rubbed my nose in the dirt," came wrathfully from Sid. "I must have chewed up about an ounce of it." "It's good for your digestion," asserted Tom, with a wry face. "But say, fellows, doesn't it strike you as rather queer that we didn't get a hint about our missing chair and clock?" "It is sort of so-so," admitted Phil. "You'd have thought," went on Tom, as he stopped for a moment in the shadow of biology hall to favor his bruised ankle, "you'd have thought that if it was some of the boys putting up a job on us that they'd have given it away." "Yes, such as asking what time it was, or if we rested well in our room, or something like that," added Sid. "But there wasn't even a look to give us a clew." "Which means," declared the 'varsity left end, as he limped on, "that either none of our fellows have had a hand in it, or that they can keep a secret better than we fellows could. If this bunch had done anything like that we'd be wanting to rig the victim. But I can't understand this silence." "It means something," declared Phil. "There's some mystery about this that's deeper than we have any idea of." And there was a curious mystery which was destined to have quite an effect on Randall College. "Well, let's forget all about it for a while," suggested Sid. "Maybe if we do, it will be like one of those problems in solid geometry, and the solution will come to us when we least expect it. Many a time I've stared at the figures and letters until they did the Blue Danube waltzes up and down the pages. Then I've just chucked it aside, taken up something else, and, all at once, it's as plain as----" "The nose on Tom's face," interrupted Phil, for Tom was well blessed in that feature. "Go ahead. Have all the fun you like," the pitcher invited, for his ankle was beginning to pain him more severely, and he did not feel equal to skylarking with his chums. "But as to forgetting about our chair, I can't do it. Queer, isn't it, how you'll get attached to an ordinary piece of furniture like that?" "It wasn't an _ordinary_ piece, you sacrilegious vandal!" exploded Sid. "There isn't another chair like that in college. I have it on good authority that it was a family heirloom before we bought it of Hatterly, the big senior. It belonged in the Hess family, which was quite some pumpkins around here about the time of the wreck of the _Mayflower_." "The _Mayflower_ wasn't wrecked, you chump!" cried Tom. "Well, what of it? Something happened to it, anyhow. It was stranded, or ran ashore, or else people landed from it. I never can keep those things straight in my head. At any rate, the chair is quite a relic, and I wish we had it back." "I'm with you," declared Tom, feelingly. "I could just curl up in it in comfort to-night." "Only you won't," retorted Phil. "Nor yet listen to the clock tick," added Sid. "Now, let's talk of something else." "Football," suggested Phil, quickly. "What do you fellows think about our chances, anyhow?" "Not much," asserted the end. "Sam and Pete aren't doing as well as they used to do on the scrub." "Stage fright, maybe," came from Sid. "It's likely," admitted the quarter-back. "I remember when I first played on the 'varsity, I couldn't seem to see straight, I thought I was going to miss every tackle I tried for, and I was mortally afraid of dropping the ball. They'll get over it." "I hope so," spoke Tom. "I wish Bascome wasn't playing on my end." "Why?" asked Phil, quickly. "Well, you know he rather stood in with Langridge and Gerhart when they were here, and, though he isn't as mean as they were, he isn't exactly in our crowd. I can't play with him the same way I can go into a game with the other fellows. I think I'll ask Kindlings to let me shift to the other end." "Don't you do it!" cried Sid, quickly. "Look here, Tom Parsons, the surest way to have a team go to pieces is to have personal feelings crop out among the players. We've got to play together, or----" "'Play separately,' as one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence said," interrupted Phil, with a laugh. "No, I'm serious," protested Sid. "If we're going to act that way, Tom, we might as well give up the team now, and also all hopes of ever winning the championship this year. It's bad enough to have Bricktop and Ed off, without having you kicking up a fuss about Bascome." "Who's kicking up a fuss, you old misogynist?" demanded the end, limping along. "I only said I couldn't play with Bascome as well as I could with Dan, and I'd like to shift." "And if you do that it means that some one else will have to shift, and that will throw the whole team into confusion. No, you stick it out, Tom." They walked on in silence for a few minutes, each busy with his own thoughts. The sun slanted across the campus, and glinted through the stained glass windows of Booker chapel, coloring the sward with a wonderful combination of violet and red. Back of the main college was a bank of purplish and olive tinted clouds, which Tom paused to gaze at in admiration. "Look, fellows!" he exclaimed, softly. "It's just like one of those pictures of Venice, painted by what's his name." "Yes, great artist," put in Phil. "Second cousin to 'who's this.'" "No, but look at those colorings," protested Tom. "Did you ever see such cloud masses? The only thing about them is that they tell of fall coming on, and winter and leafless trees, and----" "Oh, for cats' sake cut it out!" groaned Sid. "You must be in love again. Got a new girl?" "Shut up!" ordered Tom, peremptorily, as he started toward their dormitory. "The next time I try to elevate the minds of you fellows by pointing out the beauties of nature you'll know it!" "All right, old chap," came in soothing accents from Phil. "Those clouds _are_ worth looking at, for a fact. Sid has no soul for anything above the commonplace." "Neither would you have, if you'd been chewing on mud," declared the other. "It strikes me that we are getting silly, or sentimental, in our old age. Come on up and get into a bathrobe and we'll take it easy. I have some imported ginger ale, and some prime cheese in the closet." "You rat! And you never spoke of it before!" cried Phil, clapping his chum on the back. "Come on, let's see who'll get there first, as the wolf said to Red Riding Hood," and he started up the stairs on the run, followed by Sid, while Tom limped on more slowly. When the end reached their apartment he found the door open, and his two chums standing on the threshold as though afraid to enter. It was dark inside, for the shades were drawn. Tom looked at his two companions in some surprise. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Snake in there? Why don't you go on in?" "Listen!" exclaimed Phil, softly. They stood expectantly. Through the stillness there came to them a rhythmetic tick-tick, which floated out of their room and into the corridor. "The clock!" gasped Tom. "Our clock!" whispered Phil, as though to speak aloud would break the magic spell. "It's come back," went on Sid, taking a step forward in a stealthy manner, as if he expected to surprise a burglar in the act. "Fellows, to all the gods that on Olympus dwell most everlasting praises be! Our clock's come back!" CHAPTER VIII ANOTHER IDEA Making ready as though to greet an old friend who had long been absent, the three lads advanced to the middle of the room in the semi-darkness. Louder ticked the clock, and it was like music to their ears. Tom snapped on the electric lights, and the gaze of our three heroes went together toward the mantle shelf. Then there came three simultaneous gasps of astonishment, a starting back in surprise, a catching of breaths. "The clock!" spoke Tom, aghast. "It isn't ours!" added Phil, gaspingly. "They've brought back the wrong one!" exclaimed Sid. Then, as they looked at the new timepiece, a smart one in a new and dull-polished mahogany case--an expensive clock--one they never would have thought of possessing, as they looked at it, there was a musical tinkle of a bell, and five strokes rang out as if in welcome. "A new clock!" went on Phil, in accents of horror. "A clock that strikes!" "'Come plump, head-waiter of the cock, to which I most resort. How goes the time? 'Tis five o'clock? Go fetch a pint of port!'" quoted Sid. "Oh, what are we up against?" cried Tom. "The plot thickens! There is more of the direful mystery here! Talk about the Arabian Nights' tale of new lamps for old! Some one has taken our old clock and left in its place this new choice specimen of the art of the horologiographer." "The art of whom?" asked Phil, in wonder. "Clock-maker," translated Tom. "They say a fair exchange is no robbery, but this was an unfair exchange. We don't want a striking clock." "No, give us back our own fussy little alarm," begged Sid. "I say, though, fellows, this is no slouch of a piece of horologiographic work, though. It must have cost eight or ten bones, and it's brand new. Do you guess some one's conscience smote 'em, after they'd made away with our ticker, and they wanted to make amends?" "I don't know what to think," admitted Phil. "Me either," came from Tom. "But if they bring back one of those new-fangled Turkish rockers in place of our old chair, I'll fire it out of the window. We can stand the clock, though I'll be hanged if I like that striking arrangement." "Me, either," agreed Sid. "But maybe we can get some clew from this clock. Let's have a look." He turned the clock around on the shelf, thereby disturbing its mechanism and stopping the ticking, but he little minded that. He was looking for the maker's name. "Say, was our door locked when you fellows got here?" asked Tom, who had been a little in the rear of his companions, due to his injured ankle. "Sure it was locked," asserted Phil. "I opened it with my key. Whoever sneaked in here and left the new clock while we were at football practice must have had a duplicate key. How are you making out, Sid?" "The clock, according to a card pasted on back, was made or sold by Amos Harding, of Chicago." "Chicago!" cried Tom, in some excitement. "That's where Langridge came from! Is it possible that he could have come over from Boxer Hall, and played this joke?" "It's possible, but not probable," declared Sid. "But we could write to Chicago, and see if Mr. Harding could give us any clew." "Oh, what's the use?" asked Phil. "Chicago is a big place, and it's hardly likely that a dealer there would remember to whom he sold a particular clock, when there are a whole lot like it. This clock is of fairly common pattern, though it's rather expensive. I'm inclined to think that we'll never get on to the game that way." "What have you got to suggest?" asked Tom, as he prepared to bathe his ankle, while Sid set the clock going again. "I was going to say that we might post a notice on the bulletin board, stating that we'd had enough of the joke, and would exchange clocks back again." "Say, I've just thought of something!" exclaimed Sid. "Maybe there's a thief in college, and he's been going around snibbying things from the fellows' rooms. He's been found out, and made to put the things back. He got our clock mixed up with another, and the other chap has got our ticker." "Not a bad idea," assented Phil. "In that case a notice on the bulletin board would be all right, and we'll wait about writing to Chicago. But Langridge is out of it, I think." "Well, I don't," declared Tom, half savagely, for his ankle hurt him when he rubbed it vigorously. "You'll find that he's been mixed up in this somehow. The clock is from Chicago, he comes from Chicago, and there's some connection there, you can depend on it!" "Well, maybe," admitted Phil. "But let's get at the notice, and then it will be grub time. Might as well say something about our chair while we're at it; eh, fellows?" "No," came from Tom, "let that go. I think the clock and chair were two different propositions. We'll work the chair ourselves." After some talk his chums were inclined to agree with Tom, so Phil wrote out a notice about the timepiece, while Sid interestedly examined the clock, making various speculations concerning it, while Tom doctored his ankle. "There, I guess that will do for a while," he announced, with a wry face, as he pulled on his shoe. "I hope I'm not lame for practice to-morrow." "Well, here's the notice," exclaimed Phil, a little later. "I'll read it. 'For exchange: one mahogany-case clock, new; striking the hours and half hours----'" "Hold on!" interrupted Sid. "_Does_ it strike the half hours?" "Sure, they all do," asserted Phil, and as if in confirmation of his words, there tinkled out a silvery stroke at five-thirty. "What'd I tell you?" he asked, in triumph. "Where was I?" as he looked at the piece of paper. "Oh, yes: 'strikes the hours and half-hours. The undersigned will give it back for their small nickel-plated alarm clock, rather battered, but still in the ring. Doesn't strike at all.' How's that, fellows?" "All right," said the end, as he laced his shoe loosely, for he had bandaged his ankle. "Let's have it, and I'll put my name down, then you fellows can go down and stick it up. I'm going to stretch out;" and, scribbling his name on the notice, Tom threw himself on the couch, with due regard for its age and weakness. "I'll fix it up," volunteered Phil. CHAPTER IX A CLASH WITH LANGRIDGE In the meanwhile football practice went on, and the team seemed to be getting into better shape, though there was much to be desired. Sam and Pete did better, though they were uncertain, and there was much ragged work, both in offensive and defensive plays, over which coach and captain shook their heads. "Randall has got to do better than that," said Mr. Lighton, "if she wants to stay at the head of the league." "Right!" agreed Kindlings. "Bricktop is coaching Sam all he can, but it needs more than coaching to make a guard." "Hope for the best," suggested the coach. "I wonder how our freshmen will make out Saturday against Boxer Hall?" "They'll win, of course," declared Dan, energetically. The game between the two freshmen elevens of Boxer Hall and Randall was quite an event, almost approaching the 'varsity struggles, and there was a big crowd on hand at the Boxer Hall gridiron the following Saturday when the contest was about to begin. Nearly all of the 'varsity squad was present to lend moral and vocal support, and Bean Perkins was in his element. It was a hot battle from the very kick-off, and the two teams fought each other up and down the field. There was considerable kicking and open playing, but Randall depended on old-fashioned football, modified by Mr. Lighton, and secured the first touchdown. Boxer Hall got one before the initial half was finished, and then there was much speculation during the intermission as to which side would win. By tremendous efforts, ploughing through the line, bucking great holes between their opponents, and by putting up a great defense, Randall succeeded in getting another touchdown, and a goal from the field, while Boxer Hall was unable to score in the last half. It was a glorious victory, all the more so because Randall had lost the contest the previous season. The game was over. There had been cheers for the winners and losers, and college cries and songs galore. "Come on over this way," urged Tom to Sid and Phil, who had sat with him during the game. "I think I see Madge, Ruth and Mabel. There are a lot of Fairview girls here." "Oh, trust you for seeing the lassies," half-grumbled Sid, yet he followed, for he had more than a passing liking for Miss Harrison. As the trio approached the three girls, who were standing together on the side lines, Tom suddenly plucked his companions by their sleeves. "What's up?" demanded Sid. "There's Langridge and Gerhart going to speak to them," said the end. "What?" cried Phil, and a red glow suffused the quarter-back's face as he saw the former bully of Randall speaking to his sister. "I'll not stand for that! I don't want Ruth to have anything to do with him!" For Langridge was not the kind of a chap any fellow would want his sister to associate with. In times past Langridge had been quite friendly with Miss Madge Tyler, but when she had discovered certain things about him, she had cut his acquaintance. "Guess he's trying to get in with her again," suggested Sid. "I'll put a stop to that!" exclaimed Phil, grimly, as he strode forward. Then he called peremptorily: "Ruth!" His sister looked up, caught his eye, blushed a little and, with a word to Langridge and Gerhart, moved off. Her two girl friends followed, and seemed glad of the chance to get away from the two sportily-dressed lads. Langridge swung around, and at the sight of the three lads who, more than any others, had been instrumental in causing him to leave Randall, his face turned a dull red. "What's wrong, Clinton?" he called, sharply. "Do you think your sister is too good to speak to me?" "He evidently does," sneered Gerhart. "Since you ask me--I do," replied Phil, calmly, and then he turned his back on the angry Boxer Hall students and began to talk to his sister and her friends, Tom and Sid joining in the conversation, not without a little sense of embarrassment. "Look here, if you think I'm going to stand for being insulted publicly this way, you're mistaken, Clinton!" cried Langridge, hotly. He strode forward, while Gerhart tried in vain to hold him back. "Oh, Phil!" cried Ruth, reaching out her hand to halt her brother, but in an instant he had gone beyond where she stood. She clasped her hands in alarm, and Madge and Mabel, with heightened color, gathered close to her. Langridge and Phil faced each other with flashing eyes, and Gerhart stood just behind the former bully of Randall, looking a bit alarmed, for Langridge had torn from his grasp with considerable force. "Look out, Phil," spoke Sid, in a low voice, but Langridge heard him. "You keep out of this!" he snapped. "I'll settle with Clinton first, and then if you or Parsons want anything, you know where you can get it." "Yes, and so do you!" declared Tom, stung by the bully's words. More than once had the plucky end proved his words, too. "Oh, Tom!" breathed Madge, and she laid a gentle hand on his coat sleeve. "Don't--don't let them--fight!" Tom slowly turned his gaze from the flushed and angry face of Langridge to that of the beautiful girl at his side. She was pale, but smiled bravely. It was a tense moment. Phil and the bully still stood facing each other, neither willing to give way. A little crowd, attracted by the impending clash, was approaching. Tom caught Sid's eye, and the latter, with a quick motion, indicated that he and Tom must interfere to prevent an encounter, at least thus publicly. "You--you insulted me," mumbled Langridge, his fists clenched, as he glared at Phil. "Impossible," murmured Tom. "I told you the truth, in answer to your question," retorted the quarter-back. "You brought it on yourself." "But why you should consider that my speaking to your sister was an insult, I can't quite make out," declared Langridge, with a sneer. "Neither she, Miss Tyler nor Miss Harrison resented it. But perhaps you consider yourself the knight errant of all girls. If so----" "That will do!" interrupted Phil, sharply. "Leave my sister and her friends out of this discussion, if you please!" "And if I don't please," sneered Langridge, "for I assure you that I do not, and----" Phil fairly jumped for the bully and Ruth uttered a little cry. In another instant there would have been a scene which Phil, in his calmer moments would have regretted as greatly as any one. CHAPTER X THE BIG CALIFORNIAN Tom saw what was about to happen, and his ready hand fell on his chum's shoulder. "Not here! Not now!" he whispered into his ear. "Some other time, Phil. Think of your sister--of the other girls. A crowd is gathering. Not now! Not now!" Phil made a motion as if to shake off the restraining grasp, and then thought better of it. In the meanwhile, Sid had casually stepped in front of Langridge. The left half-back motioned to Gerhart to call aside his chum, and the bully's crony was only too glad to do this, for he was somewhat of a coward, and he feared lest he, too, be entangled in the quarrel which seemed imminent. "Go away, Langridge," advised Sid, in a low voice. "If you want satisfaction later I'm sure our friend will give it to you. But not now." "Yes, come on," urged Gerhart, linking his arm in that of his friend. He swung him around, and Langridge, with a vindictive look at Phil, allowed himself to be led away. At the same time Tom, with a forced laugh, for the benefit of the crowd, walked Phil to one side. "Say something!" he whispered, hoarsely. "Laugh, Phil, if you don't want to make it unpleasant for the girls. The people are beginning to ask questions." The quarter-back at once rallied to save the situation. He clapped Tom on the back, and exclaimed: "That's pretty good, old fellow! Pretty good. You must tell that story at the next frat. dinner. But it was a great game, wasn't it? Now, come on, Ruth, and we'll all go and have something to drink. Hot chocolate wouldn't be bad." "Most delightful," chimed in Miss Harrison, with a grateful look at Sid and Tom, as she gallantly threw herself into the breach. "So good of you," murmured Ruth, smiling, though her paleness belied her meaningless words, and she was trembling. The three lads, each walking beside one of the girls--Tom with Ruth, Phil with Madge Tyler, and Sid with Miss Harrison--strolled toward the entrance gate of the football field. "Nobly done, old chap," whispered Tom. The crowd began to melt away. "I thought there was going to be a fight," murmured one disappointed lad, whose "loud" clothes bespoke his sporting proclivities. "There was," answered a companion, "only something stopped it." "Who are those three fellows?" asked another lad from Boxer Hall--a freshman evidently. "What--don't you know the three inseparables?" inquired the "sport." "Not to know them argues yourself unknown." The girls were more at their ease now, and Phil, who had started what had so nearly been trouble, did not refer to it, to the great relief of his sister. Really, the interview with Langridge had been unsought on the part of the girls, and they had done their best to avoid speaking to him, without being downright insulting. Miss Tyler and Miss Harrison began a series of gay nothings, and Ruth was soon drawn into the conversation, to which Tom, Phil and Sid contributed their share. "Oh, tell us about the clock and chair mystery, boys," begged Ruth, when they had left the place where they had partaken of hot chocolate. "Phil said something about it, but I had to drag it out of him like a lawyer cross-questioning a reluctant witness." "My! Listen to Portia!" cried Madge. "But we should dearly love to hear about the queer happenings." Thereupon the three young men together and separately, told of the disappearance of their beloved chair, the missing clock, the appearance of the mahogany timepiece, and their ineffectual search for clews. "And if Langridge didn't have a hand in it, I'll eat my hat, saving the presence of you ladies," declared Tom. "Only I can't get Sid or Phil to agree with me." "What about, eating your hat?" demanded the quarter-back. "Don't let us interfere with that pleasure. Go ahead. If yours isn't enough, you may have a couple of bites out of mine." "Oh, you know what I mean," declared Tom, in a little huff. "If you mean about Langridge, I _don't_ agree with you," put in Sid. "He never had his finger in this pie." "Right, Oh!" exclaimed Phil, and then the discussion started all over again, and lasted until the girls declared that they must return to Fairview. "Well, what do you think of it, fellows?" asked Tom, some time later, when the three chums were on their way back to their rooms. "Think Langridge will start anything?" "No," was Sid's opinion. "I guess he'll be glad to let well enough alone." "I suppose you think I didn't do exactly right to make the break I did," ventured Phil, "but I couldn't stand it to see him talking to Ruth." "Me, either!" declared Tom, so heartily that the other two laughed, and the little strained feeling that had manifested itself passed away. As they strolled down the corridor the three lads nearly ran into a youth who turned the corner of the hall suddenly. "I beg your pardon, strangers!" he exclaimed, in a full, rich voice. "I sure didn't see you coming, nor yet hear you. I guess I'm in the wrong pew." Tom and his chums saw confronting them a tall, well-built lad--big would be the more proper term, for he was big in every way. Six feet if he was an inch, and broad in proportion. He stood regarding them without a trace of embarrassment, a stranger in a strange place, evidently. For a moment Tom had a wild idea that the mystery of the chair and clock was about to be solved. He had not seen the youth before, and he might be a clever thief who had sneaked into the college. "What did you want?" asked Phil, quickly. "And who are you?" demanded Tom. "I beg your pardon," went on the stranger. "I've just arrived at Randall, and Mr. Zane showed me to my room. I left it and went outside, but when I came in again, either someone took my apartment, or, as I said, I'm on the wrong front stoop. Simpson is my name, Frank Simpson. I'm from California, and I've been attending Leland Stanford University, but father's business called him East permanently, and so I decided to come to Randall. I've just arrived," he concluded. "Simpson," murmured Phil, wondering where he had heard the name before. "With a capital 'S'," put in the strange student, with a whimsical smile. "Oh, you're the fellow Jerry Jackson was speaking of," exclaimed Tom, recalling the Jersey twin's reference to some new students who were due to arrive at Randall. "Much obliged to Mr. Jackson, whoever he may be," spoke the tall youth, "but I haven't the honor of his acquaintance." "Oh, you'll soon know him," added Sid. "And so you're from California, eh?" "Yes, but I think I'm going to like it here," was the response. "They tell me there was a Freshman football game to-day. Did our boys win?" he asked, eagerly. "You see, I'm making myself right at home, calling 'em _our_ boys." "That's the way to do," declared Tom, who, somehow, felt a sudden liking for the stranger. "Are you interested in football?" "I played--some--at Stanford," was the modest reply, "but I suppose it's too late to get on the team here. You're all made up, I hear." "Made and unmade," murmured Tom, in a low voice. "Jove!" he added under his breath, as he took in the proportions of the big Californian, "what a guard or tackle he'd make!" CHAPTER XI A NEW COMPLICATION "Oh, hang it all!" burst out Phil Clinton, as he tossed aside his trigonometry. "What's the matter?" inquired Tom, looking up from his Latin prose. "Have you got the dink-bots?" was Sid's gentle question, as he kept on carefully mounting a butterfly, one of the specimens he had captured during the summer, and had laid aside until a leisure moment to care for properly. "I don't know what it is, but I can't get my mind down to study," went on the quarter-back. "You never could," declared Tom, fortifying himself behind the sofa in case Phil should turn violent. It was the evening after the Freshman game, and the three chums were in their study, after the meeting with the big Californian, as Frank Simpson had at once been dubbed. He had been directed to his room, which was on the floor above the apartment of our heroes, and he had gone off thanking them warmly. "What's the main trouble?" asked Tom. "Oh, nothing in particular; but I guess I'm thinking of too many other things. There's that little run-in I had with Langridge, seeing the game to-day, worrying about the clock and chair mystery, and wondering how our eleven is going to make out." "It's enough to drive you to--cigarettes," admitted Tom. "But I----" "Say, I'll tell you what let's do," broke in Sid. "Let's invite that Simpson chap down here. He must be sort of lonesome, being a stranger here. I saw him going off to his room after grub, and none of the fellows spoke to him. Now, Randall isn't that kind of a college. True, we don't know much about him, but he looks the right sort. It won't do any harm to have him down here and talk to him." "Sure not," agreed Phil at once. "Good idea," declared Tom. "Shall we all go and invite him down, as a committee of three, or will one be enough?" "Oh, one," replied Phil. "You go, Tom, you're the homeliest. Have it as informal as possible." "I like your nerve!" exclaimed the end. "However, I will go, for I like Simpson. I wish he was on the eleven. Wonder if he was any good at Stanford?" "Never heard of him setting the goal posts on fire," came from Sid, "but you never can tell. If he has any football stuff in him Lighton will bring it out. We can tell Simpson to get into practice, anyhow." "Randall needs just such material as he looks to be," went on Tom, as he arose to go to the room of the Californian. "I rather hope he makes the 'varsity." Frank Simpson very much appreciated the invitation he received, and a little later he was accorded a seat of honor on the sofa, and made to feel at home by our heroes, who plied him with questions about his native State, and what sort of a college Leland Stanford was. The newcomer at Randall answered genially, and, in turn, wanted to know many things. Particularly he was interested in football, and in response to Tom's urging that he practice, he said that he would. "You fellows have quite a place here," went on Frank, as his gaze roved admiringly about the room. "Quite a tidy shack." "You don't see the best part of it," spoke Sid. "How's that?" inquired Frank. "Our old easy chair was mysteriously taken, and in place of a clock whose tick, while an aggravation, made us all feel at home, that timer was left in its place," remarked Phil, before his chum had a chance to answer. And then the story of the queer happenings was told again. "Somebody's rigging you, I guess," was the opinion of the lad from Stanford. "I wouldn't let 'em see that I was worried." "Oh, we're not, but we'd like to get our chair back," replied Tom. "Something like that happened out in our college, when I was a freshman," went on the newcomer, who, it developed, was in the Randall sophomore class. "We fellows missed things from our rooms and made quite a row about it, thinking a thief was busy. But it developed that there was a secret society of seniors whose sworn duty it was to furnish up their meeting-room with something taken from every fellow's apartment in the college. Jove! But those fellows had a raft of stuff, every bit of it pilfered, and when we got next to it we stripped their meeting place as bare as a bone, and got our things back. Maybe that's what's happened here." "It's possible," admitted Phil, "but we haven't heard of any senior secret society like that. It's worth looking up." There was a knock on the door, and Holly Cross and Dutch Housenlager entered. They were introduced to Frank, and the congenial little party of lads talked of various matters, mostly football, until the striking of the new clock warned them that it was time for the proctor to begin his nightly rounds of discovery. Frank Simpson began football practice with the scrub eleven the next day, and though he was sneered at by some, Tom and his friends on the 'varsity at once saw that the Californian knew the game. Mr. Lighton did not have to have his attention called to the work of the newcomer, for he picked him out at once, and kept his eyes on him during the warm-up play. "I shouldn't wonder but what there'd be 'varsity material there," the coach confided to the captain after the practice game was over, when the scrub had rolled up two touchdowns against their mates. "The land knows we need something to brace us up," replied Kindlings, somewhat despondently. "Sam Looper is getting worse instead of better. They tore big holes through him to-day." "I know it," admitted Mr. Lighton. "And what will happen when Boxer Hall tackles us can be more than imagined, unless there's a big improvement. But I'm going to watch Simpson." The big Californian was of a genial temperament, and he endeavored to make friends with his fellows on the scrub, but, somehow or other, they rather resented his advances, and turned the cold shoulder to him. Hurt, but not despairing, Frank "flocked by himself" for a few days. He was becoming known as a "dig," for he did well in the classroom. Then Tom, and his two mates, seeing how the wind was blowing, made a special point to invite the newcomer to their room more frequently. They took him to their bosoms, and their warm welcome more than made up for the coldness on the part of some of the others. It was not an intentional slight by those who did not welcome Simpson. Don't get that impression, for there was a warm school spirit at Randall. Only, somehow, it took a little longer for a stranger to make friends, coming in after the term had started, than it did before. Then, too, the fact that he had not passed his freshman year there was a bit against him. But Tom, Phil and Sid minded this not in the least, and soon Frank was made to feel quite at home, for which he was duly grateful. "It's mighty white of you fellows, to treat me this way, like a friend and a brother," he said, feelingly, one night, after a session in the room. "Oh, get out! Why shouldn't we?" demanded Sid. "Of course," spoke Tom. "Well, lots of fellows wouldn't go to the trouble, and I appreciate it," went on the lad from the Golden Gate. "All I want now is to make the 'varsity, and I'll be happy!" "You may be nearer getting on than you think," murmured Phil, for in practice that day Snail Looper had done worse than ever, while Frank was a tower of strength to the scrub, which had almost beaten the first team. In spite of their work on the gridiron, our heroes did not forget to look for clews to the missing chair and clock. Only none developed, search and pry about as they did. The big Californian helped them by suggestions, but there proved to be nothing in his theory of a purloining secret society, and Tom and his chums did not know which way to turn next. The date for the game with Newkirk was drawing closer, and practice was correspondingly harder. It was one afternoon, following a gruelling hour on the field, that as Tom, his two chums, and Frank were walking toward the gymnasium, they saw several members of the faculty entering the house of President Churchill. "Hello! What's up?" exclaimed Tom. "Something, evidently," answered Phil. "Have any of you fellows been cutting up?" asked Sid, with suspicious looks at his companions. They quickly entered denials. Clearly there was something extraordinary in the meeting that had evidently been called, for the professors wore grave looks as they entered the residence of the head. "I hope none of the 'varsity crowd has been misbehaving himself, and will get laid off the team," went on Phil, who felt that he carried the weight of the eleven on his shoulders. "We're in bad enough shape now." "Here comes Wallops, let's ask him," suggested Tom, and when the messenger approached they plied him with questions. "I don't rightly know what it is," answered Wallops, "but it is something important and serious, so I heard Mr. Zane saying to Professor Tines, when he gave him word about the meeting. It has something to do with the title to the land on which the college is built. I believe some one has laid claim to it, on account of a cloud on the title, but I really don't understand legal terms." "Do you mean that Randall College is in danger of losing some of the property?" gasped Phil, as he looked around at the fine campus, the athletic field, and the group of buildings. "It's something like that," went on the messenger. "I heard Mr. Zane say the land might be taken by the heirs of some old man who once had a claim on it." "Well, what would happen if he could make good his claim?" asked Sid. "I don't know, but I suppose the heirs could say the college was theirs, being built on their ground, or they could tear it down. But I don't rightly know," concluded Wallops. "Probably it will be known after the meeting." "More trouble for old Randall!" groaned Tom, as he and his chums watched the gathering of the solemn professors. CHAPTER XII THE MISSING DEED Bad news, they say, travels fast, and certainly it must have made a record trip throughout the length and breadth of Randall that afternoon. Tom and the others had scarcely changed from their football togs into ordinary clothes before half a score of their fellows demanded to know if they had heard the rumors that were flying around. "We sure have," replied Tom. "How much truth is there in them, Jerry Jackson?" "I don't know," replied the Jersey twin. "We only heard as much as you did," echoed his brother. "Prexy will make an announcement at chapel to-morrow morning, if there's anything in it," declared Dutch Housenlager. "Then I wish it was chapel time now," murmured Phil. "I don't like this suspense." "Me either," declared Sid. "Well, there's one consolation," put in Frank Simpson. "If it's got anything to do with the law there's no present danger that the college will be torn down--not before the football season is over, anyhow." "Why not?" demanded Tom. "Because the law is so slow. If it's a question of title to land it can go through several courts before it's definitely decided. I know because my father's a lawyer, and he's had several cases of disputed titles." "Well, there's something in that," declared Phil. "But I don't like to think of old Randall being in any kind of danger. It makes me uneasy." The talk became general, and there were many speculations as to what the trouble really was, and what the outcome would be. The conversation continued after our friends had gone to their room, whither flocked a number of their chums to discuss the situation. For the time being football was forgotten, and the trouble of Randall held the centre of the stage. "Well, there's no use worrying about a bridge, until you hear the rustle of its wings," said Sid at length. "What we fellows need to do is to get out and make a noise like having some fun," opined Dutch Housenlager. "When the cat's gone on her vacation, the mice eat bread and cheese, you know. Proc. Zane is closeted with the bunch of highbrows, and so what's the matter with cutting up some?" "Dutch, I'm surprised at you!" exclaimed Tom, reproachfully. "Why? What's the matter?" asked the fun-loving youth, innocently. "Wanting to skylark at a time like this, just because the authorities are in _statuo quo_," went on Tom. "Not on your life, Dutch! It's fun enough to play some tricks when you're taking chances on getting caught. Now it would be like taking pie from a baby in arms." "I guess you're right," admitted Dutch Housenlager, contritely. "We'll defer the operation," he went on, in solemn tones. "I think the patient will survive until morning." Seldom had there been such an attendance at service as greeted Dr. Churchill when he stood on the platform in the Booker Memorial Chapel the next morning. The early sun glinted in through the stained glass windows, and seemed to pervade the room with a mystic light that added to the solemnity of the occasion. The Scriptural selection was from one of the Psalms of David--one of those beautiful prose poems which are such a comfort in times of trouble. And as the vibrant tones of the venerable president's voice rose and fell, when he feelingly spoke the words, it seemed to the boys, careless and happy-go-lucky as they might be ordinarily, that a new dignity and depth of appreciation was theirs. After the prayer, which was in keeping with the Bible reading, Dr. Churchill arose, and came slowly to the edge of the platform. He stood for a moment, silently contemplating the throng of earnest young faces raised to his, and then he spoke. "Men of Randall," he began, solemnly, "we are facing a crisis in the history of our college. Men of Randall, it behooves us to meet it bravely, and with our faces to the enemy. Men of Randall, we may be at the parting of the ways, and so, being men together, I speak to you as men." The good doctor paused, and a sound, as of a great sigh, passed through the assemblage. Usually when the doctor had any announcement to make, he addressed the students as "young gentlemen." They felt the change in the appellation more than any amount of talk would have impressed them. "Doubtless you have heard rumors of the crisis in our affairs," went on the president, after taking off his glasses, slowly wiping them, and replacing the frames back of his ears, over which the white locks fell. "Whatever you have heard I beg of you to disregard to this extent, that you do not repeat it. In evil times words increase trouble. I will tell you the truth as nearly as I and the gentlemen associated with me can come at it. "Randall College, as you know, was built many years ago. The land was purchased from a fund left by a gentleman who had the good of the youth of this land at heart. Other endowments enabled buildings to be put up. In all these years no hint of trouble has come to us, but now we are confronting a fact, not a theory, as your political science teaches you. "The land whereon Randall and the various buildings stand, yes, where there is laid out the fields for the pursuit of baseball and football, and I think I am right in assuming this to be the football season?" The president paused, and glanced questioningly at the proctor, whom he evidently took for an authority on sports. For Dr. Churchill, while an enthusiastic supporter of every team in the college, knew rather less about the various terms, and times of games than the average baby. The proctor nodded in acquiescence. "Even the very football field is under suspicion," continued the president, and there was another great sigh, mainly from that section of the chapel where sat Tom and his chums. "In fact the entire ground on which the college is built has been claimed by outsiders. "The facts, in brief, are these: When the land was purchased there were several persons who had interests therein. From them releases, in the form of quit-claim deeds, were obtained, and then it was thought that the corporation of Randall had a clear title. Now it develops that a certain Simon Hess was one of the persons who gave a quit-claim deed, after being paid for his share in the land. "That deed, I regret to say, can not be found, and in the absence of it, it is as if it never existed. Simon Hess is dead, but he left several heirs, and they are now making a claim against the college. Perhaps they might not be so eager, were it not for certain lawyers who are apparently urging them on. "An attempt was made to settle with them when they made their claim known, but the lawyers insisted that their clients prosecute their suits, and so the hope of compromise was abandoned. It seems that they want the life's blood of our college, and, as you know, we are not a wealthy institution. "Yesterday I received from Mr. Franklin Langridge, the lawyer who represents the claimants, a demand for a large cash settlement if their claim was abandoned. I need hardly say that Randall is in no position to pay a large amount in cash. I called a meeting of the faculty, and we came to that conclusion. I have so notified Mr. Langridge." At the first mention of that name there had been an uneasy movement among the students. At its repetition, when it was whispered around that this was the father of Fred Langridge, the former bully of the college, the movement became more pronounced. "Mr. Langridge," went on the president, when he was suddenly interrupted by a series of hisses. Dr. Churchill started. Mr. Zane hurriedly whispered to him, explaining that it was only the name of Langridge that thus met with disapprobation. The venerable president raised his hand for silence. "Men of Randall," he said, solemnly, "that was unworthy of you." The hissing stopped instantly. "And so our college is in danger," continued the good doctor, after a pause, "but we must face it bravely. We will not give way to it. We will meet it like men! We will fight the good fight. We will----" "Three cheers for Randall College and Dr. Churchill!" yelled Bean Perkins, leaping to his feet and forgetting that he was in chapel--forgetting that it was a solemn occasion--forgetting everything save that he was wrought up to the point of frenzy. "Three cheers, and the biggest tiger that ever wore stripes, fellows!" Oh, what a shout there was! Every student was on his feet in an instant, yelling at the top of his voice. Even some of the faculty joined in, and Dr. Emerson Tines was observed to be wildly waving his hands. How the cheers rang out! And then the tiger! Dr. Churchill blew his nose violently, and wiped his glasses several times, for there was a mist of tears on them. He tried to speak--to go on--but he was too affected. Slowly he turned, and walked back to his seat amid the faculty. And then Bean Perkins did what forever covered him with glory, wherever, in after years, the stories of Randall College were told. Jumping up on one of the pews, he raised his hand for silence. Then, in a voice that was singularly sweet and clear, he started that school song: "_Aut Vincere, Aut Mori!_" Welled out the strains from hundreds of throats--the song of songs--the song that was always sung in times of victory, or when the teams on diamond or gridiron seemed to be putting up a losing fight--the song that had snatched many a victory from defeat. Forth it rolled, deep-voiced and solemn, sung in the original Latin, in which it had been composed years ago by a gifted graduate: "_Aut Vincere, Aut Mori!_"--"Either We Conquer, or We Die!" It was the rallying cry to the battle that confronted the college. CHAPTER XIII THE FIRST GAME Silence followed what was probably the most remarkable scene that had ever taken place at chapel in the history of Randall. A deep, heart-felt silence, which was almost as impressive as the unexpected singing had been. Some of the students were fairly panting from the emotion which had racked them, for they had been stirred as they seldom were before. Slowly Dr. Churchill arose from the chair, and again approached the edge of the platform. His voice broke as he spoke a few words. "Men of Randall, I thank you," he said impressively and simply. "You may rest assured that nothing will be left undone to save the old college, which has no more loyal supporters than yourselves, and, I may add, than the gentlemen associated with me on the faculty." He paused a moment, as if he would say more, and then, with a motion of his hand, dismissed the assemblage. In silence the students filed out, and it was not until they were some distance away from the chapel, broken up into little groups, that they began discussing the situation. Even then it was in hushed voices, as if the enemies of Randall might be hiding about, listening for something of which they could take advantage. "Wallops wasn't far out," remarked Tom, who, with Phil, Sid and some other friends, was walking slowly along. "No," came from the quarter-back, "but wouldn't it get your Angora, though? To think of there being a flaw in the title all these years, and someone only just now taking advantage of it!" "I wonder what can have become of the missing quit-claim deed?" ventured Sid. "No telling," remarked Holly Cross. "Prexy said it was given by a Simon Hess," went on Tom. "I've heard that name before, somewhere, but I can't recall it." "I was telling you about our chair having been in the Hess family," explained Sid. "Don't you remember, I said it was one of the Hess heirlooms when we bought it of Hatterly, the Senior." "That's right," agreed Tom. "Fancy that now! Maybe next they'll be accusing us of having the missing deed, because we have some of the Hess property." "We _haven't_ got it, you mean," put in Phil. "Our chair is still in a state of _non est_." "Haven't you located that venerable piece of architecture yet?" asked Dutch Housenlager, with a sly putting forth of his foot, in an effort to trip Tom. Dutch was always up to some horse-play. "No, we haven't found it, and I guess we're not likely to," went on the end, as he spoiled the efforts of Dutch by hitting him a playful blow in the side. "The mystery of the clock is still unexplained. Our offer to trade back hasn't had any takers." "Oh, you fellows make me tired, always talking about your old relics!" broke in Kindlings. "You had much better be considering some new football plays, or how to help Randall out of the hole she's in." "Out of the hole some rascally lawyers _got_ her in, you'd better say," corrected Holly Cross. "This trouble never would have developed, if it hadn't been that some legal sharps stirred it up, for the hope of a fat fee, I presume." "And Langridge's father, of all lawyers!" put in Sid. "You'd have thought that since his son once went here, he'd have had the decency not to appear in the case, and would have left it for some one else." "Maybe he's doing it on purpose, just because his son had to leave here," suggested Tom. "Shouldn't wonder a bit," agreed Captain Woodhouse. "But, say, don't let this trouble get on your minds, fellows, so that you can't play football. We're going up against Newkirk day after to-morrow, you know, and while we'll probably roll up a big score against 'em, we can't take any chances. Hard practice this afternoon. We want to wipe up the field with the scrub." "We'll be on hand, captain!" promised Phil, and the other players shouted their assents. The students went to their various studies, still talking over the scene of the morning, and what it portended. It was learned, later in the day, that the best legal talent possible had been engaged to fight the claim of the Hess heirs for the Randall land, and that a vigorous search would be made for the missing quit-claim deed, without which the college could not prove a clear title to the property. It also was hinted that Mr. Langridge was not altogether actuated by purely legal motives in prosecuting the claim against the college. When it became known that the father of Garvey Gerhart was associated with him in the law business, there were few students who did not believe that the two men were acting as much out of revenge because their sons had been forced from Randall, as from any other motive. "But it will take some time to get the land away from the college trustees, even if they lose the case," explained Frank Simpson, "so there won't be any football games cancelled." He was in his uniform, and was walking out on the field with Tom and the others to the practice. "I only wish he was going to be in the game with us against Newkirk instead of the Snail," mused Tom, as the scrub and 'varsity lined up. "We'd stand a better chance to pile up a big score." But Sam Looper seemed to do better that afternoon, and was complimented by the coach for some good tackles he made, as well as for his ability in breaking through the scrub line. "Oh, maybe he won't be so bad," conceded the captain, hopefully. The practice was hard and gruelling, but it brought out a number of weak spots, which were impressed upon the players, that they might avoid them. Also some faults in plays were discovered, and measures taken to correct them. There was more hard practice the following day, when the scrub, mainly through the fine playing of the new member, Frank Simpson, came perilously near scoring, which they had been prevented from doing of late. The big Californian was showing up wonderfully well, and he was making more friends by his sterling character. At last came the time for the first regular 'varsity game of the season, and though Newkirk was considered a sort of second-rate rival, there had been a marked improvement in her playing of late, so that the Randallites understood they were to have no walkover. The grandstands were filled with a motley crowd of students, men and women spectators and pretty girls galore, for nearly all the feminine contingent of Fairview Institute was on hand, shrilly cheering, or singing for their favorite team, and waving the colors of their own college, intermingled with those of Randall or Newkirk. It is no exaggeration to say that the yellow and maroon of Randall predominated, and when Tom, Phil and Sid looked toward a certain section of grandstand A, which location had previously been brought to their attention, they saw three particularly pretty girls, waving the colors that meant so much to them. "Madge, Ruth and Mabel are there," announced Tom, as he followed his mates into the dressing room. "Glad of it," remarked Phil. "It sort of makes you feel as if you could play better when----" "Your sister is looking on--or some one's else sister, eh?" broke in Sid. "Oh, dry up!" exclaimed Phil, as he looked to the shoulder pads on his canvas jacket. Out on the gridiron trotted the Newkirk players, to be received with a salvo of cheers from the contingent of supporters who had accompanied them to the Randall grounds. Then the home team followed, and Bean Perkins leaped to his feet, wildly brandishing a cane with the college colors streaming from it, while he led the cheering, and then added his powerful voice, as the students broke into the song: "We're Going to Wallop 'Em Now!" It was announced that the game would be played in two halves, and when Captain Woodhouse had conferred with Billy Bardeen, who ran the Newkirk team, they tossed for choice. Dan won, and elected to defend the north goal, which gave him and his men the advantage of a little wind. Newkirk was to kick off, and when Bardeen had teed the ball on a little mound of dirt in the centre of the field, he gave a glance to see if his men were ready. He gave the signal to the referee, and that official, after a confirmatory nod from Captain Woodhouse, blew his whistle. With a little run, Bardeen planted his toe in the pigskin, which, straight and true, sailed to Randall's ten-yard line, being caught by Sid Henderson, who rushed it back fifteen yards before he was downed by a fierce tackle by Ed Denton. There was wild cheering by Perkins and his mates at this, for it seemed to indicate that Newkirk was not as strong as she had been rated. Sid slowly arose and planted his foot on the ball until Holly Cross came up. "Line up!" yelled Phil, stooping down behind the big centre, and then he began calling the signal: "Fourteen--eighty-seven--one hundred and six--forty-two----" He snapped his hands, and the ball came back to him. Like a flash it was passed to Joe Jackson, who hit the line for all he was worth, and tore through for two yards, the Newkirk players seeming to crumple to pieces under the smashing attack. There were more cheers at this, and when Sid Henderson tore off three yards more around left end, the Randall crowd went wild. "Walk it up for a touchdown!" yelled Bean Perkins. It did look as though the ball might be steadily advanced up the field for the coveted point, especially when Pete Backus managed to wiggle through between left guard and tackle for three yards more. But then Newkirk took a brace, and held against the rushing tactics of her rival, so that, after getting the ball to within ten yards of the goal line, Randall tried for a field goal, and lost because the pigskin struck the post. Once more Randall, after some scrimmages during one of which Tom got the ball, began the rushing tactics, and this time with such fierceness and energy that inside of five minutes his mates had shoved Sid Henderson over the line for the first touchdown. Holly Cross kicked the goal, and there was a wild riot of cheers. "That's the way to do it; eh, Kindlings?" cried Tom, capering about in delight. "We'd ought to have done it twice over in this time," was the somewhat unsatisfactory response. "If we don't look out, they'll score on us." But there was no danger of that in the first half, when Randall got another touchdown and goal, and ended up with a field goal. Then indeed did Bean Perkins and his cohorts let loose, singing wildly, though they did not give the "Conquer or Die" song. There seemed to be no need for it. Newkirk was downcast, but would not give up. When the second half was resumed, with some new players lining up against Randall, there was a moment when it seemed as if her rivals might menace her goal line, for they rushed the ball up with disheartening speed. The gains were mostly made through the unfortunate Sam Looper, who could not seem to hold, and Bert Bascome, his tackle, was not playing at his best. "Put in Simpson," suggested Tom to Kindlings, during the time taken out to enable the Newkirk players to try to get some wind back into their plucky quarter-back. "I don't like to put him in over the heads of men who have been on the scrub all season," objected the captain. "It will be worth while," insisted Tom. "Well, we'll see," promised Dan, and then play was resumed. Once more there was a gain through Sam, and partly because of a fear that his team would be scored upon, and partly in exasperation, Dan signalled for Frank to jump in. There was a joyful look on the face of the big Californian as he took his place in the line, and the Snail rather ruefully retired. "I guess I need more practice, or--something," he admitted. "Principally 'something,'" agreed one or two of the scrub players. Randall did not exactly need new life, for she practically had the fight won, but the advent of Simpson was good. He was a powerful player, knew the game and its tactics to perfection, and tore open great holes in the other line, through which the Randall backs plunged for substantial gains. It looked to be easy sailing from now on, and when several more points had been scored for Randall, Captain Woodhouse gave orders for easier playing, as he wanted to save his men. It nearly cost them something, however, for Joe Jackson made a fumble, and the ball went to Newkirk. Then, wild to score, those players tore things loose, and shoved back the Randallites until it looked as if their goal line would be crossed. There were many anxious hearts when the ball was on the twenty-yard mark, and when a trial for a field goal was made by Newkirk, there were prayers that it would fail. It did, and then the leather was quickly booted far enough away to preclude the possibility of further danger. Before Newkirk could rush it back five yards, the final whistle blew, and the first game of the season was over, with a score of thirty-two to nothing, in favor of Randall. CHAPTER XIV THE HAZING OF SIMPSON "Three cheers for the Newkirks!" commanded Bean Perkins, as he swung his gaily decorated cane, and the yells bore ardent testimony to the warm feeling felt for a defeated rival. "Now, then, sing: 'Though We Walloped You, We Love You'!" again ordered the cheer leader, and the song welled forth. In turn, the Newkirk players cheered for their opponents, and though there was the bitterness of defeat in their hearts, none of this betrayed itself in their yells. The big crowd scattered from the grandstands, and, pausing only to get rid of the worst of the dirt that marked them, our three heroes were soon walking side by side with Phil's sister and her two companions. "Oh, wasn't it great?" demanded Miss Tyler, of Phil. "Splendid!" cried Ruth Clinton. "You certainly rolled up a great score against them," was Miss Harrison's contribution to the trio of opinions. "We ought to be ashamed of ourselves," declared Phil. "Newkirk isn't in our class, and we only play them to sort of open the season, and for practice. Yet they nearly scored on us." "Oh, we didn't do so bad," was Tom's opinion. "I think we showed up pretty well, for a team that had to be patched up after we lost two of our best players," came from Sid. "Well, you fellows didn't play so awful," conceded the quarter-back, "but if Sam had been in much longer there'd have been a different story. Pete Backus is making out all right, and his practice in jumping does him good. But Sam----" "Simpson helped a lot," said the end. "Yes, better than I thought he would. He didn't get gridiron-fright because he was on the 'varsity, and his head seems to be about the same size as before, barring where he got kicked over the eye," went on Phil. "Understand, I'm not knocking the team!" he explained quickly, for he saw the girls looking at him rather oddly. "Only I know, and so does Kindlings and Lighton, that we've got to do heaps better when we play Fairview and Boxer Hall." "Oh, our boys are going to beat you!" exclaimed Miss Tyler, with a mischievous glance at her chums. "Yes, you have to stick up for Fairview," declared Phil, "but wait and see." He spoke confidently, yet there was an uneasy feeling in his heart. Both Boxer and Fairview had stronger teams than ever before. The little party walked on, laughing and chatting, discussing the game at intervals. Phil had a chance to speak to his sister away from the others for a moment, and took advantage of the opportunity, to ask: "Langridge hasn't been pestering you with any of his attentions lately, has he, Ruth?" "Indeed he hasn't!" she exclaimed vigorously. "And if he does, Phil, I hope you won't do as you did before, and make the other girls and me ridiculous." "I didn't mean to do that," replied the quarter-back, "only I'm not going to have him mixing in with anyone I care for." "And I presume that is intended as much for Madge as it is for me!" whispered Ruth, with a laugh at her brother's blushes, which were visible under the bronze of his tan. "Oh, don't----" he began, and then the others came up. "Well, what about us, fellows?" asked Tom, when the inseparables were in their room that night, rather sore and tired from the game. "We can't pat ourselves on the back, and vote ourselves gold medals," declared Phil. "I hear that Lighton and old Kindlings are having a consultation, and there may be a shift of some of the players." "I hope he puts me on the other end," exploded Tom. "Bascome didn't support me at all to-day." "Now, don't get to feeling that way over it!" cautioned Phil, quickly. "That spirit makes a team go to pieces sooner than anything else." "Oh, I'm not going to disrupt the team!" declared Tom. "I think, though----" He stopped suddenly, and appeared to be listening. Phil sat up on the old sofa, and Sid looked questioningly toward the door. "Someone's out in the corridor," he whispered. "Yes," and Tom nodded. "Maybe they think we're out, and they're bringing back our chair." "Or the clock," added Phil. Tom arose, and tiptoed toward the portal. Before he reached it, there came a cautious knock on the panel. "Shall we answer it, or pretend we're not in?" he breathed to Sid. Then, without giving the latter time to answer, a voice called, in a hoarse whisper: "I say, Tom, are you and the bunch in there?" "It's Dutch!" spoke Phil, in his natural tone. "Come on in, you old scout! What's all the secret society business about, anyhow?" Tom opened the door, and Billy Housenlager and Holly Cross stood revealed. "Don't yell so!" cautioned Dutch. "We're going to haze that big chap--what's his name?" and he turned to Holly. "The one from California," explained the centre rush. "Oh, Simpson," supplied Tom. "Haze him--what for? The hazing season is over." "Not for him," explained Dutch, with a chuckle. "You see, he arrived late, and he didn't get what was coming to him in his freshman year. So he has to take it now. Do you lads want to be in on it? If you do, don't make any noise. He's in a room nearly above you fellows, and he may suspect something and listen. Want to have some fun?" "I don't know--do we?" and Tom turned to his companions. They hesitated a moment, and then Phil, with a long yawn, exclaimed: "I don't know as I care to. Too tired. You fellows can, if you like." "Not for mine!" came quickly from Sid. "I've got some butterfly specimens to mount." "Oh, you fellows make me tired!" declared Dutch, in accents of disgust. "Why don't you be sports? Have some fun! Come on, Tom!" "No; if Phil and Sid are going to stay in to-night, I'll be with them. You and Holly can go ahead with the hazing. What's it going to be?" "Oh, it isn't Holly and me alone," explained Dutch, quickly. "A lot of the lads are in on it, but I suggested you chaps, and now you back out." "We never backed in," replied Phil. "What are you going to do to Simpson, anyhow?" "Make him swim Sunny River," declared Dutch, with a chuckle. "That is, we're going to chuck him in, and he'll sink or swim." "That's taking chances," remarked Tom, quickly. Somehow, he did not like the idea of hazing the Californian. They had become too friendly with him, and Tom was glad his chums had declined to have a hand in it. "No chances at all," denied Dutch, vigorously. "We'll be ready with a boat and ropes, in case he can't swim. But I think he can." "I didn't mean about that part of it," went on the end. "But he may take cold." "Oh, piffle!" cried Holly Cross. "If he can't stand a little wetting he's no good. Besides, it's warm to-night. Come on, Dutch; we'll go back and tell the crowd that this bunch is doing its knitting, and can't come." His voice showed his contempt. "Tell 'em anything you like," retorted Sid, "and maybe before you're through you'll wish you'd stayed home and learned your lessons." "Aw, rats!" fired back Dutch, as he and his chum went down the corridor. "Say, maybe there's more truth than poetry in what you said," commented Phil, after the door had been closed. "In what?" asked Sid. "About those fellows being sorry. You know, Simpson is a husky lad, and he may put up more of a fight than they give him credit for." "By Jove!" cried Tom, suddenly. "I believe you're right, Phil. Those hazers are going to stack up against trouble, and what's the matter with us seeing the fun?" "How?" asked Sid. "Go down to the river, and watch 'em throw Frank in." "Sure!" cried Phil; and a little later three figures stole cautiously out, crossed the campus, and took position well concealed in the now leafless shrubbery that lined the bank of the stream. "Here they come!" suddenly exclaimed Tom, who had constituted himself a lookout. "And they've got him, too!" "How can you tell?" demanded Phil. "He's the biggest fellow in the bunch." "I didn't think he'd let them take him out of his room," said Sid. "Maybe he's in a blue funk." "You don't know him," declared Tom, quietly. "If I'm not mistaken, there'll be some fun soon." "Keep quiet, or they'll have the laugh on us if they see us," cautioned Phil. The hazers and their victim came nearer, and the voice of Dutch Housenlager could be heard declaiming in triumph: "Now, then, fellows, we'll initiate Mr. Simpson into the mysteries of the Mermaid Society. I believe you never were a member of that, were you, Mr. Simpson?" he asked, mockingly. "Never, and I don't want to join now," came from the big Californian, who seemed strangely gentle in the hands of his captors. "Oh, but you must, you know," explained Holly Cross. "Sure," asserted Bascome. "You ought to have joined as a Freshman, but it's not too late. Is the water nice and warm, Dutch?" "Yes; I had it heated to seventy-two degrees this afternoon," replied the fun-loving Housenlager. "What! You're not going to put me in the river to-night, are you?" demanded Simpson, in almost tragic tones. "That's our intention," mocked Dutch. "But I may catch cold. You oughtn't to do a thing like this, boys," pleaded Frank. "Oh, listen to him!" mocked Bascome. "Let's take him back to his mama!" and he imitated the crying of a baby. "Oh, but, fellows, just consider," begged the intended victim. "I--I may be drowned," and his teeth seemed to chatter. "Please--please let me go!" "Oh, yes--with bells on!" cried Holly, with a laugh. "Say, I thought you said he'd make mincemeat of 'em?" whispered Phil. "Why, he's a coward!" "Maybe," admitted Tom, somewhat puzzled. "I didn't think he'd beg off like this." "Pshaw! It's going to be a fizzle," declared Sid. "Now, then, all ready?" asked Dutch of his chums. "Get good holds, Holly and Bascome, and pitch him in." "Oh, let me go! Please let me go!" begged Simpson. "Aw, cut it out! Be a sport!" urged Dutch. "It won't hurt you, and if you can't swim, we'll pull you out. You've got to take your medicine, and you might as well make up your mind to it. In with him now, fellows!" "Let her go!" cried Holly. "No! Don't! Stop!" cried the Californian, and his voice broke. "Please let me go--consider, fellows--you may regret this!" "Regret nothing!" cried Dutch. "In with him!" There was a struggle on the bank of the river, a series of surprised grunts and exclamations. Then a dark body went sailing through the air, and fell with a splash into the stream, while the shout that followed ended in a gurgle. "There he goes!" cried Phil. "He's in!" Another dark body shot from the bank into the water. "Why--why!" gasped Sid. "They're hazing two! Who's the other lad, I wonder?" The second body made a great splash. Then, before it came to the surface, a third form hurtled through the air and made a great noise in Sunny River. "Julius Cæsar's grandmother's cat's kittens!" yelled Tom, careless of who heard him. "Simpson isn't in the water at all, fellows! Look! look! There he is! He's throwing the others in! He's throwing 'em all in!" [Illustration: "SIMPSON ISN'T IN THE WATER AT ALL, FELLOWS! HE'S THROWING THE OTHERS IN."] Phil and Sid stood beside their chum, and gazed on the scene, which was now partly illuminated by a half moon. They saw the big Californian standing in the midst of his would-be hazers, knocking them down right and left as they rushed at him, and then, as the hidden ones watched, they saw the new student grasp Holly Cross around the waist, and, by a wrestler's trick, toss him over his back, and into the stream, where three forms were now swimming toward shore--three wet, miserable forms--three very much surprised lads--and Holly Cross joining them by the most direct route--by an air line, so to speak. Into the water Holly fell with a splash, and after him went Dutch. Then, seeing their two ringleaders thus summarily disposed of, the other hazers ceased their attack on Simpson. He stood in the midst of the throng, many of whom were just arising from some terrific left-handers. "I told you that you might be sorry," came in calm tones from the Californian. "For the love of mustard, who are you, anyhow?" demanded Bascome, as he crawled dripping and shivering up on the bank. "Are you a champion strong man, or an elephant trainer?" "Oh I spent one vacation traveling with a circus, and learned to do some throwing tricks," modestly explained Simpson. "And now, gentlemen, I'll bid you good-evening," and before the crowd could stop him, had they been so disposed, he walked away. That's how Frank Simpson was hazed. Ask any old Randall graduates to tell you about it, and hear what they say. CHAPTER XV THE MIDNIGHT BLAZE Dripping, shivering, very much chagrined, and somewhat bruised and lame from their encounter with the student they had expected to haze so easily, Holly Cross, Dutch Housenlager and the others gathered in a little disconsolate group. Tom, Phil and Sid, hiding in the bushes, and trying to stifle their snickers of mirth, looked at the scene, which was thrown into partial relief by the moon. "I wonder how they feel?" came from Tom. "Don't let them hear you," cautioned Phil, "or they'll vow and declare that we were in on the game, and knew how it was going to turn out." "That's right," agreed Sid. But now someone in the group of hazers spoke. It was the puzzled and dubious voice of Dutch Housenlager. "I say, does anyone know what happened?" he asked. "We must have been struck by a cyclone," declared Holly. "Or a waterspout," added Bascome. "Bur-r-r-r-r! But it's cold! I'm going to cut for college!" "Who said he was easy?" demanded Holly Cross. "Was it you, Dutch?" "Who, me? No, I never said such a thing! Perish the thought! Easy!" "The hardest proposition I've stacked up against in a long while," said another, rubbing his elbow. "Jove! how he did hit out!" "And so _sudden_!" commented Dutch. "Well, did you think he was going to send word on ahead when he was going to land on you?" asked Jerry Jackson. "Come on. We've had enough." "Too much," added his brother. "I suppose this will be all over Randall in the morning." "Not if I have to tell it," insisted Bascome. "But Simpson may squeal." "He'd be justified," asserted another. "He has one on us, all right." "I believe he's too square to say anything about it," spoke Jerry. And so it proved. The next morning, when the big Californian met his classmates, there was a calm smile on his face, but neither by word nor action did he refer to what had taken place. But, somehow, the story leaked out. Perhaps it was because Tom, Phil and Sid could not refrain from publicly asking Dutch and the others how the hazing had resulted. "Did you duck Simpson?" inquired Tom, as they were on their way to chapel next morning. "Why didn't you come and help with the fun, if you're so anxious to know about it?" inquired Dutch, non-committally. "Oh, we don't care for baths in the river this time of the year," remarked Phil, with a laugh, and then Dutch knew that the story was known, though Tom and his two chums said nothing about having been concealed where they had a grandstand view of the whole performance. There were now busy days at Randall, for football was in full sway. As a result of the Newkirk game, several shifts were made by coach and captain, and hard practice was called for. The California lad was given a chance on the regular against the scrub, and there was talk that he would permanently replace Sam Looper. It was felt that Randall had not done herself much credit thus far on the gridiron, and there were many anxious hearts in consequence. But the members of the eleven made up their minds to do or die, and they went against the scrub so fiercely that several members of that unfortunate contingent had to go to the hospital for repairs, or else report disabled. Then the coach and captain smiled grimly, and were not so worried about the result of the Fairview and Boxer Hall games. It was practice, practice, practice, early and late, until some of the members of the 'varsity felt like falling on the exacting Mr. Lighton and tearing him limb from limb. But they knew it was for their good, and that they needed it. Our three friends were in their room one evening, talking of various matters, and incidentally speculating on the loss of their clock and chair. They had not had much time, of late, on account of football, to seek for clews, and they had about given up hope of recovering their possessions. "Well, it will soon be time to go up against Fairview," remarked Tom, as he looked critically at a big leather patch he had sewed on the shoulder of his canvas jacket. "I do hope we win." "Same here, old man," added Phil, who was inspecting a new leather helmet he had just purchased. "I think----" He was interrupted by a knock on the door. "Come in!" cried Sid, who was trying to study, but making little headway at it. Frank Simpson entered. "Well, you fellows are nice and cozy here," he remarked. "Am I intruding?" "Not a bit! Come on in, and make yourself at home!" called Tom, heartily, shoving a pile of miscellaneous articles off one end of the sofa, to make room for the visitor. "Just sit down sort of easy, please," cautioned Sid, as he motioned toward the couch. "One of the bottom boards is loose, and it may come down, especially----" "As I'm not exactly a featherweight," finished Frank. "I'll be careful. I got through with my stuff, and didn't have anything to do, so I thought I'd drop in." "Yes, we live by the river; when you're down that way, drop in," said Phil, and there was a laugh at the joke and reference. "I didn't see you fellows out there," remarked the lad from the West, with a motion of his head toward the stream. "No, we had another engagement," remarked Tom. "Speaking of engagements, reminds me of something!" exclaimed Phil, pulling a note from his pocket. "Ruth wrote me yesterday to come over to Fairview to-night, and bring you fellows. There's some sort of doings--giving a Greek play, or something like that, and a feed after it. I forgot all about it." "Say, you're a nice one!" cried Tom, jumping up and looking at the new clock. "I should say yes!" added Sid. "Is it too late to go now?" "Guess not," drawled Phil. "If you fellows think we can escape the eagle eye of Proc. Zane, I'm willing, are you?" "Sure we are!" cried Phil and Tom, eagerly. "We can pull on our best duds, and catch the next trolley. Zane can go hang! I guess we can slip in all right!" "I reckon I'd better be off then," spoke Simpson, as he arose to go. "You haven't any too much room to get dressed, all three at once." "No, don't go," begged Phil. "That is go and get togged up, and come back. Go along with us over to Fairview. My sister said she'd like to meet you. I was telling her about you." "Do you mean it?" asked the Californian earnestly, for he liked social pleasures, and he had not met any girls, as yet. "Sure, come along!" urged Tom and Sid. "We can fix you up with a girl, I guess." "Kind of you," murmured Frank. "I believe I will go." A little later, the four caught a trolley car for Fairview Institute, where they were met by Phil's sister and the other young ladies, who were glad to see them. There was a little amateur theatrical, followed by a dance and supper, and Frank Simpson was made to feel very much at home, for the girls took to him at once. It was long past midnight when our four friends alighted from the car, and stood for a moment, before starting toward their college. "What'll we do if we're caught by Zane?" asked Tom, for there was every likelihood of that happening. They had known it all the while, but did not like to think of it when the fun was at its height. "If he nabs us, we'll have to put up with it," said Phil. "It's easy enough to say," commented Sid, "but you know Prexy made quite a talk about it the other day, and said that anyone who was caught out late would be severely dealt with. It might mean being barred off the team." "Jove! You don't want that to happen," remarked Frank. "Isn't there some back way we can sneak in?" "Proc. Zane knows 'em all," asserted Tom. "We might try it around by the chapel, though. He isn't there quite so often as he is around the court and campus." "Go ahead," urged Phil, grimly. "Might as well be killed for a lobster as a crab." They stole silently forward, looking cautiously around for a sight of the proctor. They had almost reached the chapel, and were hoping that the remainder of the way would be clear, when Tom, who was in advance, suddenly uttered a hiss. "What is it?" whispered Phil. "Zane--right ahead there." Pausing in the shadows, they peered forward. There stood the proctor directly in the path they must cross to get into college. "Just our luck!" groaned Sid, dismally. They hesitated a moment, not knowing what to do. To be caught, just after the president's solemn warning, might mean severe punishment. "Can't we----" began Tom, and then Frank Simpson, who was a little in the rear, suddenly uttered an exclamation. "Fellows, look!" he called, in a hoarse whisper. "There's a fire!" Startled, they looked to where he pointed. Through the windows of the chapel could be seen little tongues of flame, leaping up inside. The building was ablaze. For a moment, the boys did not know what to do. Then Tom called: "Come on, fellows! We've got to put that out! There are extinguishers right in the vestibule, and we can break down the door. Lively! We've got to fight the blaze, and give the alarm! Ring the bell!" They needed no other urging. Without another glance at the proctor, who had turned back toward the college, the four lads rushed silently toward the chapel. It was the work of but a moment for their sturdy shoulders to break in the outer door. Then, catching up several chemical extinguishers, they sprang in through the swinging inner portals. There was a lively blaze in the floor, just over the furnace. "Douse it! Douse it!" yelled Tom, making a jump for it. "Someone ring the bell! Maybe we can't control it!" "I'll do that!" yelled Simpson, and a moment later the deep, solemn tones of the great bell boomed out on the midnight air, while the hungry tongues of fire leaped higher and higher. CHAPTER XVI ANOTHER CLEW With a hissing sound, the chemical streams from the extinguishers spurted upon the blaze. The fire died down around the edges of the big hole that had been burned in the floor, but in the centre there was hot flame. "Can we get it under?" panted Sid, who, having emptied one extinguisher--a small one--ran after another. "We've got to!" declared Phil, trying to shield his face from the fierce heat. "If we can only keep it down until the fellows come with the hose, we'll do all right," gasped Tom, choking from the smoke. There was a high pressure water service maintained at the college, hose being connected with a big tank, for the buildings were so far from town that the fire department could not easily get there. Again and again the alarm boomed out from the big bell, rung by the vigorous arms of the Californian. The others kept playing the streams on the fire, retreating as it got hotter, and rushing in on it as they gained a momentary advantage. "Aren't they ever coming?" gasped Tom. The college lads had formed an amateur fire brigade, and had frequent drills. "They've got to--pretty soon!" choked Phil. "Here they come!" cried Frank, and he hastened down from the organ loft, where he had been pulling on the bell rope, catching up an extinguisher as he came. Soon he was adding his stream to the others. Outside could be heard excited yells and shouts, and the rumble of the hand hose carts as the students rushed them toward the chapel. In a short time Tom and his chums were being assisted by scores of their mates, who, in all sorts of nondescript garments, formed a strange contrast to our four heroes, in their immaculate dress suits--no, not immaculate any longer, for they were dripping from the chemicals, they were dirty and smoke begrimed, and Tom and Sid's garments were scorched in several places by the sparks. "Say, did you fellows stop to tog up before you came to the fire?" demanded Holly Cross hoarsely, as he directed a stream of water into the very heart of the blaze. "Of course," answered Tom, for he saw Proctor Zane coming up with two pails of water to dash on the embers. "Well, I'll be----" began Holly, and Sid quickly stopped him with a punch in the ribs. The fire, which had been discovered soon after it broke out, could not stand the combined assault of the water and chemicals, and, soon after the arrival of the student brigade, it was practically extinguished. It had started from an overheated flue, and had burned quite a hole in the floor, but, aside from that damage, the destruction of some pews, cushions and hymn books, the loss was comparatively slight. The valuable stained glass windows had not been harmed, though some of the delicate fresco work on the side walls was smoke-begrimed. "Well, I guess that's out," remarked Dutch Housenlager, as he looked down into the basement through the burned hole in the floor. "And very efficient work you young gentlemen did, too," complimented the proctor. "If it had gotten much more headway, the chapel would have been consumed. May I ask who discovered the fire." There was a moment's hesitation. Our friends realized what it might mean to tell just _how_ they had discovered it. Their chums, among whom the story had quickly circulated, kept silent. "I heard the alarm bell ring, and I jumped up," said Jerry Jackson, innocently. "So did I," echoed his brother. "Who rang the bell?" the proctor wanted to know. "Could the heat waves have done it?" suggested Professor Newton, who was much interested in science. "It is possible," and he looked up in the direction of the belfry, and shivered slightly, for he was only partly dressed. "I rang the bell," admitted Frank Simpson, in a low voice. "Ah, then we have to thank you for discovering the fire and giving the alarm," went on the proctor. "It was----" "We all discovered the blaze at the same time," remarked Tom, desperately, and he indicated his companions. "That's right," agreed Sid and Phil. They made up their minds that they were in for it now. "Oh, you saw it from your window, I presume," went on Mr. Zane, "and you came out----" Then, for the first time, he seemed to realize that the quartette were attired in dress-suits--wet, bedraggled, chemical-marked and scorched evening clothes--but still dress-suits. "Oh, ah, er--that is----" he began. "We were coming home from a dance over at Fairview," said Phil, doggedly, "and we saw the blaze." "Oh," exclaimed the proctor, illuminatingly, and then, unconsciously perhaps, he looked at his watch, and noted the lateness of the hour. "You four young gentlemen will call at my office to-morrow--this morning," he hastily corrected himself. "Yes, sir," answered Tom, with a grim setting of his jaw. An examination showed that there were no sparks left, and the students were ordered to return to their rooms. The janitors were sent for, to remain on guard and place boards over the hole in the floor. "Don't you think he has nerve, to tell us to report to him, after what we did?" asked Tom, when, following a rather restless night, he and his chums were on their way to services the next morning. The chapel was not so badly burned, but that it could be used. "Zane? Oh, he's _all_ nerve!" declared Sid. "I almost wish we'd let it burn!" "Shut up, you anarchist!" cried Phil. "We'll take our medicine." But there was none to take. The proctor met them on their way to chapel, and smiled as genially as was possible for him. "Young gentlemen," he said, "you need not report at my office. Personally, I wish to thank you for the service you rendered to Randall College last night--or, rather, this morning," and he smiled grimly. "Had it not been for you, we should have had no chapel in which to worship to-day. I thank you most sincerely," and then Proctor Zane did an unheard-of thing. He shook hands with Tom and his chums. "Well, what do you know about that?" gasped Phil, when the proctor had passed on. "He didn't say a word about our being out late," came from Sid. "Pinch me--I think I'm dreaming!" begged Tom, but they were all too interested in other matters to comply with his request. Dr. Churchill referred to the fire in his remarks that morning, and the words of praise he bestowed on our heroes made them wish they were sitting over the hole in the floor, that they might sink through out of sight, and so hide their blushes. Dutch Housenlager started to whistle, "See, the Conquering Hero Comes," when he saw the four approaching, but Tom upset him with a quick tackle, and Dutch subsided. The fire and football furnished fruitful topics for conversation among the students for some days to come, so much so that our heroes had little time to think about their missing chair and clock, until an unexpected happening brought the matter forcibly to their attention again. They had been out together to a meeting in the gymnasium one night, and on their return, Phil, who was ahead, had some trouble opening the door. "One of you fellows left your key in it when you went out," he said, as he removed it, and inserted his own. "Not me," asserted Tom. "Me either," declared Sid. "I've got mine." "So have I," added the end. Phil said nothing until he had entered the room, followed by his chums. Then, turning on the light, he examined the key he had taken from the door. "Fellows, look here!" he exclaimed. "Here's a clew to our mysterious visitor and thief. This key is a false one, and has been filed down from some other kind. This thing is getting serious." CHAPTER XVII A CRASH IN THE GALE Curiously, Phil's chums crowded close to him, looking over his shoulder at the odd key. As he had said, it was one apparently filed down from a larger one of different pattern, so that it would open their door. And fit their lock it did, as they soon demonstrated, for, though crude in finish, it threw back the catch as easily as did one of their own. "Worse and more of it!" murmured Phil, as he tried the key. "The fellow, whoever he is, must have been just going in our room when we came along the corridor, and frightened him." "In that case, we ought to have seen him go past us down the stairs," said Sid. "No, he could use the back flight, that goes down into the janitors' apartments," suggested Tom. "Say!" cried Sid. "I have it. Maybe he was here some time ago, and when he went out, he forgot his key. Let's look and see if he took anything." "The sofa's here, at any rate," spoke Tom, with a sigh of relief. "But maybe something else is gone." "There are too many 'may-bees' for this time of the year," declared Phil. "The fellow might have run away as we came up; he might have taken his time ransacking our rooms, for we were long enough in the gym; he may be here now; he may have brought back our chair and alarm clock--only he hasn't," he added, after a quick glance about the room. "But, as I said, what's the use of speculating on what _might_ be. We've got to get busy and solve this puzzle. We've got some sort of a clew in this key." "Not much, though," from Tom. "I think a lot," asserted Phil. "In the first place, it shows that it's been made by an amateur, and by someone who knows a little about making keys. Therefore, as we say in geometry, we must look for a fellow who knows how to use a file and a hack saw, and who understands locks." "Are there any such in college?" demanded Sid. "There may be." "Let's put it up to Zane," suggested Tom. "He's friendly with us now, on account of the fire." "No!" exclaimed Phil, quickly. "Let's work it out ourselves. I believe we can do it." "How?" Sid wanted to know. "By keeping our eyes open." "We've been doing that a long time, and haven't gotten any nearer to the mystery than we were at first." "That's because we didn't look in the right direction," spoke Phil. "It has narrowed down now--the inquiry has, I mean. Before, we had to suspect every fellow in college. Now we need only look for one who has a mechanical turn of mind." "Frank Simpson has!" spoke Sid, quickly. "I saw him making a new kind of cleat for his football shoes the other day." "You're a hot detective!" exclaimed Phil, with a laugh. "Our clock and chair were taken before Simpson came here." "That's right," agreed Sid, ruefully. "I wonder if the unknown visitor did anything to our new clock?" he went on, as he walked over to examine the timepiece. "Perhaps he left a note of explanation in it." But there was nothing, and the clock chimed out the time as cheerfully as ever, as though urging the new owners to never mind the mystery, since they had a better recorder of the hours than before. But the boys wanted their first love. Our heroes were up early the next morning, to indulge in a practice run with the football squad--a little jaunt along the river, proposed by the exacting coach, with the idea of improving the wind of his men. "Jove! but it's getting cold!" remarked Tom, as rosy and glowing with health, he and his mates turned into the gymnasium for a shower, and vigorous rub before breakfast. "Regular football weather," agreed Sid. "Well, I feel as if I could tackle Boxer Hall and Fairview together now." "Keep on feeling that way," urged the coach, grimly, as he passed by. "We all need it." An unexpected storm blew up that night, putting a stop to practice on the gridiron, and the squad had to be content with indoor work. The weather grew worse, and by night there was a gale blowing. "Old King Winter isn't far off, by the sound of that," remarked Tom, who, with his chums, was in the room, studying or making a pretense of so doing. He arose, and, going to the window, where Sid was, looked out. There came a sharp dash of rain against the glass. "It's a peach of a night!" exclaimed Sid, as he turned back with a shiver to his comfortable nook on the old sofa. "Yes, but we're snug and cozy here," murmured Phil. "This is one of the best rooms in the college." "If we only had our old chair," remarked Sid, rather sadly. He seemed to miss it more than the others, for it was his favorite place for study. "Well, it won't come back to-night, at any rate," observed Tom. "Whew! Hear that wind!" There came a sudden burst of fury on the part of the storm, that seemed to rock the very college. In the midst of its rage, borne on the wings of the wind and darkness, there came to the ears of the three lads a mighty crash. It seemed to vibrate through the air, and then the echoes of it were swallowed up in the louder roar of the wind. "What was that?" whispered Tom, in an awesome voice. "Some building collapsed!" gasped Phil. "Come on, fellows, we must see what it was!" and he reached for his raincoat, the others following his example. CHAPTER XVIII WITH HAMMER AND SAW Out into the storm they raced, to find that the alarm of the crash had been general, and that students from all the dormitories, and also a number of members of the faculty, were hurrying from their rooms to learn what was the trouble. "What was it?" "Did you hear it?" "Is it another fire?" "I heard it was the gymnasium that had blown up." "Somebody told me that Prexy's house was destroyed by a bomb." Questions and statements like those were heard on all sides, as the lads gathered in a group outside the college, or stood in the pelting rain on the campus. The wind still blew with great violence, and the downpour was in keeping with it. Anxious eyes looked up to the sky to detect the shimmering of flames, and were relieved when no glare met their gaze, though in that rain it would have been a big fire indeed that could have kept on burning. "The noise was over that way," declared Tom Parsons, pointing toward the gymnasium. "No, it was over there," and Phil indicated the river. "Maybe it was one of the boathouses." "I think it was out on the athletic field," asserted Sid. "Let's go have a look," proposed Holly Cross. "It was a great old crash, whatever it was." "Yes, it woke me up," said Bert Bascome. "I was dozing over my Latin prose, and I dreamed we were playing Boxer Hall. I was making a touchdown, and smashed into a goal-post--that woke me up--or, rather, the racket did." "Well, make a real touchdown when we play Boxer, and we'll forgive you," put in Kindlings, joining the group of football players. "Come on, let's investigate." As the students reached the gridiron they saw, even in the darkness, the cause of the crash. One of the largest grandstands had collapsed. The supports, weakened by the rain, had been unable to stand against the force of the wind, and had tilted over, letting the whole structure come slantingly to the ground, like some cardboard house upon which a heavy weight has fallen. "For cat's sake, look at that!" cried Phil. "It's a ruin!" added Sid, in despair. "The biggest grandstand, too!" remarked Tom. "Come on, fellows!" cried Holly Cross. "Maybe we can prop it up so it won't go down any farther," for part of the structure was still standing. Holly started toward it, but had not advanced more than a few feet, when there came another sudden burst of fury on the part of the wind, and there was a second crash in the splintered and broken timbers. "Come back!" yelled Dan Woodhouse. "You'll be hurt! It's going to fall apart!" There was an instinctive retreat on the part of the throng of students, but the stand, after settling forward a little more, became stationary, and, aside from the flapping of a few loose boards, the wind seemed incapable of doing any more havoc. "Well, wouldn't that jar you!" exclaimed Dutch, as he carefully held Holly's umbrella over his own head. "We'll have to hustle to have that raised again." "Yes, and the game with Canton Military Academy comes off soon," added Phil. "The carpenters will have to get busy in the morning. Where's Kindlings?" "Here I am." "Say Dan, we'll have to have a meeting of the athletic committee right away, and take some action on this. If we can't use that grandstand for the Canton game, we'll lose a lot of money, and, goodness knows, we need the coin this year." "That's right," came in a chorus from the others. Mr. Lighton, the coach, came up just then, and agreed that immediate action was necessary, late as it was. The students were walking about the ruined stand, oblivious to the pelting rain, and they might have stayed there a long time, had not Mr. Zane bustled up to inspect the wreck. "Now, then, young gentlemen," he said, "you had better all get back to your rooms. There is nothing more to see, and there might be some danger. The wind is increasing." "I hope no more stands blow down," murmured Tom. "Mr. Zane, we want to have a meeting of the athletic committee, to take measures for rebuilding the stand," spoke the football captain. "May we?" "To-night?" "Yes, sir." "Well, I'm going to make a report of this to Dr. Churchill, and you may come, if you like. Also Mr. Lighton, and two or three members of the committee." "Come on, Phil and Tom," urged Dan, and the end and quarter-back followed. The other boys, finding the storm most unpleasant, now that the excitement was over, moved toward their rooms. Proctor Zane stated the case to the president, and then Kindlings made his appeal. "We want to arrange for the rebuilding of the stand at once," he said, "as we expect a big crowd at the Canton game, and we need all the seats we can get." "Yes," remarked Dr. Churchill, musingly. "I presume the athletic committee has the funds available to pay for the work." "No, we haven't, Dr. Churchill," answered Holly Cross, who acted as treasurer, "but we thought the amount could be advanced from the college treasury, and we could pay it back, as we did once or twice before. We'll need quite a large sum, I'm afraid, for the stand is one of the big ones, and is flat on the ground." "Yes," again mused the president. "Well, young gentlemen, I would be very glad indeed to advance the money from our treasury, but, I regret to say, that it is impossible." "Impossible!" repeated Holly. "Yes, for the reason that there is no money in the treasury." "No money!" The students looked at each other aghast. "No," went on Dr. Churchill. "This legal complication regarding the missing quit-claim deed, and the lawsuit that has been started against the college, has made it necessary to spend considerable cash in the way of preliminary fees and court expenses. This has left the college without a running balance. In fact, Randall is poorer to-day than ever before. I might add that even money to pay the salaries of the faculty is lacking, and----" There was something like a gleam of hope in the eyes of the youths, but it died away when the president, with a grim smile added: "I will state, however, that the gentlemen of the faculty regard the financial difficulty as only temporary, and are willing to continue on without pay for a while, so you see there is no excuse for not attending lectures," and the president's eyes twinkled. "But that is why," he continued, "I can not advance any sum for the rebuilding of the collapsed grandstand. I am very sorry, but it will have to stay down for the present." "Then we'll lose on the Canton game," spoke Sid in a low voice, "lose money, I mean." "It's too bad we can't have it put up," came from Phil, as the lads filed from the president's room, where the conference had taken place. "No use in having a meeting, if we can't get the money." "Yes, there is too!" cried Tom Parsons, suddenly. "Do you think we fellows can raise enough cash by ourselves?" demanded Kindlings. "I wish we could, but we can't." "We can raise enough for what I am going to suggest," declared Tom. "And what's that?" "Enough for hammers and saws and nails." "And let the grandstand rebuild itself?" asked Phil, incredulously. "No!" cried Tom, eagerly. "We fellows can rebuild it ourselves! I know how to handle tools, and I guess lots of the other fellows do, also. We can do it if we try. We haven't got the money to hire carpenters, so we'll be carpenters ourselves! We'll build that grandstand!" "Hurrah for Carpenter Tom!" cried Dutch Housenlager, doing a Highland fling down the long dormitory corridor. "I don't know the difference between a beam and a joist, and a two-by-four is as illuminating to me as a Greek root would be to a baby," said Kindlings, "but I'm with you, fellows!" "So am I!" cried Frank Simpson. "I worked in a lumber camp once, and----" "Say, is there anything you didn't do?" asked Holly, as he thought of the hazing. "You're all right, Simpson. You can carry the two-by-fours for Kindlings." "Make him carry the beams and joists," suggested Phil. "He'll do for that, all right." Eagerly talking of the new idea, the boys gathered in the room of our heroes, and such a lively meeting was in progress that Proctor Zane was forced to call an adjournment, though he was very decent about it, and, hearing of the plan announced that he would amend some of the college rules, to enable the amateur carpenters to work at night, by means of powerful arc lights. "Hurrah!" cried the lads, and Proctor Zane was cheered for one of the few times in his life. He seemed to like it, too. A meeting of the athletic committee was called for early the next day, and the plan of having the lads do the carpenter work was discussed in all its details. There was some money available for tools, and it developed that, as Tom had said, many of the students were handy with them, some even having done carpenter work in their vacations to earn tuition money. One of the janitors had once been a builder, and he offered to show the boys how to do the work properly, so that it would be safe. "It will be almost as good as football practice for us," declared Tom, when he and his chums went to town to buy the tools and nails. "It will keep us on the jump, if we get it done in time for the Canton game," declared Phil. CHAPTER XIX SUSPICIONS "Has anyone seen my hammer?" "Where the mischief did I put those nails?" "Hey, Tom, give us a hand setting this joist, will you?" "I say, Phil, should this two-by-four go in with the big side out, or the narrow?" "Simpson, look out, or you'll saw my finger. You're too close to me." "Wow! Ouch!" and Holly Cross dropped the hatchet he was using in place of a hammer, and held his thumb in his mouth. "Jerusalem crickets!" he cried. "I'll never be able to practice football if I keep on this way!" There was a riot of sounds: hammering, planing, and chiseling, and sawing; and, mingled with them, the clatter of the lads' voices, in entreaties, commands, appeals for help, asking for advice, or, as Holly's was, raised in agony over some misdirected blow. Work on rebuilding the grandstand was in full swing. On examination of the wrecked structure after the storm, it was found that nearly all the material in it could be used over again. All the new lumber that would be needed would be some heavy joists, to take the place of those broken in the collapse. They were quite expensive to buy, but a lumber dealer who heard of the boys' plight agreed to let them have the timber, and to wait as long as they liked for his pay. He even furnished a couple of men to raise the heavy pieces into place, and the boys voted him a first-class "sport," and sent him a season complimentary ticket to all the games. It was not as easy as it sounds, nor as simple as the boys had expected, to rebuild the structure, but they went at it with hearty good will, and a determination, in the path of which nothing could stand. The several janitors gave them all the aid they could, but the boys did most of the work, after they were told just how to do it. Frank Simpson was of great help, for he was probably the strongest and biggest lad in college, and the way he could shoulder a beam, and walk off with it to where it was needed in the work was something to look at and admire. "But you fellows needn't stop work to watch Frank," said Tom Parsons, who, because of his knowledge of carpentry, and because he had proposed the scheme, was, by common consent, made a sort of foreman. "Get busy, and do some of the lifting yourselves," he advised. "I say, Tom," demanded Sid, "what makes these boards split every time I try to nail them on these four-by-fours? I must be a hoodoo, for I've split half a dozen." "Those aren't four-by-fours," declared Tom. "They're two-by-fours, or scantling, and there are a lot of reasons why you split the boards." "Give me one, and I'll be satisfied." "Well, you're using cut nails, and you ought to use wire ones there, as the boards are old and dry. Then you have to nail so close to the edge that they split easier than they would if you could put the nails nearer the middle. But use wire nails." "You mean those round ones?" "Yes. The cut nails are those black, square-headed ones, and when you do use them, drive 'em with the widest part of the end at right angles to the grain of the wood." "What's that, a lesson in geometry, young gentlemen?" asked a voice, and the students turned quickly, to observe President Churchill observing them with an amused smile. "No, sir," answered Sid. "Tom was telling me how to drive nails." "Ah, yes, a very useful accomplishment, I believe," remarked the doctor. "Though I never could do it without hitting my thumb. A very useful accomplishment, very." He looked at the grandstand, which was nearing completion, and, as he passed on, with a book of Sanskrit under his arm, he remarked: "You are doing very well, young gentlemen--very well. Randall has reason to be proud of her resourceful students." "Prexy looks worried," remarked Sid, as the good doctor passed on out of hearing. "Yes, I shouldn't wonder but what that legal business is bothering him," admitted Tom. "It's a blamed shame it had to happen, but it's just like the Langridge breed to want to stir up trouble. Now, Sid, put plenty of nails in when you fasten two scantling together, and use the big cut ones. We don't want this stand to come down with a lot of pretty girls on it." "I should say not!" and Sid plied his hammer with renewed energy, as though to prevent any such catastrophe. Tom went on with what he was doing, on another part of the stand, until he was called by Frank Simpson, who wanted his opinion on a certain point. "I think if we run these cross-pieces the other way," suggested the big Californian, "it will brace the stand better." "So do I," agreed Tom, after an examination. "Go ahead, do it that way, Frank. Want any help getting that beam up?" "No, I can do it alone." Which the strong lad did, to Tom's admiration. And thus the building work went on. True, not every joint was as even as regular carpenters would have made them, and a number of boards were sawed very crookedly, but this did not interfere with the strength of the stand, and little was cared for looks in the emergency. President Churchill was not taking any chances, however, and he privately sent for an architect friend of his, who examined the rebuilt structure, and assured the worried doctor that it was perfectly safe. Record time was made with the task, for three hundred willing lads can accomplish wonders, even if they lack the training of a trade. As the date for the Canton game approached, it was seen that the stand would be very nearly finished on time. It was necessary to stop work sometimes to get in football practice, but the boys were developing unused muscles, and hardening others by their labors, so that they were in fine physical trim. "It's the best thing that could have happened," said Holly Cross to Captain Woodhouse, at the close of work one afternoon. "We'll wipe the ground up with Canton." "Well, we ought to," declared Dan. "Don't be so sure," retorted Mr. Lighton; "they have a pretty good team." "Ours is improving," asserted Kindlings, proudly, and, in a measure, this was so, though there were still some weak places in the line. It was within two days of the Canton game, and the boys were working eagerly to get the stand in shape. They had put in several nights on it, laboring in shifts, by the light of some flaming arc lamps rigged up by the college electrician. Tom, in virtue of his position as foreman, was going about and doing as much as he could, when, as he passed near Phil, who was nailing down some of the seats, the quarter-back called to his chum: "I say, Tom, when you have a chance just take a stroll over where that Lenton chap is working." "You mean Henry Lenton--the freshman?" "Yes, the chap who flocks by himself so much, and always seems to be tinkering with something in his room. See what he's doing?" "Why; is he doing it wrong?" "No, but you remember the queer key we found in our door that night?" "Sure." "Well, just think of that when you see what Lenton is doing." Wondering what motive Phil could have, Tom did stroll over to where, down in the front part of the stand, the odd student was screwing some hinges on the doors of a row of boxes, the seats in which sold for higher prices than the ordinary ones. Lenton was a strange lad. He was bright in his studies, and his taste ran to matters scientific. He was eager in the physics and chemistry classes, and had made a number of ingenious machines and pieces of apparatus to illustrate the forces of nature. As Tom approached he heard the shrill scraping of a file, and at once what Phil had said about the key came into his mind. "I wonder what Lenton is filing?" thought the end. Not wishing to seem to sneak up on him, yet desiring to solve the mystery, if there was one, Tom called: "What's the matter? Don't those hinges fit, Lenton?" "Some of them do, and others don't," was the reply. "Or, rather, the hinges are all right, but the hasps that hold the doors shut aren't true. I have to file some." "Oh," said Tom, and then he noticed that the lad had rigged up a small, portable iron vise on the rail near which he was working. The vise held a piece of metal, and this the lad was industriously filing. As Tom noticed the manner in which Lenton handled the tools, working with files of several different sizes, the same suspicions that Phil had entertained came into his own mind. As for the files, Tom knew that none had been bought for use on the stand. "Where did you get 'em?" he asked, picking up one. "Oh, they're mine," answered Lenton. "I've got quite a few tools in my room," and then he drew the file back and forth over the metal, making such a noise that conversation was difficult. Tom watched him a few minutes, and then turned away. "Phil was right," the end murmured. "There is something expert in the way he uses a file, and perhaps he did make the false key. We'll have to do some investigating." CHAPTER XX THE CLOCK COMES BACK They worked on the grandstand even during the morning of the day when the Canton Military game was to be played, and then the tired but satisfied students laid aside their hammers and saws, picked up the scattered nails, and sighed with relief. "It was a big job--bigger than I thought it was when I proposed it," spoke Tom, "and I'm glad it's over." "So am I," added Holly. "We'll take in some money, now. I hear there's a big crowd coming." "We may have to take some of our funds for the relief of the college, if things keep on," remarked Kindlings. "There was another meeting of the faculty this morning, about that law and claim business." "Is that so?" asked Phil. "Cæsar's ghost! but things aren't doing a thing but happening to Randall!" "Well, it's always darkest just before daylight," observed Sid, and then the coach came along, and ordered them all out to light practice, in preparation for the game soon to be played. Tom and his two chums were on their way from the gymnasium, refreshed by a shower bath, and were going to their room, to rest a bit before appearing on the gridiron with their team mates. "Did you find out anything more about Lenton, Tom?" asked Phil, for it had been agreed that Tom was to do a little detective work concerning the queer lad and his files. "No, nothing of any account," he answered. "I talked with some of the fellows who room next to him, and all they could tell me was that he is always tinkering on something or other. He's making some kind of an electrical machine, Perkins said, and he keeps buzzing away at it half the night. He's a queer Dick, all right, but I don't know that he had anything to do with the taking of our clock and chair." "I've got my suspicions," declared Phil. "I'm mighty sure he made that false key to our room, anyhow, and I'm going to put it up to him some time soon." "Oh, I wouldn't," advised Sid. "It might make trouble." "Well, didn't he--or someone--make trouble for us?" asserted the quarter-back. "But I'll be pretty sure of my ground before I make any cracks. Now for a rest, and then----" "A good fight!" finished Tom, stretching out his arms. "I hope we wallop 'em good!" As both Captain Woodhouse and Mr. Lighton were sure of the ability of Randall to beat the military eleven, a number of the substitute players were allowed to go on the 'varsity team, much to their delight, for they were hungry for a scrimmage. There was a record-breaking crowd, and the rebuilt grandstand was taxed to its capacity. Though the Canton game was one of the minor contests, it always drew well, and was quite a society function, for the school was an exclusive one. The cadets, in their natty uniforms, came almost in a body, and of course the girls were there in "beautiful bunches," as Holly Cross said. Not only damsels from the military school town, but from Fairview and from Haddonfield. "I tell you what it is," said Holly, as he was practicing with his mates; "'uniforms git gals,' as the schoolboy once wrote in his composition. 'If you can't be a soldier, be a policeman, for uniforms git girls.'" "It's got 'em here to-day, all right," observed Sid. "I hope that----" "That the heads of our particular girls aren't turned by any of the cadets," finished Phil, with a laugh. The game was on, and it was seen that, while Randall had every chance of beating, she would have no easy contest for the victory. The cadets played with a beautiful precision, and their team work was something that made Coach Lighton sigh in vain. "Why can't I get our fellows to play like that?" he asked in despair of Captain Woodhouse, during a lull in the game, when one of the cadets had the wind knocked out of him. "It's because of the changes so late in the season," declared Kindlings. "We miss Kerr and Bricktop." "Well, go on in and do 'em up," advised the coach, as the referee's whistle blew. "Don't let 'em score on you." "Not if I know it," answered the captain. The game was resumed fiercely. Knowing they had little chance to win the game, the cadets devoted all their energies to trying to score. They wanted at least one touchdown, or a field goal, and Randall was determined they should have neither. In the first ten minutes of play, Randall had shoved the ball over the line, and the goal was kicked. Then, after some rushing tactics, which demonstrated that the cadets' line was stronger than at first appeared, Phil gave the signals for some kicking plays. But it was soon demonstrated that Canton was almost as good at this as was her rival, and while it was desired to get some practicing in punting and drop work, it was deemed too dangerous. "Straight football," ordered the captain to the quarter-back, and the game went on in that style. There were several forward passes, that netted good gains, and the onside kick was tried, until a fumble nearly resulted in Canton scoring, and then it was not used again. Up the field the Randallites rushed the ball, not so fast nor so easily but what they felt the strain, and soon there was another touchdown against the cadets. There was almost another in the first half, but the whistle cut the play short, and the nearest the military lads had been to scoring was when they tried for a field goal, and failed, because Sid broke through and blocked the kick. With indomitable energy, the cadets went at their opponents again in the second half. Several fresh players were put in, and Captain Woodhouse allowed other substitutes to try their abilities. This nearly proved the scratching down of a score against Randall, as the new lads did not hold well in line, and they were being shoved back for a loss, when Phil called for some kicking tactics. This took the ball out of danger, and soon our friends had again crossed the military goal line. It was characteristic of the pluck of the Canton lads that they never gave up. At it again they went, hammer and tongs, giving their heavier rivals no rest. It was a much more "scrappy" game from the point of playing, than had been expected, and on occasions excitement ran high. Several times Randall was penalized for holding in the line, or for off-side play, but this was due to the eagerness of the substitutes, who had not the seasoned judgment of the 'varsity men. The game was drawing to a close, amid a riot of songs and cheers. Randall had rolled up a big enough score to satisfy even the exacting coach, and there were but a few more minutes left to play. Canton had the ball, it being given to her on a penalty, and they were just over the centre line, in the Randall territory. There came a signal, and the Canton left half-back was sent charging into the line between Sam Looper and Bert Bascome. Whose fault it was no one stopped to figure out, but there was a big hole opened, Sam was sent sprawling to one side, with Bascome on top of him, and the man with the ball was through the line, running like a deer for the Randall goal line. Sid Henderson tried for a tackle, and missed, and then George Carter, who was playing full, got ready to throw the man with the ball. But the latter proved to be a player of exceptional ability, and speeding straight at the full-back, he suddenly dodged, so that Carter, who made a dive for him, also missed, and went sprawling. There was now not a player between the Canton man and the goal line. Like mad, his friends leaped to their feet, and sent cheer after cheer ringing into the air. "Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!" was the frenzied yell. "After him!" shouted Captain Woodhouse. "Don't let him touch it down, fellows!" He was running desperately, but speed was not his strong point. Tom Parsons, however, was on the alert. There was not many who could beat him at the scudding game, and he tore off over the white marks after the cadet, with a fierce desire to pull him down in his tracks. It was a hard race, but Tom won, and grappled his man in a fierce tackle from behind, not two yards from the goal line. Down they went heavily, lying there for a few seconds, the breath knocked from them both. "Do--down!" gasped the cadet, and there were tears in his eyes, for it meant the end of the hope of his school. "Too bad, old man," spoke Tom kindly, "but we really couldn't allow it, you know. It was a good try, though." The other did not answer. He still had the ball, and there was another line-up, but before the play could be made, the whistle blew, and Randall's goal line was still inviolate. "How'd he get through?" demanded Captain Woodhouse, when the cheering was over, and the players were going to the dressing rooms. "He got through between Bascome and me," said the unlucky Snail. "It wasn't my fault," declared the tackle. "He just pushed Sam over. It wasn't my fault." "Well, it was _somebody's_ fault," grumbled the captain, "and if it happens again, something else will happen." There was quite a jolly time after the game, in spite of the defeat of the military lads, and the left half-back, who had made the sensational run, and who had so nearly scored, was properly lionized. "When are you going to have another little dance, girls?" asked Tom, of Ruth Clinton and her two friends. "When you boys have another fire at Randall," was the quick answer. The little party of students had some refreshments together, and then, as a little shower came up, the crowd scurried for shelter, the girls going back to Fairview. "Well, it was a pretty good game, all right," remarked Tom, as he and his chums were walking down the corridor to their room. "Pretty fair," admitted Phil. "Hold on a minute, fellows; I want to see something." "What?" asked Tom. "If there are any more keys in the door," answered the quarter-back, "and also whether anyone is in there. Listen!" They approached their portal cautiously, and waited in silence for a moment, but heard no sound. Then they entered, finding no false key in the lock. But, no sooner were the chums in their apartment, than they were made aware of something strange. As if by common impulse, they came to a stop in the middle of the floor. Then Tom cried: "Listen! Our old clock! The alarm clock!" A loud ticking was heard--a tick different from that of the mahogany timepiece. Tom switched on the light. There, on the mantle, in the place where it had always rested, was their battered old relic! They gazed at it, scarcely able to believe their eyes. Then Sid remarked: "The clock has come back!" "And only increases the mystery," added Tom, slowly. CHAPTER XXI SEEKING EVIDENCE Phil Clinton walked over to the mantle, and, almost reverently, took down the fussy, ticking clock. It seemed to make more noise than usual, but perhaps this was because the room was so quiet, or perchance they had become used to the rather gentle tick-tock of the mahogany timepiece. The quarter-back turned the clock over and over. "Yes, it's ours, all right," he finally announced. "Did you have any doubt of it?" asked Tom. "Some," admitted Phil. "There have been so many queer things happening, that I don't know whether or not to believe that we are really here, that we exist, and that there is such a place as Randall College." "There won't be, if Langridge's father and those other lawyers have their way," declared Sid, solemnly. Phil was still closely examining the clock, turning it over and over, and listening to the tick. "Well, what's the matter?" asked Tom. "Do you think it's got the measles or the pip, that you have to hark to its breathing apparatus that way?" "There's something wrong with it," declared Phil, with a dubious shake of his head. "It doesn't tick as it used to. Here, Sid, you listen to it." Thus appealed to, Sid put the timepiece to his ear. "Don't you remember," went on Phil, "how it used to sort of have a double tick, like an automobile with carbon in the cylinders? Sometimes it would act as if it was going to stop, and you'd think it had heart failure. Then it would get on the move again. It doesn't do that now. It ticks as regular as a chronometer." "You're right," agreed Sid. "Here, Tom, have a hearken." After a few minutes' test, Tom was also forced to conclude that there was something strange about the clock. Yet it was undeniably theirs. "And it's exactly right, too," went on Phil, comparing it with his new watch, a present from his mother. "It's right to the half minute, and that's something that never happened before since the time when the memory of man runneth not to the contrary. Whoever had it, and brought it back, took the trouble to set it right." Tom was now carefully looking the clock over. He gazed thoughtfully at the back, where there were a number of turn screws and keys for winding and setting it, and uttered an exclamation. "Fellows!" he cried, "our clock has been taken apart and put together again. See, the back is scratched where some one has used a knife or screwdriver on it, and smell the oil they've put on it." He held it first to the nose of Sid, and then to Phil. After several detecting whiffs, they both gave it as their opinion that the clock had been given an oil bath. "This gets me!" exclaimed Phil. "Why in the name of the seven sacred somnambulistic salamanders, anyone should go to the trouble of making a false key to our room, take our clock away, renovate it, and then bring it back I can't see for the life of me." "Same here," came from Sid, as he slumped down on the sofa. "But we've got it back, anyhow, and isn't there a proverb to the effect that you shouldn't look a beggar in the mouth?" "You're thinking of gift-horses," declared Tom, "but what you mean is, 'take the gifts the gods provide.' Still, it is mighty queer, and I wish we could get some clews that would help unravel the mystery--that of our chair as well as the clock." Sid uncurled long enough to reach out and get a book, which he began to study, while Phil set himself at some of his college tasks. Only Tom remained inactive--yet not inactive, either, for he was doing some hard thinking, in which the clock, the missing chair, and the troubles of Randall in general, formed a part. He arose and walked about the room, pausing now and then in front of the clock to listen to the insistent ticking. "Oh, for cat's sake, sit down!" exploded Phil, at length. "I've written this same sentence over six times, and I can't get it right yet, with you tramping around like a prisoner in a cell." "Yes, go to bed," urged Sid. Tom did not answer. Instead, he stooped over and picked up an envelope from the floor, where it had fallen partly under and was almost hidden by a low bookcase. He turned it over to read the address, and uttered a startled cry. "What's the matter?" demanded Sid, springing to an upright position with such suddenness, that the old sofa creaked and groaned in protest, like a ship in a storm. "Look!" exclaimed Tom. "This letter--I found it on the floor--it's addressed to Bert Bascome--from someone in the college, evidently, for it hasn't been through the mail, as there's no stamp on it." Sid and Phil eagerly examined the missive, turning it over and over, as if something on it might escape them. It was a plain white envelope, and was sealed. "That throws some light on the mystery, and bears out my suspicion," went on Tom. "What light?" asked Sid. "And what suspicion?" demanded Phil. "The suspicion that Langridge has had a hand in this mystery, and that Bert Bascome has been in our room since we last left it. That letter wasn't here when we went out, I'm sure of that, so Bascome must have dropped it when he brought back the clock." "Brought back the clock!" cried Phil. "Do you mean to say he took it--and the chair?" "I don't know that I do, but either he or Langridge had a hand in it," asserted Tom, positively. "Langridge probably put Bascome up to it, to annoy us. You know Bascome and that bully were quite thick with each other before Langridge was forced to leave." "But this letter isn't in the handwriting of Langridge, Tom," objected Sid. "I know _his_ fist well enough." "That's right," agreed Phil. "But I can tell you who did write this." "Who?" demanded Tom and Sid, in a breath. "Henry Lenton," was the quiet reply. "What, the fellow you suspected of making the false key?" cried Tom, in startled tones. "That's the chap. He wrote this letter to Bascome; I'm sure of it." "Then those two are in the game against us!" came from Sid. "Oh, say, this is getting more puzzling than ever! What can we do about it--Langridge--Bascome--Lenton--who's guilty--who had our clock?" "I'm going to find out one thing!" declared Tom, with energy. "What's that?" asked Phil, as his chum arose and strode toward the door. "I'm going to give Bascome this letter, and find out what he was doing in our room." "You may make trouble," warned Phil. "I don't care if I do! I'm going to get to the bottom of this," and holding the envelope as if it might somehow get away from him, Tom strode from the apartment, his footsteps echoing down the corridor, while back in the room his chums listened to the ticking of the clock that formed a link in the curious mystery. CHAPTER XXII BASCOME DENIES Tom Parsons knocked vigorously on the door of Bert Bascome's room. If the character of his summons was any indication of his mind, the bearer of the letter was in no mood for compromise. As soon as he had tapped at the portal, there was audible within the apartment a hasty scramble. "Guess they must think it's Zane, or Prexy," mused Tom, grimly. He waited several seconds, and then came the gentle and somewhat sleep-simulated query: "Who's there?" "It's me--Parsons," was the ready, if ungrammatical, answer. "Are you there, Bascome?" "Yes, of course. I thought it was one of the profs. It's all right, fellows--you can come out," and, as the door opened, Tom saw several of Bascome's friends crawling from under the bed and couch. There was a smell of cigarette smoke quite noticeable in the room. "Whew! You fellows are going some!" commented Tom. "You can smell that all the way up to our room." "No! Can you really?" asked Bascome, in some alarm. "We opened all the windows, and we fan the smoke out regularly every ten minutes; don't we, fellows?" "Sure," replied Merkle, one of the sportiest of sporty seniors. "It's regular bore to think we have to sneak around this way when we want to smoke. Why, in some big colleges, I understand, they allow the undergraduates to smoke in their rooms, and even the tutors have a pipe with them." "Pity this isn't a big college," remarked Bascome, as he lighted another cigarette. "I suppose I oughtn't to do this when I'm in training," he went on easily, "but you won't squeal, will you, Parsons? Have a cig. yourself?" "No, thank you. May I see you just a moment, Bascome?" Tom had not thought to find anyone in the room save the left tackle, and he hardly knew how, under the circumstances, to put his question. "Sure," answered Bascome. "Anything about football? Because if it is----" "It isn't," answered Tom, quickly. "Oh, then, come on out. Excuse me just a moment, fellows," he said to his guests, as he followed our hero out into the corridor. "I hope it isn't spondulix, old man," he went on. "I'd let you have some in a moment, but I'm dead broke, and----" "I don't need any money!" broke in Tom, half angrily. "Look here, Bascome, were you in our room to-day--after the football game?" "In your room? Certainly not, either before the game or after it. What do you mean?" "Well," went on Tom, "there have been some queer things happening lately. Our old chair was taken--for a joke, I presume, and----" "Do you mean to accuse me of having a hand in that?" demanded Bascome, indignantly. "If you do, Parsons----" "Take it easy," advised Tom, calmly. "I haven't accused you of anything yet. I merely asked you if you had been in our room." "But why do you do that? What makes you think I was in there?" "Because I found this there--after we came back from the game this afternoon," went on the end. "It's a letter addressed to you, and I thought maybe you had dropped it." Tom held out the missive, but, before taking it, Bascome, with a glance of anger at his companion, said cuttingly: "Look here, Parsons, I don't know what your game is, but I think you're confoundedly insulting. Now, before I look at that letter, I want to say, in the strongest way I know how, that I was _not_ in your room to-day, nor any other day lately. In fact, I haven't been there since a lot of us fellows were talking over football matters with you and Phil and Sid one evening." "Yes, I remember that time," spoke Tom. "Well, I believe you, of course. Here's the letter. It's mighty queer, though." Bascome gave one glance at the missive, and murmured: "Lenton! I wonder what he's writing about now. That fellow's off his base, I think." As he read the note, a scowl came over his face, and he muttered something that Tom could not catch. However, the end did hear Bascome say: "Insolent puppy! He's got nerve to write to me that way! I'll have it out with him!" Then, with rapid motions, Bascome tore the letter to pieces, and scattered them about the corridor. "It doesn't throw any light on the mystery that has been bothering you fellows, about your clock and chair," went on the tackle. "I had some dealings with Lenton, and this was about that." "I didn't ask to know what was in the letter," said Tom, quickly. "The only funny part of it was that it was in our room. I thought perhaps----" he hesitated. "Oh, don't make any bones about it," urged his fellow player. "You might as well say it as think it. You imagined I had been in there, playing some sort of a joke on you." "Yes, I did," admitted Tom. "Our clock was returned mysteriously to-night, and the one left in its place was taken away. The other night we found a false key in our door, and now----" "Now you find a letter addressed to me!" interrupted Bascome. "I don't blame you for thinking it a bit queer, old man, but I'm not in the game. I've got other fish to fry. The way I suppose my letter got in you fellows' room, is that Wallops, or some of the messengers to whom Lenton gave it to be delivered to me, must have dropped it there." "But Wallops nor none of the messengers would have a right to go into our room while we were out," declared Tom. "Oh, you can't tell what those fellows would do," asserted Bascome, easily. "I'll wager that's how it happened. Ask Wallops. I'm out of it, anyhow. I wasn't in your shack, and you can't make that too strong when you report back to Phil and Sid." "I will," promised Tom, somewhat nonplused at the outcome of the affair. He had been sure that something would come of the connection between Bascome and the letter. "I'm sorry I took you away from your friends," he went on. "Oh, that's all right. I'd rather have you _speak_ openly like this, than be _thinking_ a lot of queer things. No, I'm out of it. The letter had nothing to do with your clock or chair," and with this denial Bascome turned back toward his own room. "Good night," he called to Tom; "that is, unless you'll join us?" He paused and looked back. "No, thank you, I'm going to turn in." Tom swung around, and was about to proceed down the corridor, when the torn pieces of the letter Bascome had destroyed caught his eye. By this time the other youth had entered his room, before Tom could call to him that perhaps he had better pick up the scraps. "Oh, well, leave them there," mused Tom. "I guess if he doesn't care whether or not anyone sees them, I oughtn't to." Slowly he walked along, when a piece of paper, rather larger than the other fragments, was turned over by the draft of his walking. It was directly under a hall light, and Tom could not help seeing the words written on it. They stood out in bold relief--three words--and they were these: _the alarm clock_ Tom stared at them as if fascinated. They seemed to be written in letters of fire. He stooped and picked up the piece of the torn letter. "The alarm clock!" murmured Tom. "I'll wager anything Lenton _was_ writing about our clock, and yet Bascome said the letter didn't have a thing in it about our mystery. I wonder--I wonder if he expects me to believe that--now." For a moment he paused, half inclined to go back and have it out with Bascome. Then he realized that this would not be the wisest plan. Besides, he wanted to talk with Phil and Sid. "I'll tell them," he thought. "Maybe they can see through it, for I'll be hanged if I can. 'The alarm clock!' I wonder if I would be justified in picking up the rest of the pieces, and seeing what I could make of them? No! Of course I couldn't read another fellow's letter, even to solve the mystery. It's not serious enough for that." Then Tom, after another look at the scrap he had, thrust it into his pocket, as much for the sake of preventing it from falling into the hands of curiosity seekers, as for any other reason. "We'll see what Phil and Sid can make of it," he mused, and then, hearing someone approaching, Tom hastened on to his own room. "It certainly is queer," said Phil, when Tom had told him the result of his little excursion. "I think I'd almost have picked up the whole letter. Bascome couldn't have cared much about it, or he wouldn't have thrown the pieces into the hall. Guess I'll go get 'em." "No, we can't do a thing like that," declared Sid quickly. "I know a better plan." "What?" inquired Tom. "Let's ask Wallops if he had a note to deliver to Bascome from Lenton. He may have gotten in our room by mistake." "Of course!" cried Tom, quickly. "The very thing. Maybe that will help clear it up." It was comparatively early, and Wallops was found in the janitors' quarters. "No," he replied, in answer to Sid's inquiry, "I haven't seen Mr. Bascome or Mr. Lenton this evening, and I had no note for either of them, nor from one. And I wasn't in your room." "Oh, all right!" exclaimed Phil, quickly, for he did not want to create any talk. "I dare say it was a mistake. Come on, fellows." "Well, what do you think now?" asked Tom, as the three were on their way to their room. "I think either Bascome or Lenton was in our room," declared Phil. "Yes, but which one?" asked Sid. No one could answer him. CHAPTER XXIII HALED TO COURT Our heroes were in a quandary. They had gotten on the trail of the mystery, and it diverged in two directions. Both paths seemed to lead to one or the other of two students--Bascome or Lenton. To accuse either, or to question them, would mean serious trouble, for it would be considered as an insult. Tom and his chums realized that. "But what gets me, if either one of them _did_ take our clock and chair, is what their motive could have been," spoke Tom. "Why in the mischief should they take our battered old ticker, leave another in its place, and then make the exchange again?" "It's just as easy to answer as to say who has our chair," declared Phil. "It isn't in Bascome's room, that's certain." "And Lenton hasn't it," asserted Tom. "I found that out, all right." It was the morning after the sensational discovery of the letter, and they were still discussing it, without apparently getting anywhere. They had tacitly agreed that, without more evidence than they now possessed, it would be folly to go to Bascome again. "Let's get out of here," proposed Tom, after some more talk on the subject. "We're almost late for chapel as it is." It is doubtful if either of the three chums gave much consideration to the services that morning. Their minds were too much filled with other matters. Dr. Churchill made an announcement to the effect that there might soon be some news to communicate in the matter of the suit against the college. "At present," he stated, "the matter is in the hands of the lawyers, and we hope to effect a compromise. If we arrive at one, I shall be most happy to let you young gentlemen know of it. Of course, too, there is the possibility of unfavorable news. But, in any event, I know that you will be loyal to the college." "You bet!" cried Bean Perkins, fervently, and he was not rebuked, for the devotional exercises were over. "I wonder what Prexy meant by bad news?" asked Holly Cross, as he walked over the campus with Tom and several other chums. "He didn't mean that we're going to lose the game with Fairview Saturday, I hope," put in Kindlings. "We're going to have long practice this afternoon, and I want every fellow to show up. Simpson, I'm going to give you a chance at left guard in the second half of the game." "Thanks!" exclaimed the big Californian, fervently. The practice on the gridiron that afternoon was the hardest to which the players had yet been subjected. The scrub had been instructed to play for all they were worth against the 'varsity, and the inducement was held out that if any of the second team outplayed the man against him on the regular eleven, that he could replace him in the Fairview game. This was enough to stir the blood of the scrubs, and they went at the 'varsity hammer and tongs. The result was rather a surprise, for the regulars developed unexpected strength in the line. And even Snail Looper proved that he could do well when he wanted to, for when the backs were sent against him and Bascome, the two held well together, and the wave of human beings, of whom one had the ball, was dashed back, failing to gain in several cases. There was one particularly hot scrimmage, and Andrews, who was playing left half-back on the scrub, went at the line like a stone from a catapult. He broke through, and Pete Backus and Sid Henderson, who tried to tackle him, missed. Andrews was gathering his speed for a spring down the field for a touchdown, when Phil Clinton, who had circled out of the press, was after him like a shot, and after a daring tackle threw him heavily. But, somehow or other, Phil slipped, and his foot was doubled under him. When he got up he limped painfully. "What's the matter?" demanded Mr. Lighton, anxiously, as he ran up. "Twisted my ankle." "Is it sprained?" "No, only a little. I'll be all right in a minute." They had his shoe off in a jiffy, and massaged the ankle, but it did little good, and wanting to save his quarter-back for the big game on Saturday, Captain Woodhouse sent in Art Benson, as a substitute. Phil retired to the side lines, tears of chagrin in his eyes, but his friends comforted him with the thought that he would be all right by Saturday if he rested, while, if he didn't he couldn't play against Fairview. The game went on, and, as if nerved by Phil's injury, the 'varsity played like fiends. They rushed the unfortunate scrub team all over the field, and rolled up more touchdowns than they had previously done in practice that season. "I guess we'll come out all right," spoke Kindlings, gleefully, to the coach, as they walked from the field, discussing some new plays that had been tried. "I'm more hopeful," answered Mr. Lighton. A hot bath, a rub down and a vigorous massaging of his ankle with liniment, made Phil feel much better, and that night, propped up in an easy position on the sofa--the seat of honor--the quarter-back received his friends, several of whom dropped in to inquire after him. "Will you be fit, old man?" asked Holly Cross, anxiously. "I hear that Fairview has it in for us for keeps." "Sure I'll be on hand," declared Phil, gamely. "This isn't anything." "I hope not," remarked Kindlings, with a dubious shake of his head. "We can tell better in the morning." For he well knew that such injuries as Phil's often became worse in a few hours than they seemed at first. The captain's apprehension was realized, for the next morning Phil could not step on his foot, and Dr. Marshall, the college physician, was summoned. The doctor looked at the swollen ankle, felt of it gently, thereby causing Phil to wince with pain, and then announced: "No playing for you, Clinton." "But I've _got_ to play, doctor. I've _got_ to be in the game against Fairview Saturday. That's three days off. Won't it be well then?" "I'm afraid not." "Well enough to play if I wear a leather protector?" "If you play, you may be out of the game the rest of the season," was the solemn answer. "I must forbid it. You may do yourself serious injury. What you need is complete rest." Phil gasped, and held back the exclamation that sprang to his lips--an exclamation partly of bitterness and partly of pain, for the physician was rebandaging the foot. Then he turned his face to the wall, and when the doctor was gone, Tom and Sid sat in silent communion with their chum. For they knew how he felt, and knew that mere words could only make the wounded spirit more sore. Silence was the best balm, and silence there was, with only the fussy clock to mark the passage of the seconds. Phil's ankle was even worse the next day, and it was announced that he would not be in the Fairview game, which news cast a gloom over Randall, and caused rejoicing in the camp of their rivals, for Fairview was none too sure of a victory, though they had a fine eleven. Benson, the substitute quarter, was slated for the contest. There was hard practice every available moment up to the night before the game, and though the team was rather demoralized, the captain and coach, by vigorous words, kept the players up to the mark. "We're going to win! We're going to win!" they said over and over again. There was a noticeable air of something portending when Dr. Churchill and his colleagues took their seats on the platform at chapel the next morning. The president's voice was solemn as he read the Scriptures, more solemn as he offered prayer, and when he advanced to the edge of the rostrum to make an announcement, there was a long breath of expectation from the students. "Is it about football or the trouble, I wonder?" whispered Holly Cross. "Quiet," begged Tom. "Young gentlemen," began the president, "I regret to say that I have bad news for you. Randall College has lost the first skirmish in the legal battle. The directors have been summoned to court to show cause why they should not vacate the land whereon our buildings stand. The matter had assumed a serious phase, all through the loss of that quit-claim deed." CHAPTER XXIV DEFEAT There was a buzz of excitement; everyone was whispering to his neighbor, and there was even talking among the members of the faculty. Dr. Churchill gave a few more facts concerning the matter, stating that though the first move had gone against the college, the Randall legal representatives hoped to be successful in court. "I might add," went on the good doctor, "that we are making every effort to locate the missing quit-claim deed. And I might also add that if any of you young gentlemen happen upon it, the faculty and myself, as well as the directors, will be under great obligations to you, if you will turn it over to us. "To that end, perhaps, I had better describe the deed," which the president did, at the same time making a few remarks concerning legal matters, and impressing on the students the necessity of taking care of legal papers. "You will now know the document, if you should happen to see it," he concluded, "though I fear we cannot hope for that. But we will not give up yet," he added, and then the exercises came to an end. Discussion on the new development of the trouble continued, as the students filed out of chapel, and strolled across the campus, some to lectures, some to studies, while others, who had the early periods free, made for the football field. "It's a rotten shame, isn't it?" exclaimed Holly Cross, as he dug his toe into the pigskin with vicious force. "I wish I had some of the lawyers who are making the trouble where this ball is," and as the spheroid again sailed high into the air, Holly grinned in delight at his effort. "Yes, it's just like Langridge to make trouble," agreed Tom. "Probably he's delighted at the turn affairs have taken, and he very likely hopes to see Randall down and out." "Well, he won't!" declared Frank, as he passed the ball to Jerry Jackson. "I feel sure we're going to win. As sure as I feel that----" "We'll put it all over Fairview," finished Billy Housenlager. "We've just _got_ to do 'em!" "Glad you feel that way," spoke Captain Woodhouse. "But with Phil laid up----" He did not finish, but they all knew what he meant. Up to the last, there was hope that Phil might pull around in time to play at least part of the game, but the doctor soon put an end to this thought. "It's utterly out of the question," he said, and Phil, with a groan, turned his face to the wall. As if Randall did not have trouble enough, more developed the night before the game. There had been a final meeting of the eleven, and Phil had managed to limp to it on a crutch. Final instructions were given by the coach, some new plays were decided upon, and a particular code of signals, of which there were several in use, was adopted. "No objections to taking a glass of ginger ale before we turn in, is there, Mr. Lighton?" asked Jerry Jackson of the coach, who was a strict trainer. "I'll allow you one," he answered. "Come on then, fellows, I'll stand treat. Got something extra in my allowance this month," went on the Jersey twin, and he led a crowd of his chums to a small refreshment place that did a thriving business just outside the college grounds. Whether it was the ginger ale, or the excitement caused by anticipating the game, was not ascertained, but it was a fact that in the night Sid Henderson was taken ill. Tom heard his chum groaning, and, sitting up in bed, asked: "What's the matter, old man?" "I don't know, but I feel as if I was burning up inside." Tom was at Sid's bed in a moment, and placed the back of his hand on his friend's cheek. "Why, you've got a fever!" he exclaimed "I'm going to call for Dr. Marshall." Wallops was sent for the physician, who pronounced Sid a very sick youth, and ordered his removal to the sick ward, a sort of emergency hospital maintained at Randall. "I shouldn't be surprised but what it was the ginger ale," said the physician, after questioning Sid. "You have a very bad bilious attack." "Will I--will I be all right by morning?" "By morning? Gracious, young man, what do you think we doctors are, magicians? We have to wait for Nature to help us." "Then I can't play." "Play? I should say not! You've got to stay in bed." "Well, wouldn't that get your goat!" exclaimed Tom, when he heard the news. "Phil and Sid both out of the game. Now we _are_ up against it, for further orders." Phil did not answer, but he gritted his teeth, and in the darkness stepped out of bed, bearing his weight on his injured ankle. He could hardly keep back an exclamation of agony, as a sharp pain shot through him, and he knew that what he had hoped for--that he might possibly play--was out of the question. The day dawned cold and fair, ideal weather for football, with no wind to make kicking difficult. The contest was to take place at Randall, and the squad was out early at practice. It was rather a serious gridiron squad, too, for the absence of two of the best players crippled the team in a manner that none cared to think about. "Jove, but I wish I was going to be with you!" spoke Sid softly, when Tom paid a visit to him, just before the time for calling the game. "I wish you were," said the end. "I guess you'd better pray for us, Sid, for we sure are up against it." Phil managed to limp out on the side lines, where he sat wrapped in a blanket like an Indian brave, and watched the preliminary practice, unable to keep back the tears that came into his eyes. There was a big crowd present. Every stand was filled, and there were throngs about the field. George Carter was to play in Sid's place, and Art Benson would be at quarter. The rest of the team was made up substantially as the one that had played the previous games, save that Frank Simpson was slated to play one half at left guard, dividing with Sam Looper. It was the first big game of the season, and both teams were on their mettle. In the stand given over to the cohorts of Fairview there was a big crowd, of which a goodly part were girls from the co-educational institution. Their shrill cheers, songs and cries mingled with the hoarser shouts of the Fairview lads. "I wonder if Madge and the others are cheering against us?" asked Tom, as he passed the ball to Simpson. "Well, you can hardly blame them for sticking up for their own college." "No, that's so. Say, they're a lively eleven, all right, aren't they?" "They sure are! Never mind, though, Parsons, we'll go through 'em all right." There had been many changes in the Fairview eleven, but some of the lads who had played before were on the team. There was Lem Sellig, who played quarter, instead of in his old position of left half-back, Frank Sullivan was at right end, and Roger Barns was full-back; Ted Puder was playing left guard. The practice was over, the toss had been made, and Randall was to kick off. Bean Perkins had led his cheerers in many songs and college yells, and the colors on his cane were frayed from much waving. The referee's whistle blew, and Kindlings, with a final glance at his own men and those of Fairview, nodded to Holly Cross, who was to send the ball down the field. There was a thud as the toe of the big centre met the pigskin, and away it sailed. It was caught by Ed Turton, who was playing left half-back, and he managed to get over about fifteen yards before he was caught and heavily thrown by Tom Parsons. Then came the line up, and the first scrimmage. At the line came Fred Hanson, the right half-back, aided by his mates. Right for a space between Bert Bascome and Snail Looper he headed, and managed to get through. "Hold 'em! Hold 'em!" begged Kindlings, desperately, but his men were shoved back, and there was a two-yard gain. It was not much, but it showed the power that was behind the Fairview plays. There was a burst of triumphant cheers from the co-educational supporters, and silence on the part of the cohorts of Randall, as they waited for the next play. It came promptly, and netted three yards. Then a run around right end tore off four yards more, and it looked as if Fairview would rush the ball for a touchdown in short order. But, in answer to the frantic appeals from Kindlings, his players braced desperately, and held their opponents to such advantage that Fairview was forced to kick, and Randall had the ball, and a chance to show what she could do. "Now, then, boys!" cried Benson, as he began to give the signal, "tear 'em apart!" It was a heart-meant appeal, but something was lacking. Phil's magnetic presence was needed, and though Pete Backus, to whom the ball was passed, managed to wiggle through for a yard gain, there was noticed a great strength in the line of Fairview, against which the Randall players hurled themselves. Another try only netted two yards, and then, not wanting to give up the ball by sending it sailing into the enemy's territory, Benson signalled for a fake kick, Joe Jackson dropped back, and Holly Cross snapped the ball to George Carter, who was playing in Sid's place. Carter at once passed it to Joe, who ran with it. But, alas for the hopes of Randall! Joe dropped the pigskin, and Jake Johnson, the big centre of Fairview, who had broken through, fell on it. [Illustration: CARTER AT ONCE PASSED IT TO JOE, WHO RAN WITH IT.] There was a wild riot of yells on the part of the Fairview crowd, and groans of anguish from Randall. The Fairview players quickly lined up, and almost before Kindlings and his men had recovered from their astonishment and chagrin, Fred Hanson had broken through, and was speeding for the goal line. He got past all the tacklers, and after a sensational run, planted the ball between the posts. "Touchdown! Touchdown!" came the fierce cries. Randall realized that she had been scored upon for the first time that season, and the fact was bitter to her. The goal was kicked, and there were six points against our friends. It was disconcerting, but they went back into the play with such fierce energy that inside of the next ten minutes they had forced their opponents up the field to their five-yard line. "Now, boys, give it to 'em! Don't wait until you can see the whites of their eyes, but give it to 'em!" howled Bean Perkins. "Touchdown! Touchdown!" yelled the Randall crowd. "Give 'em the good old song, fellows," fairly screamed Bean. "Conquer or Die," and he led the singing of "_Aut Vincere, Aut Mori_." It was just the note needed to make the Randall players turn themselves into football fiends, and they ripped the Fairview line apart, and had the ball over in another minute. "Now, kick the goal, and tie the score!" urged Bean, but it was not to be. The ball hit the post, and bounced back, and Fairview had still one point the better. There was hard playing the rest of the half, but neither side scored. "Well, what do you think about it?" asked Kindlings, of the coach, during the rest period. "I'm afraid to say," was the answer. "We'll have to do better, or----" "Lose," spoke the captain, grimly. The story of the second half of the game is shameful history to Randall. It started off fairly well, but there was fumbling, and even the presence of the big Californian, who replaced the Snail, could not avert the defeat that was in store. Try as Randall did, she could not make the necessary gains, and the players hurled themselves against the stone wall defense of Fairview. On the other hand, the Fairview players found several holes in their opponents' line, through which they made substantial advances with the ball. "Hold 'em! Hold 'em!" begged Kindlings, desperately, the fear of defeat staring him in the face. His men worked like the ancient trojans, and Tom Parsons covered himself with glory twice; once when he made a sensational tackle, and saved a touchdown that seemed imminent, and again when he made a brilliant run of sixty yards, and would have scored, but for an unfortunate slip that enabled George Curtis, the Fairview left end, to nab him. That was as near as Randall came to scoring in the second half, while Fairview made three more touchdowns, though only one resulted in a goal. The score stood twenty-two to five against Randall when she was awarded the ball for interference and offside play on the part of her eager rival, who wanted to roll up a bigger total. There was only a little time left to play, and Kindlings desperately called upon his men in every way he knew how to rally and score again. There were desperate--aye, even tear-stained faces--among the Randall players as they lined up. Hearts were beating as though they would burst. Lungs were panting, and tired muscles fairly begged for relief. There came a great heave as the big Californian tore a hole in the Fairview line to let Pete Backus through, but Pete was almost downed in his tracks, and ere the line could be formed again, the whistle blew, and the game was over. For a moment the struggling players could scarcely realize it, and then, as the truth broke over the Randall lads, and they heard the shouting of the great crowd--as they knew the score--twenty-two to five--they filed silently from the gridiron. It is not writing of anything disgraceful against old Randall when I say that more than one player shed tears--bitter tears. And they were not assuaged by the hearty cheer which Fairview gave her rival. "Now--boys, three--three cheers for Fairview!" called Kindlings brokenly, in return, and his voice was not the only one that faltered when the tiger was given. Silently the Randall crowd left the grandstands, while the victorious cohorts of Fairview were singing their songs. "Boys!" cried Bean Perkins, eagerly, "don't let our fellows go off that way. Give 'em the 'Conquer or Die' song, but--sing it softly!" And then, out over the big field, welled the beautiful strains of the Latin hymn. The effect was wonderful, for the boys were good singers. The great crowd halted and listened, as the last chords died softly away. Then came a great cheer--a cheer from friend and opponent alike--a cheer for defeated Randall--for Randall that had not conquered, but had been conquered. Then the players filed to their dressing rooms. CHAPTER XXV BITTER DAYS "Shall we look up the girls?" asked Phil softly, as he clasped his arm in that of Tom's, and limped with him from the rooms under the grandstand. "They'll want to see us." "But I don't want to see them!" exclaimed the end, half fiercely. "I don't want to see anybody. I want to go off in the dark somewhere, and----" He stopped, for he felt a raging spirit within him that he knew was not good. "It's tough, old man," spoke Phil, softly, "but maybe it will be best for old Randall in the end." "Best nothing! It never would have happened if we'd had you and Sid on the team." "Oh, yes, it might." But Tom would not have it so, and clung to the dispute until someone started an argument about the referee's ruling on a certain point, and then the subject was quickly changed. "Better come over and see the girls," urged Phil again, as he walked along on his crutch. "Sid will want to know what they said, and you know he can't get out for a couple of days." "Oh, all right," Tom almost snapped. "They won't rub it in--they'll know how we feel," went on the quarter-back. And to the credit of Ruth, Madge and Mabel, be it said that though they were Fairview girls, and their college had downed Randall, which had not happened in a blue moon before, they never so much as "looked" the triumph they must have felt. They knew the bitterness of defeat, and--well, they were wise little damsels. They talked of anything but football, though the reference to Phil's injury and to Sid's illness naturally verged on it. Then they got on safer ground, and, as Tom walked along with Ruth, while Phil had Madge Tyler on one side and Mabel Harrison on the other, the bitterness, in a measure, passed from them. "We'll do up Boxer Hall twice as bad!" predicted Tom. "That's right," agreed Phil. "I'll play then, and----" "Don't boast!" called his sister, with a laugh. The girls sent messages of condolence to Sid. Tom and Phil hurried to tell their chum all about it. Sid had improved enough to enable him to be moved to their room, and there, with him in bed, the game was played all over again. "It wasn't the poor playing of any one man, or any two or three men," declared Tom. "It was the fault of the whole team. We're crippled, that's what we are, and we've got to get in shape for the rest of the season, or----" The possibility was not to be mentioned. "I don't suppose anything like this would happen again in years, that we'd lose so many players," spoke Phil. "We can't always play in luck." "Kindlings feels it pretty fierce," said Tom. "He couldn't talk when he came off the field." "Yes, it's got him bad," agreed Phil. "Well, we'll have to do better, that's all. I think Simpson is booked for good on the 'varsity, after the dandy game he put up in the second half." "Yes," came from Tom. "The Snail means all right, but he's too slow. Frank will help the team a whole lot." "Tell me about his playing," urged Sid, and they gave it to him, point by point. There were bitter days for Randall following the Fairview game, and for a time it seemed that the defeat would work havoc with the team. But Mr. Lighton was a wise coach, and he only laughed at the gloomy predictions. "Oh, we'll come into our own, soon," he declared. "Get right into practice, and keep it up." Phil was able to be in his old place a couple of days later, and Sid was soon off the sick list, so that the team was once more in shape. Simpson was voted a "find," and showed up well at guard. Bascome also improved under the influence of the presence of the big Californian. "Well, I think we're gradually getting into shape again, captain," remarked the coach to Kindlings one day, after some hard practice, during which the scrub had been "pushed all over the field, and had its nose rubbed in the dirt," as Holly Cross picturesquely expressed it. "Yes," agreed Dan Woodhouse. "We miss Bricktop and Ed Kerr, but what can't be cured must be put up in pickles, as the old woman said when she kissed the broom." "Cow, you mean," corrected the coach. "I make my own proverbs," replied Kindlings, with a laugh. "They keep better. But, seriously, I think we will shape up pretty well for the Boxer game. We've got a couple of contests in between, one with the Waram Prep, and the other with Duncan College. We will take both of those, and that will make the boys feel better." "Yes, a little victory, now and then----" "Makes good dressing on your salad," finished Dan, with a laugh. Though football took up much of the time of our heroes, with Phil and Sid again on the active list, they had not forgotten their quest after their beloved chair, nor had they given up their plan of discovering who took the clock. But, as the days passed, our friends were no nearer a solution than they had been in the past. They kept watch on Bascome and Lenton, but nothing developed, and they did not like to make any inquiries. The bitterness of the Fairview defeat still lingered like a bad taste, in the mouth of the Randall gridiron knights, but it was being overshadowed by the game which would soon be played with Boxer Hall. This season they would clash but once with those doughty warriors, and according to the games that had thus far been played in the Tonoka Lake League, the championship was practically a tie between Randall and Boxer Hall. "If we win all our other games, and we're likely to do that," said Kindlings, "all we need to do is to wallop Boxer Hall, and the championship is ours." "Yes, that's all," remarked Dutch Housenlager. "It's easily said, but not so easy to do." "Get out, you old catamaran!" cried Holly Cross. It was one morning at chapel, following the annual reunion of the "Old Grads" of Randall, that President Churchill made an announcement that caused quite a sensation. "I have bad news to announce," he said, as he stood on the platform after the devotional exercises. "There has been a conference between our lawyers and those representing the claimants to our land. They demand twenty thousand dollars in settlement." There was a gasp of surprise that went around the chapel like a wave of hysteria among a lot of girls. "Twenty thousand dollars!" whispered Tom Parsons. "Randall can never pay it," remarked Sid, who sat next to him. Dr. Churchill waited for the murmurs to cease. "I need hardly add," he continued, "that it is out of the question for us to pay this sum. Yet, if we do not, we may lose all that we hold dear," and the president seemed much affected. "However, we have not given up the fight, and there may yet be a loophole of escape. You may now go to your classes." CHAPTER XXVI MOSES IN PHYSICS "Say, fellows, have you heard the news?" burst out Dutch Housenlager one morning after chapel, about a week following the announcement about the twenty thousand dollars being demanded. "News? What news?" inquired Holly Cross. "Has the lawsuit been called off?" asked Tom. "Or has Bricktop Molloy decided to come back to play on the eleven?" demanded Sid. "Neither one, but we're in for no end of a lark." "Oh, yes. If there's anything funny in the wind, you can depend on Dutch to ferret it out," spoke Phil. "Well, what is it now, you old Hollander?" "Prof. Newton is down with the pip, or something, and can't take his chemistry or physics classes to-day. They're shy one other teacher, so Prexy is going to handle the physics recitation. What a cinch it'll be! I'm not up in mine, but Moses is sure to ask us where the lesson is. We won't do a thing but steer him back to one we had a week ago. Then I'll be safe." "You can, if you like," spoke Tom, "but I'm not going to. I've got mine, and it's a shame to put one over Moses." "Aw, what's the harm?" demanded Dutch. "It will amount to the same thing in the end. Now don't go to spoiling my fun. I'm not up, I tell you, and I don't want to get any more crosses than I have. My record won't stand it." "Then you can do the funny work," declared Phil. "If he asks any of us----" "I'll sing out about a back lesson," interrupted Dutch. "Then I'll be safe. Anyhow, Moses will be sure to ask about three questions, and they will remind him of something about Sanskrit or modern Chinese, and he'll swing into a talk about what the ancient Babylonians did in war time. Then you fellows will call me blessed, for you won't have any physics to prepare to-morrow, when Prof. Newton will likely be back." "Have it your own way," spoke Holly Cross. As usual when there occurred a change in the routine of lectures or classes there was more or less of a spirit of unrest or mischief among the students. Those in the natural science division filed into the room where Professor Newton usually held sway, and it was quickly whispered about that "Moses" would appear to hear them. The venerable president entered with his usual book under his arm, for he studied early and late--harder than the "greasiest dig that ever kept the incandescent going," to quote Holly Cross. "Ah, young gentlemen," began Dr. Churchill, blandly, "I presume you are surprised to see me, but your instructor is ill, and I will endeavor to take his place. You are--er--you are in advanced science, are you not? I believe I have the right class," and the good doctor, somewhat puzzled, consulted a memorandum slip in his hand. "Yes, this is the class," he went on, with an air of relief. "Now, to-day's lesson was to be on--er--I'm afraid I have forgotten. Professor Newton told me, but it has slipped my mind." It was exactly what Dutch Housenlager had counted on, and he was ready to take advantage of it. "But of course," continued the president, with a smile, "you students will know where it is." He opened the physics book, and leafed it over, as though the lesson would be disclosed to him in some supernatural way. All eyes turned to Dutch, for his impending game had become whispered about. "I think it's page three hundred forty-seven, Dr. Churchill," said Dutch, mentioning a lesson about a week old. "Ah, yes," went on the president. "I see. It has to do with heat and cold, sudden changes of temperature and the effects produced by each. Very interesting, very. I trust you are all prepared?" "If we aren't, it's funny," murmured Dutch, for they had recited on it several times in review. "Speaking of the changes produced by sudden changes of temperature, can you give me a common example?" asked the president, his eyes roving about the room. Dutch seemed so eager to recite, and have it done with, that his agitation could not but be noticed. "You may answer, Mr. Housenlager," finished Dr. Churchill. "Ice and snow," came the ready reply. Dutch breathed easy again. He thought he was done for the day. "Very true," continued Dr. Churchill easily, "but that is a little _too_ common. I referred to the Prince Rupert drops. I dare say you all know what they are. Mr. Housenlager, you will kindly explain to the class how they are made, the effect they produce, and what principle they illustrate." The doctor sat down, and all eyes were once more turned toward Dutch. Nearly every lad in the class could have given some sort of answer, for they had seen the curious glass drops broken by their regular teacher. But, as it happened, Dutch had been absent when that subject came up, and, as he made it a practice never to inquire what went on in the lecture room when he was not present, he was wholly at sea regarding the drops. He had a hazy idea regarding them, however, and resolved to hazard a recitation. It was better than complete failure. As "every schoolboy" (to quote a well known authority) knows what the Prince Rupert drops are, I will only state that they are globules of glass, pear shaped, with a long thin "tail" of the same brittle material. They are formed by dropping molten glass into water. The outside cools quickly, a long tail is formed, and there results an unequal strain on the glass, because the outside part has cooled faster than the inside. The instant a small part of the "tail" is broken off, the entire drop crumbles to glass-dust, the pressure once more being equalized. It was this object and phenomenon that Dutch was called on to recite about. He rose in his seat, and began with an air of confidence that he did not feel: "The Rupert drops illustrate the power of hot water or steam. They are globules of glass, filled with water, and, when they are heated, they burst to pieces, showing the expansive force of heat." The class wanted to roar. Dr. Churchill raised his eyebrows in surprise. Dutch had described another glass object used in the class room, and his explanation of that had been correct, but it was as different from a Prince Rupert drop as a ham sandwich is from chicken. "Ah--um," mused the president, putting on his glasses, and gazing at Dutch through them. "Very interesting, Mr. Housenlager--very--but--hardly what I asked you." "I--er I--er--I'm afraid I'm not prepared, sir," stammered the fun-loving youth, and the smiles went round the class. "Too bad--don't you want to try again?" asked the president. Dutch thought, and thought hard, but the more he tried to use his brain, the more foreign Prince Rupert seemed to him. He gave it up. "Failure," murmured Dr. Churchill, as he marked it down against Dutch. "You may try, Parsons." Tom gave the right answer. Dutch gave a gasp of surprise, and it was noticed that he paid very close attention to the rest of the lesson. But it did not go much farther, for, as Dutch had predicted, the president soon got on a strain that interested him, and, ignoring the text book, which was opened at the wrong page, he swept into a talk on something about as far from physics as is bookkeeping. But the "goose of Dutch had been done to a lovely brown," once more quoting Holly Cross. His trick had turned against him, for, had he given the proper page, or had he allowed anyone else to do so, the chances are that he would not have been called on. He made himself conspicuous, and so fell before the good doctor. "Well, Dutch," remarked Holly, as they filed from the room, "don't you want to try it on again in our Latin class?" "Cut it out!" advised Dutch gruffly, as he marched on. "I know when I've had enough." CHAPTER XXVII THE DANCE CARD "You look all right, Sid; you'll pass!" "Hey! What's that?" and Sid Henderson swung around from the mirror over his bureau, with a somewhat guilty flush on his face. "I said you'd do," repeated Tom, with a mischievous grin, as he stood in the doorway of the room, having paused in the act of entering. "What were you doing, putting on a beauty mark, or looking to see if you needed a shave?" "I was trying to get my tie straight," growled Sid, as he fastened his low cut vest, for he was in his evening clothes. "Get out, you musty old misogynist!" exploded Phil, following Tom into the room. "We know what you were doing, all right. You wanted to see if you were good-looking enough, so that you could dance with Mabel all the evening." Sid looked around for something to throw at his tormenting roommates, but nothing was handy. Besides, he might crack the stiff bosom of his shirt, the snowy expanse of which reflected back the glow of the incandescent light. "If you fellows are going to the racket, it's about time you togged up," went on Sid, as he carefully took a seat in a chair. He did not sink luxuriously onto the sofa this time, for fear of "mussing himself up," as Holly Cross would have said. "Oh, we'll be ready in jig time!" cried Phil, throwing his coat on one chair, his vest on another, and, almost before the garments had landed in "artistic confusion," he was changing his shoes. "We went to a football meeting," explained Tom, as he shed his ordinary raiment and proceeded to "tog up." "Anything doing?" asked Sid, as he manicured his nails. "Oh, for the love of tripe! Look at him!" cried Phil, with his head half way through a clean shirt. "Say, you'd think he was going to a coming-out party, instead of to a Fairview frat. dance. Oh, Tom, is my back hair on straight?" and Phil, who had uttered the last in a shrill falsetto voice, tried to look at the after-portion of his shock of football hair. "Say, when you fellows know how to act like gentlemen instead of like a bunch of rough-necks, I'll talk to you," spoke Sid, with dignity. "I asked you a question, Tom." "Oh, yes, about the football meeting," went on the end. "Well, you needn't get on your ear just because we jollied you a little. Stand the gaff like a man. No, there wasn't much doing. We talked over some new plays. Incidentally we tried to explain the slump Randall seems to be up against, but we couldn't. Where were you?" "Don't ask him. He was up here fussing worse than a girl," broke in Phil. "Hannibal's henpecked hyperbolas! But do you remember the time, Tom, when we couldn't get Sid to look at a girl, much less to take one to a dance? Now he feels hurt if he doesn't do the Cubanola Glide with one at least once a week. Vanity, thy name is Sid Henderson!" "Oh, cheese it, for cats' sake!" begged Sid, in despair. Then Phil, who seemed to take delight in "rigging" his chum, glanced at the battered old alarm clock, which was again on duty. "Cæsar's grandmother!" cried the quarter-back. "I'll be late," and forthwith he began to make motions "like a fellow dressing in a hurry," as he said afterward, and Sid was left in peace to complete his immaculate attire, while Tom, too, seeing the need of haste, left off "badgering" Sid. It was the occasion of one of the several dances that the girls of Fairview Institute had arranged, and to which they were allowed to ask their friends. Of course, Miss Philock, the preceptress, was chief chaperone, and there were other elderly teachers who took part. Tom, Phil and Sid, together with a number of other students from Randall, had been invited, and this was the evening when "event number six, in the free-for-all-catch-as-catch-can style of dancing would be pulled off," as Holly Cross remarked, when he was preparing for it. It was about a week after Dr. Churchill had so taken the wind out of the sails of Dutch Housenlager in the physics class, and in the meanwhile life at the college had gone on much as usual. The affair took place in the Fairview gymnasium, which was appropriately decorated for the purpose. Tom and his three chums--for Frank Simpson went with them--had called for Miss Tyler and her friends, Ruth and Mabel. Frank was to escort a new girl, Miss Helen Warden, to the dance. "You're a little late," chided Ruth, as she greeted her brother and the others. "It was Sid's fault," asserted Phil, with a wink at Tom. "He _would_ insist on changing his togs at the last minute." "And the hairdresser disappointed him, and he had to curl it himself," put in Tom. "You--you----" spluttered Sid, and then he choked back his justifiable wrath. "Don't mind them," sympathized Mabel Harrison. "We know some secrets as well as they, Sid." "Oh, I'll get back at 'em some time," predicted the stocky half-back. There was quite a throng at the dance when our friends arrived, and shortly after the girls came from the dressing rooms, the orchestra began a dreamy waltz. The lads led out their partners, and the gymnasium presented a brilliant and animated scene. "Did you see him?" called Tom to Phil, as the two young men and their pretty partners swung near each other in the middle of the big waxed floor. "Who?" asked Phil, slowing up. "Langridge," was the reply, and then they were too far apart for more conversation. "Oh, dear, did _he_ come?" asked Ruth of Tom, and she seemed distressed. "I do hope he and Phil----" "No danger," interrupted Tom. "We'll keep clear of him. What girl has he?" "I can't imagine. I'll look when I see him dancing with her." Tom pointed out his former enemy, as he swung his partner around again, and Ruth exclaimed: "Oh, she's that new girl! Miss Rossmore is her name. I guess she doesn't know Mr. Langridge--very well." "Probably not," agreed Tom, and then the dance came to an end in a crash of melody. There was applause for an encore, and once more the strains were taken up, and the youths and maidens were treading the misty mazes of the waltz. The custom prevailed at these fraternal society affairs of the lads taking their partners' dance programmes and filling the cards for them. This was usually done in advance, and insured a girl plenty of dancers with partners of whom her escort approved. For he would only put down, or allow their owners to, the names of his own friends. It was a sort of "clearing-house" of dances, and the lads lobbied among themselves, and "split" numbers with each other at their own sweet will, in order to "fill in." "I've got to get one more partner for you," remarked Tom, when the second half of the waltz had come to an end. "I'll be back in a moment," and leading Ruth over to where her friends were seated, Tom scurried off toward some of his chums, in order to impress one of them into service for his fair partner. There was one vacant waltz on her card, and Tom himself had been booked for that number with Miss Tyler. "I want one for Miss Clinton," called the pitcher, as he slid into the group of his chums. "Put me down!" exclaimed Jerry Jackson eagerly. "She's one of the best waltzers here. Put me down, Tom." "All right," and Tom reached in his pocket for the card. It was not there, and a puzzled look came over his face. "Jove, I must have lost it!" he exclaimed blankly, as he looked back over the route he had taken. As he did so he saw Garvey Gerhart approaching, holding out one of the dance orders. "I think you dropped this," murmured the crony of Langridge. "I just picked it up." "Thanks--very much," exclaimed Tom, in relief, and taking the card, he had the Jersey twin scribble his name on the only vacant line. "I put our friend Jerry down for you," he explained to Ruth, as he joined her. "Thanks," she murmured. "Oh, there's that lovely two-step. I can't dance that enough!" and her little foot tapped the floor impatiently. Tom led her out as the music welled forth. All too soon it was nearing the end of the little affair, for, though it was not late, the rules of Fairview forbade any extended festivities. Tom, who had been dancing with Miss Harrison, was walking over to claim Ruth for the next number, when he saw Langridge stepping toward her. "Confound him!" thought Tom, an angry flush mounting to his face, "is he going to speak to her again?" Such was evidently the intention of the former Randall bully. He was smiling at Phil's sister, who at first did not notice him. Langridge and Tom reached her at about the same time, and what was our hero's surprise to hear his enemy say: "I believe this is our dance, Miss Clinton?" She turned in astonishment, a wave of color surging into her fair face. "Our dance--yours----" she stammered. "I have your name down on my card," went on Langridge calmly, "and I believe if you will look at yours that you will find mine on it." Hastily Ruth caught up her dance order, which dangled from her fan. As she scanned the names, the color of her face deepened. "Why--why--it--it _is_ here," she murmured. "I did not know--Tom, did you----" "Most certainly _not_!" declared Tom, as emphatically as he could without attracting too much attention. "I think you are mistaken, Mr. Langridge," he added stiffly. "I booked no dance for Miss Clinton with you." "Perhaps you had better look at the card," replied the bully, sneeringly. Tom gave it a hasty glance. There was no doubt of it. There, in bold writing, on a line where he was sure he had scribbled his own name, was that of Langridge. It was the last dance but two, and Tom had the last one. He was also sure he had this one, and yet the name of his enemy---- "There must be some mistake," he said, in confusion, for sometimes mistakes would occur in the indiscriminate trading of cards among friends. "But I'm sure I never gave you that card to fill out, Mr. Langridge." The bully shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know that you figure in this at all," he said, with a sneering air. "I have this dance with Miss Clinton. May I have the honor?" and he bowed gracefully to the confused girl, and held out his arm. "I--I don't----" she began, in distress. "This is not your dance," declared Tom, glaring at Langridge, reaching out his hand toward his own partner. The rivals faced each other. Rivals again, though on a different field than the baseball diamond. An angry light gleamed in Tom's eyes--on the face of Langridge there was a supercilious sneer. They stood thus, at one side of the ballroom floor. The music was playing softly, and some were dancing, but the impending scene between Tom and Langridge was attracting attention. Ruth realized it, and was very much distressed. Tom was determined not to give way, but he realized that to make further claim against Langridge would have the effect of causing a most unpleasant affair. He felt that there was something wrong somewhere. It was Frank Simpson who saved the day. The big Californian had seen at a distance what took place, and had guessed what was going on. Also he had overheard a little of the conversation, and he was able to fill in the rest. He sauntered slowly up to the trio, and, with an air of good fellowship, which he assumed for the occasion, he clapped Langridge lightly on the back. "Hello, old man!" he exclaimed. "We'll meet soon on the gridiron, I hope." "Yes," answered Langridge stiffly, turning aside. "Miss Clinton, will you----" He paused suggestively. "No!" whispered Tom. "Your name never got on her card right." "Take care!" almost hissed Langridge. "No, it is you who must take care!" broke in Simpson, leaning forward as if he was talking on ordinary topics to the three. The crowd saw, and taking the very view of the little gathering that the big Californian wished them to, they turned aside. "It is _you_ who must take care, Mr. Langridge," went on Frank. "I saw you write your name on Miss Clinton's card." "What!" The bully's eyes blazed. "Easy now," cautioned Simpson, in calm tones. "Tom, you dropped your partner's card a while ago, didn't you?" "Yes!" The end was beginning to understand now. "I happened to be standing behind a pillar," went on Frank, "when I saw Langridge pick it up. I saw him erase a name and substitute another, but I thought nothing of it at the time, as lots of the fellows had girls' cards, filling them out. Then I saw Mr. Langridge hand the dance order to a friend of his, who started toward you with it, Tom, just as you discovered your loss." "Gerhart--he handed it to me!" gasped Tom. "I see now! Langridge, you----" "He tried to play a sneaking trick, and was caught at it!" broke in Simpson. "Now, Mr. Langridge, I'd advise you to leave this dance!" and the voice of the big Californian grew stern as he looked full into the eyes of Langridge. Without a word, but with a glance of hate at Tom, the bully swung around and crossed the room, threading his way amid the dancers. "Thanks, old man!" exclaimed Tom, fervently, to Frank. "You save us--saved Miss Clinton--an unpleasant time." "Indeed you did," spoke Ruth, holding out her little hand. "I don't know how I can repay you. I did not look at my card when Tom handed it back to me, but when I saw--saw that name there, I--I knew I had never let him put it down." "Here!" exclaimed Tom, taking the order. He scratched out the offending name. "It's gone now," he added, with a laugh. "I am in your debt, Mr. Simpson," went on Ruth. "Then repay me sometime by saving a dance for me," spoke the lad from the Golden West, as he bowed and moved away. "I think this is our dance--_now_!" spoke Tom, with a smile. "Oh--Tom!" exclaimed the girl, "I--I think I'd rather sit it out." CHAPTER XXVIII THE LEGAL BATTLE Langridge left the gymnasium immediately after the unpleasant scene, and Gerhart soon followed. In a manner, the evening had been partly spoiled for Ruth, but her girl chums gathered around her, and succeeded in bringing back a smile to her face. She and Tom "sat out" the dance over which there had been a dispute, and in a palm bower they talked of many things. Miss Clinton begged off from her partner in next to the last dance, but she did the closing number with Tom, who wished that the music would never cease. But the dance finally came to an end with a crash of melody, and though the youths and maidens applauded vigorously, the tired musicians put away their instruments and departed. "Well, it's over," spoke Tom, regretfully, as he escorted his fair companion toward the dressing room. "Yes, but it was--glorious while it lasted!" she exclaimed, with brightly sparkling eyes. She was herself again. "When is the next one?" he asked, eagerly. "Oh, you greedy boy!" she cried. "I'll let you know, however. We can't have them too often. The ogress objected to this one, as it was." "Meaning Miss Philock?" asked Tom. "No one else. I'll be out soon, and then we'll go home. There are Madge and Mabel." Tom and his friends went to have a final cup of coffee, before starting off with the girls, and while they were drinking the beverage, Frank Simpson remarked: "Well, we ought to know this week whether we're going to have a Randall College any more or not." "How so?" asked Phil. "The real legal battle opens in court to-morrow. I heard Dr. Churchill telling Mr. Zane about it this afternoon. It seems there is a certain point to be argued before they get at the main issue, and whichever side wins this point will have the advantage, and practically get the case." "What sort of a point is it?" asked Tom, who had a little leaning toward the law. "Blessed if I know?" replied the Californian. "It was too deep for me, though I heard Moses mention it. There was something about a writ of _certiorari_ or _lis pendis_ or an injunction, or something like that." "Maybe the college authorities are going to ask for an injunction to prevent Langridge and that crowd from interfering until the football season is over," suggested Holly Cross, hopefully. "What? Do you imagine that all Moses and the others have to think of is football?" demanded Phil. "I tell you, fellows, this is a serious matter. I'd hate to see old Randall done away with." "So would we all," declared Kindlings. "But maybe we'll win in court, just as----" "As we didn't against Fairview, but as we're going to do against Boxer Hall!" interrupted Tom, with energy, and then he saw Ruth beckoning to him, as she stood with her chums, most bewitchingly arrayed in a fur coat. "Come on!" called Tom to his friends, and soon they were escorting the girls home. There was some expectation when the students at Randall assembled in chapel the next morning, and it was borne out by an announcement Dr. Churchill made. "Perhaps some of you have heard of the further rumors going about concerning our difficulties," he said, gravely. "I beg of you to pay no attention to them. The case is far from settled, though within two days it may progress much toward that end, either for us--or against us. I now wish to state," he went on, after a pause, "that the faculty as well as the directors have been summoned to court to-morrow and the following day, so that Randall will be without a teaching force. You young gentlemen will be given two holidays from your lectures and studies, but I request that none of you leave the vicinity of the college in that time. Mr. Zane will be in charge. I believe that is all," and the president bowed to the students. "Wow! Think of it! Two days off!" whispered Dutch. "You'll practice football as you never did before," declared Kindlings with energy. "It isn't going to be all cakes and ginger ale for you, Dutch, my lad!" There was much jubilation among the students at the prospect of an unexpected vacation, and even that day, preceding the two days' holiday, the spirit of unrest was manifested, so that lectures suffered. Early the next morning, President Churchill and the entire faculty took the train for the county seat, where the legal battle would be fought in the courthouse. The president and the instructors were needed to give evidence as to how long Randall had been in undisturbed possession of the land, as the college lawyers hoped thus to prove their right to it, even without the lost quit-claim deed. "Now, young gentlemen," began Proctor Zane, when the authorities had departed, "I shall expect implicit obedience from all of you in this emergency. I want no skylarking or horseplay," and as he said that he looked directly at Dutch Housenlager. "Oh, no, we won't do a thing," promised the fun-loving lad. "Will we, Holly?" "Speak for yourself. I'm going to practice kicking," declared the big centre, as he walked over toward the gridiron with a ball under his arm, followed by a number of the eleven. Kindlings and the coach took advantage of the free time to insist on thorough practice, and an impromptu game was arranged with a nearby preparatory school for the following day, while for the present the 'varsity would have the scrub as opponents. There was a noticeable improvement on the part of the regular eleven, and Captain Woodhouse felt much encouraged. "I say, fellows," remarked Dutch Housenlager, as he strolled into the room of our four chums that night, and found Frank Simpson there, "I've got a great idea." "What is it, to set the college on fire, transport it bodily to some other location, or some other cute and infantile bit of cutting-up like that?" asked Tom. "Neither, you old catamaran! But Zane has his hands full with the freshman class. Particular hob has broken loose over in their dormitory, and 'Zany' is at his wits' end. Now, what's the matter with some of us getting into his room, and upsetting it a bit, to pay him back for what he's made us suffer? How's that for a joke?" "Too kiddish," declared Phil. "If you can't think up anything more lively you'd better go to bed, or join the freshies. Come again, Dutch." "Say, it's a wonder you fellows wouldn't think up something lively yourselves, once in a while," protested the big lad. "You want me to do it all, and then you blame me if it doesn't come out right. Name something yourself, Phil Clinton," challenged Dutch. "Oh, get out, we're going to have a game of chess," declared Sid. "Keep quiet." "Well, if you fellows don't want to have a good time, I'm going to," declared Dutch, with an injured air. "I'll find someone to do the trick with me, and then you'll wish you'd come along." "Fare thee well," mockingly called Tom, after the departing student. Dutch managed to get Holly Cross and the two Jersey twins into his scheme, and the four lads, after ascertaining that the proctor was busily engaged trying to bring order out of chaos in the freshmen ranks, made for Mr. Zane's room. "We'll make him think a cyclone has broken loose," declared Dutch, gleefully. "It will be rich." Now Mr. Zane was the personification of neatness. His room was as well arranged as the stateroom of the captain on an ocean liner. There was a place for everything, and everything was always in its place. But the mischief-making students had not been inside more than three minutes, before the apartment did indeed look as though a looting burglar had been at work. Drawers of bureaus were pulled out, books were scattered all about, the chairs were piled up on the tables, a couch was turned over, and some of the incandescent light bulbs removed. "Now let's turn every picture with the face to the wall," proposed Dutch, with a chuckle. "Great!" declared Joe Jackson. "Immense!" echoed his brother. They were in the act of turning the etchings and engravings about face, when there came a sudden knock at the door. If thunder had sounded in the room the lads could not have been more surprised. They looked at each other in consternation. The knock was repeated. "Co--come in," stammered Holly. Slowly the portal was pushed open, and, there, standing in the hall, was Professor Emerson Tines, with a small valise in his hand. At the sight of the confusion that reigned in the proctor's well-ordered apartment a look of amazement spread itself over the face of the Latin instructor. His jaw fell, and the valise did likewise. Then he snapped his teeth together, there came a glinting light into his eyes, and with a frosty smile he spoke. "Good evening, young gentlemen," he said, as he stepped into the room. "Caught!" murmured Dutch, as he let a picture swing back into place. "Caught!" CHAPTER XXIX ONE POINT LOST For a moment there was silence--portentous, momentous silence, while "Pitchfork" gazed at the astonished lads, and as they returned his stare. "Well," remarked the Latin professor, as he advanced farther into the room, and looked about at the confusion on every side, "I see that Mr. Zane is not here." "N--no--no, sir," answered Dutch, for Mr. Tines was looking directly at him, and seemed to expect him to reply. "He--he has gone out." "Which is evidently the reason _you_ are here, committing these acts of vandalism!" said the professor, bitterly. "I am ashamed of you! To think that Dr. Churchill, myself and the other teachers could not go away for two days without you students behaving yourselves like this, it is disgraceful, shameful!" He spoke as though the whole responsibility of the college rested upon himself and the venerable president, whereas it was common knowledge that the plan was being considered of dropping Mr. Tines and getting a more popular professor, as well as a proctor who was more in sympathy with the boys. "We--we only wanted to have some--some fun," went on Dutch, who, having acted as leader in the prank, thought it was his duty to defend his friends. "Fun!" burst out Mr. Tines. "Do you call this disgraceful vandalism _fun_?" "We--we meant it as such," went on Dutch. Professor Tines only sniffed. Probably he did not know what else to do. "You young gentlemen--I had almost said ruffians," he finally remarked, "you will remain here until I return. Perhaps you may be able to tell me where Mr. Zane is." "I--I think he is in the freshmen dormitory," replied Holly Cross, who had been puzzling his brain trying to think of a reason for the unexpected return of Mr. Tines. "Ah, thank you. I will find him, and return here. _You_ will kindly remain. I wish him to see his room--_as it is_." Professor Tines turned about stiffly, and left. The four lads gathered together in the centre of the apartment, a miserable and forlorn quartette. "Who'd have thought he'd show up?" demanded Dutch, as if it was against the rules for such a thing to be done. "I didn't," declared Jerry. "Me either," echoed his twin brother. "Well, he caught us with the goods, all right," said Holly. "I--I wonder what he'll do--he and Zany?" ventured Dutch. "Shall we stay?" "Got to," was Holly's opinion, and indeed the request of the professor was equivalent to a command--under the circumstances. They waited there in misery until the Latin instructor and Mr. Zane came. The gasp of astonishment and dismay that the proctor gave as he saw his room was evidence enough of the manner in which he viewed it. "This is what I found them at when I returned--most unexpectedly," said Mr. Tines, with a wave of his hand toward the shrinking youths. "If I were in your place, Mr. Zane, I would make them restore everything to rights, and then inflict such punishment as would cover the case. Disbarment from athletics would be none too severe, as I see that all these are members of the football team." There was a gasp of dismay from the four, they had not bargained for that. "I came back unexpectedly," went on the professor. "Dr. Churchill had forgotten some papers to be used in the lawsuit, and I volunteered to return for them. Getting here unexpectedly, I looked for you, Mr. Zane. I knocked at your door. I was bidden to enter. This--this--" and the professor made a dramatic gesture, "this is what I beheld," and he waved his two hands hopelessly at the confusion. As yet the proctor had said nothing. He looked at his dismantled room as though he could not comprehend it. Never--never had he beheld it in this way before, not even when he moved from one apartment to another, nor when a section of the building in which he had his study was rebuilt. "I was in the freshman dormitory--there was a little--ahem--a little difficulty there," and the proctor hesitated. "I had no idea----" "If I were you I would make them put everything exactly as they found it," interrupted Mr. Tines, severely. "I--er--I--that is--I think I would prefer to straighten matters out myself," said Mr. Zane hesitatingly. It was as though he was in a daze. "You--you young gentlemen may go to your rooms," he added, softly. "What!" cried Professor Emerson Tines. "Aren't you going to----" Then he realized that he was infringing on the prerogatives of the proctor, and he kept still. "You may go," said Mr. Zane, softly, and Dutch and his mates went. It was not long before the news buzzed in every dormitory of the college. "Served Dutch right," declared Tom. "He ought to have known better." "Yes, but if Zane and Pitchfork take him and Holly and the twins off the team," suggested Phil, "then we _will_ be in the soup, for further orders." It was a direful thought, and no one liked to dwell on it. There was a lot of talk, and much speculation as to how "Pitchfork" had managed to get back unobserved. There were also guesses as to what would be done with the culprits. Then something new developed. It concerned the excitement in the freshman ranks. There had been considerable horseplay, it was said, and Mr. Zane had indignantly ordered it stopped. To his surprise, the students not only obeyed him, but his pardon was formally asked in the name of the class, and he was given a ringing round of cheers. "Oh, _that's_ the noise we heard," commented Tom. "I thought they were raising the roof." Whether it was the unexpected compliment paid to him, or a feeling of commiseration for the four culprits was not made known, but, at any rate, Proctor Zane inflicted absolutely no punishment on Dutch and his mates. He did not even refer to the subject again, though Professor Tines was seen in excited conversation with him. Perhaps the trouble in which Randall was involved, and a feeling that he was not as well liked as he might be, influenced Mr. Zane. So Dutch and his three chums breathed easier, and the football team blessed its lucky stars that it was to lose no more men. Professor Tines went back to court early the next morning, taking with him the documents forgotten by the president. He gave out no news of the court proceedings, which indeed had not been opened as yet. But word of them was received on the second day of the absence of the faculty. It was when the Randall 'varsity was returning from the game with the preparatory school, having won by an unexpectedly big margin. The players were feeling jubilant, and were telling each other what they would do to Boxer Hall. "Hello, there's Prexy!" exclaimed Tom, as he saw the venerable president strolling over the campus toward his residence. "Let's ask him what happened in court," suggested Phil. "He won't mind, for he knows we're anxious." The little squad of players surged up around Dr. Churchill. "Can you tell us--that is--is Randall safe?" stammered Phil, as he looked up into the President's face, his mates anxiously surrounding him. "I regret to say that we have been defeated in the first--ah--scrimmage, I believe you football players call it," said the doctor, a bit sadly. "We have lost the first point in the main legal battle." CHAPTER XXX AN UNEXPECTED CLEW Four lads sat in various ungraceful if easy attitudes in the room of our heroes one evening. Four--for Frank Simpson was now an accredited member in full and regular standing of the "Big Four," as they were coming to be called. Frank had moved his belongings into the apartment of the three chums, who were now four, for he found their comradeship congenial, and they liked him immensely. It was a week after the announcement by Dr. Churchill of the setback the college had received in the opening of the legal battle. Football practice had, naturally, gone on as usual, and there was a more hopeful look on the faces of the captain and coach. The team was playing more as a unit. Kicks were being handled better, the ball was being advanced with greater certainty in the games with the scrubs, and it looked as if Randall would come into her own again. They had played another minor game, and had rolled up a surprisingly big score. "But the trouble of it is," said Tom, as he got in a more comfortable position on the creaking sofa, "the trouble of it is that Boxer Hall is doing just as well. She's cleaning up everything that comes her way." "But we have a look-in at the championship," declared Sid. "Yes, if we win the game Saturday against Pentonville Prep," agreed Phil. "Oh, we'll do that all right," declared Frank. The football situation in the Tonaka Lake League was peculiar that year. In spite of the fact that Randall had not done well and had been beaten by Fairview, the latter college had "slumped" so after her victory over Randall that she was practically out of it as regards the championship. Should Randall win the game against Pentonville, which was almost a foregone conclusion, there would be a tie between Boxer Hall and the college of our heroes for the championship. It was this knowledge which made the players, coach and captain a trifle nervous, for so much depended on the final struggle that was close at hand. Would it be Randall or Boxer Hall that would carry off the honors of the gridiron? "Well, we'll play our heads off, that's all I can say," remarked Tom, as he glanced over the sporting pages of a paper. "I see that they're trying some new kicking game at Boxer." "Yes, they're always after fads," declared Phil. "But straight football, with some of the old-fashioned line bucking, such as we play, and two halves, are good enough for me." "Same here," agreed Sid. "I guess nothing will come of that law business before the final game, eh, fellows?" went on Tom, who seemed anxious about it. "No danger of a decision from the courts right away," said Frank. "From what I can hear, our lawyers are going to get back at Langridge and his partner in some new kind of an injunction or a _lis pendis_ or a _whang-doodle_. That may make it look like a white horse of another color." They talked of football and the legal tangle at some length, and were deep in a discussion about a certain wing-shift play, when tramping footsteps were heard down the corridor. "Holly Cross," ventured Sid. "Dutch Housenlager or--an elephant," predicted Tom. "He walks as though he had his football shoes on." "Perhaps he's coming to suggest another trick on the proctor or Pitchfork," suggested Phil, for the latest attempt of Dutch was a standing joke against the fun-loving student. "Hello, Dutch!" greeted Tom, as the big guard entered. "Anything wrong?" "No. Why?" "Oh, I didn't know, but I thought you looked as if you just met the proctor, who made you sweep and dust his room." The others joined in the laugh against Dutch. "Oh, can you fellows ever forget anything?" he asked, in accents of deep disgust, as he looked about for a place to sit down. "Where's the seat of honor, anyhow?" he demanded. "Am I to sit on the floor?" "Oh, suit yourself," remarked Phil. "Our seat of honor hasn't yet come back from the realms of mystery." "No, hang it all!" exclaimed Sid. "I'd give a good deal to know who has our old chair." "What! Haven't you got that back yet?" asked Dutch. "Seems to me if I were you I'd make it a point to go in the room of every fellow in college until I found it." "We've practically done that," declared Phil. "In fact, we've done everything but offer a reward, and I guess we'll have to do that next." "Just what sort of a chair was it that you lost?" asked Frank Simpson. "I've heard a lot about it since I came to Randall, but I don't exactly know whether it is a Turkish rocker or a Chinese teakwood affair with a cold marble seat." "It was the easiest chair you ever sat in!" declared Tom. "A regular sleep-producer," was Sid's opinion. "Nothing like it ever known when you came in all tired out from football practice, as I did to-night," spoke Phil. "It rested you all over, and now we only have the couch, and Tom or Sid have that all the time now, so I don't get a chance at it." "Get out, you syndicated cynic!" cried Tom. "You're always on the 'lay' when I come in. But, Frank, seriously, this chair of ours was the real thing. It was a beaut, and I haven't been able to find one like it since. It was an heirloom!" "It was a relic of the dark ages!" broke in Dutch. "Say, Simpson, you'd ought to have seen it! That chair was broken in the back, the seat was humped up like a camel with the heaves, both cylinders were cracked, the gears were stripped smooth, the differential was on the fritz, there wasn't a tire on it without a puncture, it had the pip and the epizootic, and, to crown it all, when you sat down in it you never knew whether you were going to get out of it alive or were a prisoner for life on hard labor." "Soak him!" "Traitor!" "Put him out!" "Roll him under the sofa!" "That'll do for you, Dutch!" These were only some of the things that Tom and his mates called at the big guard as he went on slandering the precious chair. Frank Simpson sat an amused witness of the little scene. "It was pretty big, wasn't it?" he ventured, at length. "That chair, I mean." "As if we were talking of anything else," retorted Phil. "Yes, it was big and heavy and clumsy--about fifty years old, I guess, and it disappeared just before the clock went off on a vacation, and came back so unexpectedly. By the way, fellows, we're as far from that mystery as ever." "Don't speak of it!" begged Sid. "Did your chair have a sort of reddish-brown cover on it?" went on Frank. "That may have been the color once," broke in the irrepressible Dutch, "but it was sky-blue pink when it walked away, for these fellows used to empty their ink bottles on it, and use the upholstery for a blotter." "Cheese it!" cried Tom. "Yes, Frank, the cover was a reddish-brown." "And were the legs carved with claws, and the arms with lions' heads?" went on the Californian. "Exactly! Say!" cried Phil, "like the dervish in the story of the camel, have you got our old chair?" He arose, and fairly glared at Frank. The latter, too, had been growing more serious as he proceeded with his questions. Sid and Tom leaned forward eagerly, and Dutch looked on, wondering what was coming next. "I haven't got your chair," went on Frank, "but when I know what kind it is, as I do now for the first time, I think I can give you news of it." "Then, for the love of Mike and the little fishes, speak!" cried Tom. "Or forever after hold your peace," chimed in Dutch, solemnly. "Where's our chair?" demanded Phil, dramatically. "I was passing a second-hand store, the proprietor of which also does upholstering as a side line," went on Frank, "when, happening to glance into the left-hand--no, I think it was the right-hand--window, I espied----" "Oh, put on more steam!" begged Tom. "I saw a chair," went on the Californian, "a chair that I am sure must be yours. It was exactly as you have described it. I thought it looked to be quite a relic." "Where is that second-hand place?" cried Phil and Tom in a breath, while Sid grew so excited that he grabbed Frank by the arm, and held to him as if he, too, might vanish as had the chair. "Where is it? Where is it?" "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 may mean 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. CHAPTER XXXI AFTER THE CHAIR 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 we _don't_ go, 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 make you 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 sure _can_!" 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, to _lis 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 disclosed the 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 the _Mayflower_. 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 to some 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 their hearts 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 we _hoped_ to 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 different colleges 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't think 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 copper one, 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 the _Mayflower_." "It must have been the _Jilliflower_," murmured Sid, with a silent chuckle. CHAPTER XXXII "THIS ISN'T OURS!" 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. "If we 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 which to 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 yourselves on 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 Rose_vale_, don't you?" asked Sid. "We heard of that fellow, but we couldn't find him." "No, I mean Rose_dale_--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 Rose_dale_, and not Rose_vale_?" 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 Rose_vale_ and Rose_dale_. They're as alike as two peas." "Then it's Rose_dale_ for 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 you _buys_ him!" 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 that afternoon, 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 piece of 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. Then his 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 not _ours_!" and Tom moved aside while Phil got ready to make the test. CHAPTER XXXIII A GREAT FIND 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's _not_ our 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. To their 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 struggled to 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!" CHAPTER XXXIV THE EXCITED STRANGER 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 where _is_ our 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 what _we_ thought--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 of greeting 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 I _do_ know 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." CHAPTER XXXV THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN 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 three chums, 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. BOXER HALL POSITION RANDALL Ford Enderby _Left end_ Tom Parsons Dave Ogden _Left tackle_ Bert Bascome George Stoddard _Left guard_ Frank Simpson Paul Davenport _Centre_ Holly Cross Lynn Railings _Right guard_ Billy Housenlager Ed Dwight _Right tackle_ Dan Woodhouse Fred Langridge _Right end_ Jerry Jackson Tom Miller _Quarter-back_ Phil Clinton Fred Cooper _Right half-back_ Pete Backus Charles Baker _Left half-back_ Sid Henderson William Cook _Full-back_ Joe Jackson 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're _going_ to 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 of the 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 Bean Perkins 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 well up 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 some heart 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, we _must_ get 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 just _got_ to 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 to make the needful gains. There was much kicking, and the time was rapidly drawing to a close. "We've _got_ to do it! We've _got_ to do it! We've _got_ to 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 from the 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!" Sid _was_ through. 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 the frantic 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. But, oh, what a shout came dimly to his ears! What a wild riot of cries! He tried to look down and see whether he had crossed the line before he stumbled, but he could only see the brown earth and green grass. He heard someone still running after him. He lifted his head. There, just before him, was the goal line. With the energy of despair, he raised the ball in his arms, and placed it over the chalk mark, holding it there with all his remaining strength, when someone threw himself fiercely upon him. It was Langridge, eager, wrathful and almost beside himself with rage. But he was too late. The ball was well over the last line, and, knowing from the attitude of the Boxer player that it _was_ there, the great throng of Randall men and women, young men and maidens, joined in one great cry: "Touchdown! Touchdown!" It was--the winning touchdown, for, as the other players, some fearful, some hoping, came rushing up, the final whistle blew, ending the contest that had resulted in championship for Randall. And then, welling over the field once more, came softly the song: "Either We Conquer, or We Die!" * * * * * There were bonfires that night at Randall--bonfires in which the football suits were burned, for the eleven broke training in a blaze of glory. Also there were feastings, for there was no ban on eating now. And, likewise, there was much rejoicing. For was not Randall champion again? Had not her loyal sons again won a victory on the gridiron? Therefore, let the gladness go on! Sid was the lion of the hour. It was his great run--his struggle against long odds--that had won the big game, and he was carried on the shoulders of his mates, and his name was heralded in song and story. "Oh, it was great, old man, great!" cried Tom, as they walked together from the gymnasium, where there had been a sort of impromptu joy-meeting after the feast. "Nothing like it ever seen at Randall," declared Phil. "Nothing like it ever seen _anywhere_," put in the big Californian. "I never could have done it, if you hadn't opened the hole for me, Frank," spoke Sid, gratefully. "I just had to open that hole," was the retort. "I felt that I'd tear those fellows limb from limb if they didn't give way, and----" "They did," finished Phil, with a laugh. They had met their girl friends after the game, and had received their congratulations. Then had come a happy time, walking with them, then the feasting, and now our friends were on their way to their room. "There are only two things that are bothering me," remarked Tom, thoughtfully. "What's that--Langridge?" asked Phil. "Say, he must have felt sick when he got to where Sid was, and saw that it was a touchdown, all right! Did he hurt you, Sid?" "Well, he knocked the wind out of me--that is, what there was left to knock. But I guess he didn't mean to." "Oh, he meant it, all right," declared Tom. "But I wasn't thinking of Langridge. I was going to say that the two things that bothered me was the mystery of the chair and the clock." "That's so," came from Phil. "I wonder who that fellow was, and how the deed came to be in his chair?" "We must tell Prexy about it," decided Sid. "It may have a bearing on the case." They were deep in a discussion of possible explanations of the various problems that vexed them, when they turned down the corridor that led to their room. There was so much noise going on out on the campus--shouts and yells, and the students circling about the bonfires--that the footsteps of our friends made no sound. That is why they were close upon a figure crouched in front of their door before the kneeling one was aware of their presence. Then the figure started away. But Phil was too quick, and grabbed it. "I've caught you!" cried the quarter-back. "So you sneaked back, to see if you could find the deed, eh?" for he thought he had the stranger who had before visited them. "By Jove, it's Lenton!" cried Tom, catching a glimpse of the face of the captive. And indeed it was the odd student who was such an expert with the file. "And he's got a false key!" added Sid, as he saw a bit of brass in the lad's hand. "Here, you little shrimp, what do you mean?" and Sid shook the lad. "I--please--I didn't mean anything," was the stammering answer. "Weren't you trying to get into our room?" demanded Tom. "Yes, I--I was, but----" "Where's our chair?" came fiercely from Phil. "I haven't got it! I never had it." "Did you take our clock, and afterward exchange it?" asked Tom, determined to solve part of the mystery, if not all. "Yes, I had it, and I--I was coming back to borrow it again," answered the odd student. "Borrow it?" repeated Sid. "Yes, that's all I did with your alarm clock. Oh, fellows, I didn't mean anything wrong. I'll tell you all about it." "You'd better," said Phil, keeping a hold of the intruder's collar. "Come inside." They entered the room, and Tom locked the door. "Well?" asked Phil, suggestively, as he pointed out a chair to Lenton. "We're ready to hear you." "I borrowed your clock to take a wheel out," said the odd student, simply. "To take a wheel out?" repeated Sid, in amazement. "Yes. In an alarm clock there is a certain size cog wheel that I could find nowhere else. Fellows, I am making a new kind of static electric machine, and I needed a certain sized wheel. I tried everywhere to get one, and I couldn't afford to pay for having one made. Then, one day, I happened to see your alarm clock in here. I thought, perhaps, that it would have in it the wheel I wanted. I made a false key, sneaked in, and took the clock out. Then I happened to think you'd want a timepiece, so I brought in that mahogany one--it was a present to me from a friend in Chicago, but I didn't care for it. The wheels weren't right." "I guess _you've_ got wheels," murmured Phil. "Your alarm clock had just the right size wheel in it," went on the odd student, "so I took it out, and made my electrical machine. Then I made another wheel that would answer as well in your clock, and I made the exchange back again. Now my electrical machine is broken, and I need another wheel from your clock, and----" "You were going to sneak in again and take it," broke in Sid. "Yes. I made another false key, for I accidentally left the first one in the door when you came and surprised me, the day I brought your clock back." "Why didn't you _ask_ us for the clock?" inquired Tom. "Because I was afraid you wouldn't let me take it. I heard the fellows say how fond you were of it. I thought you wouldn't miss a wheel from it, if I gave you a better clock." "_Another_ one--not a _better_," insisted Phil. "But did you drop a letter in here one day?" "Yes, I did, to Bert Bascome, and I wondered what had become of it." "We found it," said Tom. "Was there something in it about a clock?" "Yes, I bought an expensive alarm clock from Bert, but I wrote rather sharply to tell him it wasn't any good. It had the wrong kind of wheels. Bascome was mad at me for not keeping it to pay off some of the money he owes me. That's all there is to tell." "And it's enough," declared Sid. "I guess that explains everything. Bascome's denial was justified." "And we thought Langridge had a hand in it," went on Phil. "But there is still the chair and deed to be explained." "I don't know anything about the chair," insisted Lenton, and they believed him. "But could I have----" he hesitated. "Do you want the clock?" asked Tom. "I--I just want to take out one of the wheels. I'll put in another just as good," promised Lenton, eagerly. And they let him have the battered timepiece. "Now, if we could only explain the chair matter as easily, all would be well," commented Phil, when Lenton had gone. They had not long to wait. A little later a message summoned them to the office of Dr. Churchill. The president greeted them pleasantly. "I have just had the lawyers here," he said, "and they state that the quit-claim deed which you boys found is genuine, and the very one that was missing. It brings to an end the suit against the college, and I wish to once more thank you lads. The prohibition of silence is now removed, and you are at liberty to tell your friends the good news." "But you have not heard it all," said Tom, and he told about the visit of the excited stranger just before the game. "I think I can explain that," went on the president, with a smile, "and also tell you where to find your chair." "Can you?" cried the three, eagerly. "Your visitor was a Mr. James Lawson," continued Dr. Churchill, "and he was the one who made the claim against the college, being a distant heir of Simon Hess. Without the quit-claim deed being available to us, he was the ostensible owner of our property. How he got possession of the deed he would not say, though the lawyers and I questioned him." "Was he here?" asked Phil. "Yes, your actions evidently frightened him, for he called a little while ago to say that he gave up all claims to the land. He stated that he thought he had a right to the deed." "How did it get in the old chair?" asked Tom. "Being an heir of Simon Hess," went on the doctor, "this Mr. Lawson had some of the old family furniture. Among the pieces was a chair, similar to yours, which I understand was also a Hess heirloom. Your chair was taken by a man whom we engaged temporarily to do some janitor work. He sold it to a second-hand dealer, and I have only to-night learned his name and address. The janitor was dismissed shortly after being hired, as it was found that he was dishonest. To-day I received a letter from him, begging forgiveness, and telling about the chair he sold from your room. But he did not mention a clock, for I understand you also lost a timepiece." "Oh, we have that back," said Tom. "But about the chair?" "I'll come to that, and tell you where to get yours. It seems that Mr. Lawson retained possession of the quit-claim deed, which he would not tell how he obtained. "One night, when looking it over in his home, near Rosedale, he was interrupted by an unexpected visitor. Not wishing his caller to see the deed, he slipped it under the lining of the seat of the old chair. Business matters came up immediately afterward, and he went out, forgetting about the document, which was left in the seat. "The next day his wife, who liked new instead of old furniture, sold the old armchair to a second-hand dealer, deed and all, though, of course, she did not know of the paper. Naturally, when Mr. Lawson heard of his loss, he was frantic, for on the deed his whole claim depended. He intended to destroy the document to prevent it ever being found by anyone so that it would benefit Randall. But he reckoned without fate, which stepped in most opportunely. He sought the old chair, but it had gone from dealer to dealer, until finally a Mr. Rosenkranz got it. "You obtained it from him just before Mr. Lawson called to claim his furniture, and later he came on to the college. The rest fits in with what you already know." "Well, wouldn't that----" began Tom, and then he happened to remember that he was in the president's presence, and he stopped. "Your old chair is at this place," went on Dr. Churchill, giving the address of a small dealer in a nearby city. "You may go and get it any time you like," the good doctor concluded. "And now I think that this clears up the mystery. But, before you go, let me congratulate you on the magnificent victory of this afternoon. The nine did exceedingly well." The president smiled benignly, unconscious of the "break" he had made in calling the eleven a "nine," and the boys, joyful over the prospect of an early recovery of their chair, left the office. At last the mystery was ended. There was more rejoicing in Randall when the facts regarding the quit-claim deed became known, and the next day formal notice of the withdrawal of the suit was filed. There was some talk about prosecuting Mr. Lawson, but there was a doubt as to his real criminality, so nothing was done. And thus ended the troubles of Randall, not only from a legal standpoint, but also from an athletic, for her title to the championship of the gridiron was firmly established. But there were other battles of the field to come, and those who are interested in them may read thereof in the next volume of the series, to be called: "For the Honor of Randall; a Story of College Athletics." "They look like twins, don't they?" remarked Tom, a few evenings later, when, having recovered their own chair, it was placed beside the one left by Mr. Lawson, for he did not come to claim it. "Yes, if we had two more, we'd have a collection, and there'd be one apiece," added Phil. "Oh, the sofa's good enough for me," came from Sid. "I hope nobody borrows that to take out a wheel, or some of the stuffing." "And the clock ticks as naturally as it always did," commented Phil, as he took a seat in one of the easy chairs, for Lenton had returned the timepiece. "And they lived happily forever after," murmured Tom, now half asleep, for it was warm in the room. "I say, are you fellows going to the next Fairview frat. dance?" "Are we? Wild horses can't hold us back!" cried Sid, with energy. "Good!" murmured Tom, still more sleepily, and then, as the chums lapsed into silence, there sounded the loud and insistent ticking of the battered alarm clock. THE END THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES By LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Illustrated. Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] 1. BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS _or The Rivals of Riverside_ 2. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE _or Pitching for the Blue Banner_ 3. BASEBALL JOE AT YALE _or Pitching for the College Championship_ 4. BASEBALL JOE IN THE CENTRAL LEAGUE _or Making Good as a Professional Pitcher_ 5. BASEBALL JOE IN THE BIG LEAGUE _or A Young Pitcher's Hardest Struggles_ 6. BASEBALL JOE ON THE GIANTS _or Making Good as a Twirler in the Metropolis_ 7. BASEBALL JOE IN THE WORLD SERIES _or Pitching for the Championship_ 8. BASEBALL JOE AROUND THE WORLD _or Pitching on a Grand Tour_ 9. BASEBALL JOE: HOME RUN KING _or The Greatest Pitcher and Batter on Record_ 10. BASEBALL JOE SAVING THE LEAGUE _or Breaking Up a Great Conspiracy_ 11. BASEBALL JOE CAPTAIN OF THE TEAM _or Bitter Struggles on the Diamond_ 12. BASEBALL JOE CHAMPION OF THE LEAGUE _or The Record that was Worth While_ 13. BASEBALL JOE CLUB OWNER _or Putting the Home Town on the Map_ 14. BASEBALL JOE PITCHING WIZARD _or Triumphs Off and On the Diamond_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE MOTOR BOYS SERIES By _Clarence Young_ [Illustration] _12mo. illustrated._ _Price per volume, 50 cents._ _Postage, extra, 10 cents._ _Bright up-to-date stories, full of information as well as of adventure. Read the first volume and you will want all the others written by Mr. Young._ 1. THE MOTOR BOYS _or Chums through Thick and Thin_ 2. THE MOTOR BOYS OVERLAND _or A Long Trip for Fun and Fortune_ 3. THE MOTOR BOYS IN MEXICO _or The Secret of the Buried City_ 4. THE MOTOR BOYS ACROSS THE PLAINS _or The Hermit of Lost Lake_ 5. THE MOTOR BOYS AFLOAT _or The Cruise of the Dartaway_ 6. THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE ATLANTIC _or The Mystery of the Lighthouse_ 7. THE MOTOR BOYS IN STRANGE WATERS _or Lost in a Floating Forest_ 8. THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE PACIFIC _or The Young Derelict Hunters_ 9. THE MOTOR BOYS IN THE CLOUDS _or A Trip for Fame and Fortune_ 10. THE MOTOR BOYS OVER THE ROCKIES _or A Mystery of the Air_ 11. THE MOTOR BOYS OVER THE OCEAN _or A Marvelous Rescue in Mid-Air_ 12. THE MOTOR BOYS ON THE WING _or Seeking the Airship Treasure_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE JACK RANGER SERIES By CLARENCE YOUNG _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors._ _Price 75 cents per volume. Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] _Lively stories of outdoor sports and adventure every boy will want to read._ 1. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL DAYS _or The Rivals of Washington Hall_ You will love Jack Ranger--you simply can't help it. He is bright and cheery, and earnest in all he does. 2. JACK RANGER'S WESTERN TRIP _or From Boarding School to Ranch and Range_ This volume takes the hero to the great West. Jack is anxious to clear up the mystery surrounding his father's disappearance. 3. JACK RANGER'S SCHOOL VICTORIES _or Track, Gridiron and Diamond_ Jack gets back to Washington Hall and goes in for all sorts of school games. There are numerous contests on the athletic field. 4. JACK RANGER'S OCEAN CRUISE _or The Wreck of the Polly Ann_ How Jack was carried off to sea against his will makes a "yarn" no boy will want to miss. 5. JACK RANGER'S GUN CLUB _or From Schoolroom to Camp and Trail_ Jack organizes a gun club and with his chums goes in quest of big game. They have many adventures in the mountains. 6. JACK RANGER'S TREASURE BOX _or The Outing of the Schoolboy Yachtsmen_ Jack receives a box from his father and it is stolen. How he regains it makes an absorbing tale. _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOY RANCHERS SERIES BY WILLARD F. BAKER _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in full colors._ _=Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid.=_ [Illustration] _Stories of the great west, with cattle ranches as a setting, related in such a style as to captivate the hearts of all boys._ 1. THE BOY RANCHERS _or Solving the Mystery at Diamond X_ Two eastern boys visit their cousin. They become involved in an exciting mystery. 2. THE BOY RANCHERS IN CAMP _or The Water Fight at Diamond X_ Returning for a visit, the two eastern lads learn, with delight, that they are to become boy ranchers. 3. THE BOY RANCHERS ON THE TRAIL _or The Diamond X After Cattle Rustlers_ Our boy heroes take the trail after Del Pinzo and his outlaws. 4. THE BOY RANCHERS AMONG THE INDIANS _or Trailing the Yaquis_ Rosemary and Floyd are captured by the Yaqui Indians. 5. THE BOY RANCHERS AT SPUR CREEK _or Fighting the Sheep Herders_ Dangerous struggle against desperadoes for land rights. 6. THE BOY RANCHERS IN THE DESERT _or Diamond X and the Lost Mine_ One night a strange old miner almost dead from hunger and hardship arrived at the bunk house. The boys cared for him and he told them of the lost desert mine. 7. THE BOY RANCHERS ON ROARING RIVER _or Diamond X and the Chinese Smugglers_ The boy ranchers help capture Delton's gang who were engaged in smuggling Chinese across the border. 8. THE BOY RANCHERS IN DEATH VALLEY _or Diamond X and the Poison Mystery_ The boy ranchers track mysterious Death into his cave. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE BOMBA BOOKS By ROY ROCKWOOD _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. With colored jacket._ _Price 50 cents per volume._ _Postage 10 cents additional._ [Illustration] _Bomba lived far back in the jungles of the Amazon with a half-demented naturalist who told the lad nothing of his past. The jungle boy was a lover of birds, and hunted animals with a bow and arrow and his trusty machete. He had a primitive education in some things, and his daring adventures will be followed with breathless interest by thousands._ 1. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY _or The Old Naturalist's Secret_ 2. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE MOVING MOUNTAIN _or The Mystery of the Caves of Fire_ 3. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AT THE GIANT CATARACT _or Chief Nasconora and His Captives_ 4. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON JAGUAR ISLAND _or Adrift on the River of Mystery_ 5. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE ABANDONED CITY _or A Treasure Ten Thousand Years Old_ 6. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY ON TERROR TRAIL _or The Mysterious Men from the Sky_ 7. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY IN THE SWAMP OF DEATH _or The Sacred Alligators of Abarago_ 8. BOMBA THE JUNGLE BOY AMONG THE SLAVES _or Daring Adventures in the Valley of Skulls_ _Send for Our Free Illustrated Catalogue._ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York THE SPEEDWELL BOYS SERIES By ROY ROCKWOOD Author of "The Dave Dashaway Series," "Great Marvel Series," etc. 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. All boys who love to be on the go will welcome the Speedwell boys. They are clean cut and loyal lads. [Illustration] THE SPEEDWELL BOYS ON MOTOR CYCLES _or The Mystery of a Great Conflagration_ The lads were poor, but they did a rich man a great service and he presented them with their motor cycles. What a great fire led to is exceedingly well told. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR RACING AUTO _or A Run for the Golden Cup_ A tale of automobiling and of intense rivalry on the road. There was an endurance run and the boys entered the contest. On the run they rounded up some men who were wanted by the law. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR POWER LAUNCH _or To the Rescue of the Castaways_ Here is an unusual story. There was a wreck, and the lads, in their power launch, set out to the rescue. A vivid picture of a great storm adds to the interest of the tale. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS IN A SUBMARINE _or The Lost Treasure of Rocky Cove_ An old sailor knows of a treasure lost under water because of a cliff falling into the sea. The boys get a chance to go out in a submarine and they make a hunt for the treasure. THE SPEEDWELL BOYS AND THEIR ICE RACER _or The Perils of a Great Blizzard_ The boys had an idea for a new sort of iceboat, to be run by combined wind and motor power. How they built the craft, and what fine times they had on board of it, is well related. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK THE BOB DEXTER SERIES BY WILLARD F. BAKER _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors._ _Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid._ [Illustration] _This is a new line of stories for boys, by the author of the Boy Ranchers series. The Bob Dexter books are of the character that may be called detective stories, yet they are without the objectionable features of the impossible characters and absurd situations that mark so many of the books in that class. These stories deal with the up-to-date adventures of a normal, healthy lad who has a great desire to solve mysteries._ 1. BOB DEXTER AND THE CLUB-HOUSE MYSTERY _or The Missing Golden Eagle_ This story tells how the Boys' Athletic Club was despoiled of its trophies in a strange manner, and how, among other things stolen, was the Golden Eagle mascot. How Bob Dexter turned himself into an amateur detective and found not only the mascot, but who had taken it, makes interesting and exciting reading. 2. BOB DEXTER AND THE BEACON BEACH MYSTERY _or The Wreck of the Sea Hawk_ When Bob and his chum went to Beacon Beach for their summer vacation, they were plunged, almost at once, into a strange series of events, not the least of which was the sinking of the Sea Hawk. How some men tried to get the treasure off the sunken vessel, and how Bob and his chum foiled them, and learned the secret of the lighthouse, form a great story. 3. BOB DEXTER AND THE STORM MOUNTAIN MYSTERY _or The Secret of the Log Cabin_ Bob Dexter came upon a man mysteriously injured and befriended him. This led the young detective into the swirling midst of a series of strange events and into the companionship of strange persons, not the least of whom was the man with the wooden leg. But Bob got the best of this vindictive individual, and solved the mystery of the log cabin, showing his friends how the secret entrance to the house was accomplished. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, PUBLISHERS New York THE FRED FENTON ATHLETIC SERIES By ALLEN CHAPMAN Author of "The Tom Fairfield Series," "The Boys of Pluck Series" and "The Darewell Chums Series." 12mo. Illustrated. Price per volume, 65 cents, postpaid. A line of tales embracing school athletics. Fred is a true type of the American schoolboy of to-day. [Illustration] FRED FENTON THE PITCHER _or The Rivals of Riverport School_ When Fred came to Riverport none of the school lads knew him, but he speedily proved his worth in the baseball box. A true picture of school baseball. FRED FENTON IN THE LINE _or The Football Boys of Riverport School_ When Fall came in the thoughts of the boys turned to football. Fred went in the line, and again proved his worth, making a run that helped to win a great game. FRED FENTON ON THE CREW _or The Young Oarsmen of Riverport School_ In this volume the scene is shifted to the river, and Fred and his chums show how they can handle the oars. There are many other adventures, all dear to the hearts of boys. FRED FENTON ON THE TRACK _or The Athletes of Riverport School_ Track athletics form a subject of vast interest to many boys, and here is a tale telling of great running races, high jumping, and the like. Fred again proves himself a hero in the best sense of that term. FRED FENTON: MARATHON RUNNER _or The Great Race at Riverport School_ Fred is taking a post-graduate course at the school when the subject of Marathon running came up. A race is arranged, and Fred shows both his friends and his enemies what he can do. An athletic story of special merit. CUPPLES & LEON CO., Publishers, NEW YORK * * * * * Transcriber's note: --Punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected except as noted below. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. --Changed "Haddonville" (p. 257) to "Haddonfield", the name of the town nearest Randall College. 
42403	----	Transcriber's note: Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). Text enclosed by equal signs is in bold face (=bold=). [oe] represents the oe-ligature. [Illustration: THE FINISH LINE WAS BUT A HUNDRED FEET AWAY.] THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS A Story of College Water Sports by LESTER CHADWICK Author of "The Rival Pitchers," "A Quarter-Back's Pluck," "The Winning Touchdown," "Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars," "Baseball Joe at Yale," etc. Illustrated New York Cupples & Leon Company * * * * * =BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK= =THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES= 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. THE RIVAL PITCHERS A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK BATTING TO WIN THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS =THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES= 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS Or, The Rivals of Riverside BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE Or, Pitching for the Blue Banner BASEBALL JOE AT YALE Or, Pitching for the College Championship (Other volumes in preparation) _Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York_ * * * * * Copyright, 1913, by Cupples & Leon Company THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I GREAT NEWS 1 II THE FLOOD 15 III THE MISSING TROPHIES 24 IV IMPLIED ACCUSATION 32 V THE CLUE 45 VI THE PRACTICE SHELL 53 VII THE FIRST TRIAL 62 VIII RUTH'S LOSS 72 IX ON CREST ISLAND 81 X THE GAY HANDKERCHIEF 90 XI THE FIRST BREAK 101 XII A FRIENDLY BRUSH 112 XIII THE LONG VACATION 118 XIV OFF FOR CAMP 126 XV THE OLD GRADUATE 132 XVI THE GIRLS 141 XVII AT PRACTICE 147 XVIII "SENOR BOSWELL" 156 XIX JEALOUSY 162 XX A STRANGE CONFERENCE 174 XXI IN THE SHACK 181 XXII THE PAWN TICKETS 188 XXIII TWO MISSING MEN 194 XXIV BACK AT RANDALL 203 XXV THE NEW SHELLS 209 XXVI "ROW HARD!" 216 XXVII A BRUSH WITH BOXER 242 XXVIII FAINT HEARTS 247 XXIX THE REGATTA 253 XXX A CLOSE FINISH 266 XXXI THE TUB RACE 273 XXXII BOSWELL'S CHANCE 279 XXXIII MENDEZ EXPLAINS 289 XXXIV THE GREAT RACE 297 XXXV THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS 302 THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS CHAPTER I GREAT NEWS "And after this--the deluge, I suppose," quoted Tom Parsons as he gazed moodily out of the window of his study, and watched the raindrops splashing on the ledge, running down the pipe, and forming one of many streams that trickled over the green college campus. "Is it never going to stop?" he went on, turning toward his three chums. "It's rained now----" "Oh, for the love of differential calculus!" cried Phil Clinton, "can't you talk of anything but the weather, Tom? I'm sick of hearing it discussed." "No sicker than I am of hearing it pour," retorted the first speaker. "The rain certainly does seem to stick around," added Sid Henderson, as he endeavored to arise from a decrepit armchair--one of the twins--that added comfort to the college study. "I'm so damp, and altogether gluey, that it's all I can do to get up. Lend me a hand somebody!" he appealed. "'Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your ears!'" recited Tom in the best schoolboy style. "Can't you manage to assist yourself, Sid; or are you getting too fat?" "Fat! Huh! I guess if you'd trained the way I did for those track games you wouldn't be fat!" was shot out in protest. "Train! Listen to him, Phil. Just because he won his big jump he thinks that's all there is. Why----" "Hold on," put in Phil, quietly. "You fellows will get on each other's nerves if you continue. And you're certainly getting on mine. How do you expect me to bone away if you're going on like this? That fussy alarm clock is bad enough--I don't know why we tolerate the old thing anyhow--but when you two get to scrapping, and this confounded rain never lets up, why it's the extreme edge, so to speak." "It is the rain, I guess," spoke Tom Parsons, in a low voice. "It's enough to get on anyone's nerves. A straight week now," and he drummed on the wet window-pane, while Phil turned over on an old sofa, that creaked dismally, and tried to get a better light on his book. But the gloom outside seemed to have found a place in the study room. "Easy on that ancient and honorable piece of furniture!" cautioned Tom, as he looked anxiously at the sofa, which seemed to groan in protest at Phil's weight. "It won't stand much more mending, and that's no idle dream." "Don't worry," said Phil, easily. "I think as much of this sofa as any of you." "Um!" grunted Tom moodily, as he crossed over to the other armchair and threw himself into it at no small risk of going through the seat. "What's a fellow to do?" he asked. Neither of his chums answered him. Sid had managed to rise without anyone's aid, and was examining a pile of books, as though trying to pick out the one containing the easiest lessons. "Where's Frank?" asked Tom, after a silence. "I saw the Big Californian crossing the campus awhile ago," replied Phil, closing his book and yawning. "He was bundled up in a raincoat, and seemed as chipper as a clam at high tide." "Wish I had the spunk to go out," commented Sid. "The river must be nearly flood-high by this time, with all the water that's fallen." "Water! Ugh! Don't mention it," begged Tom. Silence reigned in the room, broken only by the ticking of the fussy little alarm clock. There was the rustle of the pages, as the two lads, studying, turned to various lessons. Tom got up with an impatient exclamation, and passed into one of the four small bedrooms that opened out of the main study. "I think I'll take a chance and go out!" he announced. "It's as dull as ditchwater in here. You fellows are about as cheerful as a wake." "Um!" grunted Phil. Sid did not take the trouble to reply. "That's right. Be grumpy!" said Tom, sarcastically. Clearly the weather was getting on the nerves of all of them. And small wonder, for it had rained almost steadily for a week, and the stone piles that made up Randall College seemed soaked through to the very wall paper. The campus was like a sponge, and the walks, where they were not gravel, were ribbons of mud. "Lucky we got our Spring games over with, before this flood set in," went on Tom. There was no answer. "What's the matter; have you fellows lost your tongues?" he demanded, sharply. He paused in the act of slipping off a lounging coat preparatory to putting on an outdoor garment. Sid and Phil avoided his glance. At that moment the door into the hall opened and there stepped into the study a big lad, attired in a raincoat, that dripped moisture at every seam. "Hello, Duck!" greeted Sid with a cheerful grin. "Where have you been, Frank?" asked Tom. "I was just coming out to join you." Evidently this was Frank Simpson, the "Big Californian," the reason for the nickname being obvious. "Come ahead--all of you," invited Frank. "It isn't so bad, and I guess it's going to clear up." "I believe you're right!" agreed Tom, and there was an instant change in his voice. "It has almost stopped. Come on!" he cried. "You fellows stop boning, and we'll make a party of it. It's early yet, only the clouds make it seem dark." "Wait a minute," suggested Frank, as he saw that the others were likely to fall in with Tom's idea. "Have you fellows heard the news?" "Has Moses granted a Roman holiday?" asked Sid. "Or has Pitchfork consented to resign?" added Phil. "Neither one. This is the greatest news ever. And it's just the kind of a day to impart it, for it has to do with water. Fellows, do you think Randall could get into the rowing game--I mean as it ought to be gotten into? Do you think we could make up a crew--or two crews for that matter--an eight and four--that could put it all over Boxer Hall and Fairview Academy? Do you think we could turn out some four-and-eight-oared victors?" Frank paused in his enthusiastic questions, and gazed at his chums through a mist of moisture that seemed to emanate from his damp person. "Do you?" he repeated, for they were silent. "What does he mean?" asked Tom. "He speaketh in riddles," added Phil. "Mayhap he but jesteth," came from Sid. "No joke at all," said Frank with a smiling good nature. "This is the very latest news, and I think I'm one of the first fellows to hear it. Listen and I will a tale unfold." "Well, as long as it's only a tale you're going to unfold, and not that wet raincoat, proceed, most noble Brutus," begged Tom. "Oh, let up with the jollying, and let's hear the news," suggested Phil. "In brief, then, it's this," went on Frank. "A number of old grads, who, it seems, used to be fonder of rowing and sculling than anything else when they were at Randall, have had a meeting, and they decided to subscribe ten thousand dollars to fit us up with a dandy boathouse and shells--that is if we'll consent to accept----" "Accept! I guess yes, with running shoes on!" cried Phil. "There's a sort of a string attached to it," went on Frank. "What is it? Do we have to raise an additional ten thousand dollars?" asked Tom, suspiciously. "No, nothing as hard as that. But we have to form a regular rowing association, and promise to work our level best to be the champions of the river and lake. Shall we do it?" For a moment there was silence. And then Tom cried: "Of course we will!" "Why shouldn't we?" demanded Phil. "Say, this is great!" came from Sid. "Randall going to have a crew at last! It's about time. But I say," he went on, "it's too late this term to think of it. Why we only have a few more weeks before the Summer vacation." "I know it," replied Frank, "and the idea is to get things in shape the remainder of this term, and have a regatta early in the Fall, before the football season opens. I think we can induce Boxer Hall and Fairview to enter into that sort of agreement, even if those two colleges do row each other every Spring." "Good idea," commented Tom. "Say, Frank, how comes it that you know all this?" asked Sid. "Merely by accident," answered the Big Californian. "I was coming across the campus just now, plowing along through the water with my head down, and I ran plump into Moses and Dr. Marshall. I begged their pardons, of course, and was about to go on when Moses, looking at the doctor, said: "'Perhaps we had better tell him, and have him sound some of the others.'" "I began to pick up my ears at that and wonder what was in the wind. And when Dr. Marshall came back with: 'It wouldn't be a bad idea,' I knew something was up. The upshot of it was that Moses took me into his confidence. Ahem!" and Frank swelled up his chest. "Go on, you rooster!" commanded Tom. "Tell us about the crew," begged Sid. "Well, that's it. Dr. Churchill said he had just received the offer from a number of the wealthy old grads. who, it seems, got together, had a sort of meeting, and voted that the decline of water activity at Randall College was a shame. "It seems that they used to be regular sharks at rowing in their day, and they passed a resolution that, whereas Randall had done well at baseball, football and in track athletics, nevertheless she was a back number when it came to rowing. "Therefore, 'be it resolved, and it is hereby resolved,' and all that sort of thing, you know. Then they subscribed the ten thousand dollars, and the only condition is that we promise to do our best to become champions." "Which we'll do without question," said Tom. "Of course," added Phil. "But it's going to take a lot of work," commented Sid. "We'll need all the time between now and Fall to get in shape. But what can we practice in? We haven't any decent shells." "We can get some second-hand ones for practice," said Frank, "and I understand the old grads will have the new ones ready for us in the Fall, together with the new boathouse. We can also practice during our vacation." "Good!" cried Tom. "It makes me feel better already. I want to get out on the water right now." "And a little while ago you thought there was altogether too much water," commented Phil, drily. "Oh, well," excused Tom, with a shrug of his shoulders. "I say, it is clearing!" he cried. "Come on down and get into a boat. Even one of the old tubs will answer, and we can talk this thing over." "That's what I came in to propose," said Frank. "As we are among the older students here, it will be sort of up to us to spread the idea. I think everybody will take to it, though." "It's about time we took a fall out of Boxer Hall on the water," declared Sid. "Fairview isn't in it so much, though she came mighty near beating Boxer in the eight one year." The rain had ceased, there probably being no more water left in the sky, as Sid remarked. The four chums--the "Inseparables," as they were called, slipped off their lounging jackets--at least Sid and Phil did, for Tom already had done so--and soon all were on their way to Sunny River, on the bank of which the various buildings of Randall College were situated. Over the soggy campus they took their way, meeting no one, for no one else seemed to have the courage to venture out. Though the institution had not boasted of a rowing association, or crew, in some years, there was a boathouse, and a number of craft owned by the students, and it was toward this structure that our friends betook themselves. "Let's take the big barge," suggested Tom. "Then we can all get in it and talk." "It's as heavy as lead," complained Phil. "It will be all right rowing down stream, but coming back we'll have a hard pull." "What of it?" demanded Frank. "It will be good practice for us if we're going to try for the crew." "That's right, we will have to make tries to see who are the best oarsmen," remarked Tom. "I wonder if Mr. Lighton is a good coach when it comes to rowing? I know he's all right at football and baseball, but----" "I believe Dr. Churchill mentioned that if we took up this offer, one of the old grads, who was a crackerjack oarsman in his day, might come and give us some pointers," put in Frank. "Well, let's get out. Say, but the river is high, though," Tom exclaimed, as they came in sight of the stream. The rain of the past week had raised it considerably, and it was now rushing swiftly along, a muddy stream, far from bearing out its name--Sunny. "The barge is as safe as a ferry-boat," commented Sid. "It can't upset." "All right, I'm game," declared Tom. "Let's row down to Tonoka Lake, and see what's going on there." This lake was a large body of water into which the river emptied--in fact it was more like the widening of the stream than a real lake, but a lake it was called in spite of that. In its centre was Crest Island, of good size. Soon the four students were in the barge, a four-oared craft, with enough seats so that the quartette could row with an oar each, after the manner of those in a shell. "Take out the rudder," directed Frank. "We'll have to make our own course, for it can't be worked by one's feet as in a four-oared shell." Phil unshipped the rudder, and they rowed out into the middle of the stream. It was easy going down with the current, but they realized that it would be harder coming back. However, they were out for practice as much as anything else, and did not mind a stiff pull. "I wonder what sort of a stroke we pull?" said Tom, as they rowed on. "Oh, we probably have lots of faults," admitted Frank. "But they can be corrected." "It's a pretty big chunk to bite off--to think of beating Boxer Hall, where the fellows have been rowing for years, and we just starting in," commented Sid. "Oh, stranger things have happened," declared Tom. "We can do it." Then began a spirited discussion of the splendid offer that had been made to Randall, and a talk as to what the other students would think of it. The four chums were enthusiastic over the prospect. "Say," called Tom, after a bit. "This is all right, and lots of fun, but we've come down quite a way, and we've got to think of going back. This current is fierce." "Quitter!" called Phil. "Nothing of the sort--I've got common-sense," was the retort. "Tom is right," said Frank Simpson, in a quiet voice. "We mustn't overdo the thing. It is going to be a stiffish pull back, and we don't want to be late for dinner--I don't anyhow." They had rowed down to where the river widened into the lake. There was a Summer picnic ground near here, and on the higher slopes of land, back from the water, were a number of fine residences, the estates running down to the shore edge. Many of the places had boathouses. As the boys came opposite one of these they saw a small motor-boat turn in toward a shelter, the doors of which were open. There was a lone man in the boat, and he skillfully directed her course across the current. "Let's pull over there and rest before going back," suggested Sid, and the others agreed. They reached the boathouse and dock in time to see the man in the motor-boat close and lock the door, with his craft inside. Apparently he did not notice the boys, who were working to get in on the downstream side of the float, so they could be out of the current for a little while. "There," remarked the man from the motor-boat, as he walked out of the shore-door of the house, also locking that after him, "I guess things will be safe in there until I come back. I won't be gone long. Maybe I ought to take them with me but they're heavy, and I've got to go up hill--I guess I'll leave them," and he started up the slope from the river, toward a fine residence on the hill. "He must have money in the bank--talking to himself that way," remarked Tom, in a low voice. "I wonder what it is he's leaving in his boat?" spoke Phil. "He trusts us, anyhow," laughed Frank. "He didn't see us," came from Sid. "Anyhow the place is locked." The boys rested there by the boathouse for several minutes. Tom was about to propose that they start back, for it looked cloudy again, as if the rain would begin once more. But before he could mention this fact Sid exclaimed: "Here comes the Boxer Hall shell! Say, look at those fellows row!" "They are hitting up the pace!" agreed Frank. All looked to see a fine eight-oared shell fairly scudding over the water under the impulse of the sixteen sturdy arms of the rowers. "We'll soon be doing that," said Phil, in a low voice. And then some of the lads in the shell looked over and saw our friends. CHAPTER II THE FLOOD "Hello, you fellows!" called Dave Ogden, who was acting as the coxswain of the shell, waving his megaphone at them. "Out for practice?" and he grinned as he looked at the heavy barge. "Yes, we're getting ready to order a new shell," answered Tom. "Ha! Ha! That's pretty good. Maybe you think you can beat us rowing!" and Dave looked not a little proudly at the eight lads whose efforts he had been directing. They had been out for a spin on the lake, and were now coming back rather leisurely. "We will beat you--some day!" declared Frank. "Maybe you'd better not tell them about our shell until we get it," suggested Tom, in a low voice. "Oh, they'll have to know it some time or other," declared Frank. "It will be all over the college in a day or so, and Boxer Hall is sure to learn of it. Besides, I want to get things stirred up a bit. But they'll only think we're joking, so far." The eight-oared shell passed on with a sweep, the rowers making good time against the current. But then the craft was so much like a knife that it offered scarcely any resistance to the water. "Row easy, all!" came the command from Dave Ogden, and the rowers reduced the number of their strokes per minute. They were closer to shore now, and out of the worst grip of the current. The coxswain waved his megaphone at our friends in a friendly fashion, and then gave his attention to his crew. Though there was rivalry--sometimes bitter--between Randall and Boxer Hall, the students were, for the most part, very friendly. "Jove! It will be great to get in that game!" exclaimed Tom with a sigh, as he watched the rival's shell. "And we'll do it, too!" declared Frank, earnestly. "Well, let's be getting back," suggested Sid; and the others agreed that this might be a wise thing to do. And while they are returning to college I will, in order that my new readers may have a better understanding of the characters, tell something of the books that precede this in the "College Sports Series." Our first volume was called "The Rival Pitchers," and told how Tom Parsons, then a raw country lad, came to Randall College, with the idea of getting on the baseball nine. He succeeded, but it was only after a hard struggle and bitter rivalry. Tom made good against heavy odds. The second volume had to deal with college football, under the title, "A Quarter-back's Pluck," and in that I related how Phil Clinton, under trying circumstances, won the championship gridiron battle for his eleven. "Batting to Win," the third book of the series, was, as the title indicates, a baseball story. Besides the accounts of the diamond contests, there was related the manner in which was solved a queer mystery surrounding Sid Henderson. Going back to football interests, in the fourth book, "The Winning Touchdown," there will be found many accounts of pigskin matters. Also how Tom Parsons, and his chums, saved the college from ruin in a strange manner. The book immediately preceding this volume was "For the Honor of Randall," and while it was, in the main, a story of various college athletics, there is detailed how a certain charge, involving the honor of Frank Simpson, and incidentally his college, was disproved. My old readers know much about Randall, but I might mention, for the benefit of my new friends, that the college was located on the outskirts of the town of Haddonfield, in the middle west. Near the institution ran Sunny River, as I have said, and it was on this stream, and the connecting lake, that it was proposed to have Randall enter into aquatic sports. Randall, Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute--the latter a co-educational college--had formed the Tonoka Lake League in athletics, though in rowing only the two latter colleges had competed. But this was soon to be changed. At the head of Randall was Dr. Albertus Churchill, dubbed Moses, in affectionate terms. Dr. Emerson Tines, alias "Pitchfork," was head Latin instructor, and Mr. Andrew Zane was proctor. Dr. Marshall was a physician in residence, and also gave instruction in various lines. Tom, Phil, Sid and Frank roomed together. Formerly they had had a large single dormitory to themselves, doing their studying there, and going from there to classes, lectures or chapel--but not the latter when it could conveniently be "cut." In the book just before this I told of the Spring track games in which Randall had managed to come out the victor. These had been past a week or two when the present story opens. Just after the games there had been thrown open to the use of the students a new dormitory, and study-building, with rooms arranged _en suite_, and the four chums had taken a large central apartment, with bedrooms opening from it. This gave them a much more convenient place than formerly. But, if they changed their room, they did not change the furniture--at least they kept all the old, though getting some new. Among the former, were the two ancient armchairs, known to my readers, and the decrepit sofa, which had been mended until it seemed that nothing of the original was there. And then there was the alarm clock, which served to awaken the lads--that is, when they did not stop it from ticking by jabbing a toothpick somewhere up in the interior mechanism. As for the friends of our heroes they were many, and their enemies few. You will meet them, old as well as new, as the story progresses. "There sure is some water!" exclaimed Tom, as he gazed from shore to shore of the turbulent stream. "And it's getting higher," added Phil. "And going to rain more," came from Sid. "Oh, there'll be a flood sure, if you calamity-howlers have your way," remarked Frank. "Give way there! What are you doing, Phil--stalling on me?" "Say, who made you the coxswain, anyhow?" demanded the aggrieved one. The boys reached Randall just as the downpour began again, but their spirits had been raised by the row, and by the good news which Frank had heard. It was confirmed a little later by an announcement on the bulletin board, calling for a meeting of the athletic committee, within a few days, to consider the matter. "Say, this is going to be great!" cried Holly Cross, one of the football squad. "Rowing is something Randall always needed." "And she needs rowers, too, don't forget that, Holly, me lad!" exclaimed Bricktop Molloy, a genial Irish lad who was taking a post-graduate course, after an absence of some time at Columbia and with a mining concern. Some said he came back to Randall merely because he loved her athletics so, but Bricktop, with a ruffling up of his red hair would say, half-savagely: "I deny the allegation, sir, and I defy the alligator!" an old joke but a good one. "Oh, we'll get the rowers," was the confident declaration of many, and then the lads, gathering in the gymnasium, or in the rooms of one and another, talked over the coming rowing contests. It rained all night, and part of the next day, and then seemed to clear off for good. "What about another spin on the river?" asked Tom, after his last lecture. "I'm ready for it." "So am I," declared Sid, and the remaining two fell into line. Several other lads agreed to accompany the four inseparables, and soon quite a group was headed for the river. "Say, look at that; would you!" cried Phil, as they came in sight of the stream. "That's a flood all right!" "I should say so!" remarked Tom. "Why, it's almost up to the doors of the boathouse, and it hasn't been that high in years!" "Some water," agreed Frank. "I wonder if it's safe to go out? Look at that current!" "Safe! Of course it's safe!" exclaimed Phil. "I've seen it worse." "But not with so much wreckage in the river," added Tom. "Look at those big logs. If one of them even hit the barge it would smash a hole in it." "There's part of a chicken-coop!" cried Sid, pointing to the object floating down the river. "Yes, and there's half a cow-shed, if I'm any judge," went on Frank. "The river sure is high," conceded Phil. "I did want to take a run down to Fairview, and see Sis, but----" "See your sister!" jeered Sid. "I know who you want to see down there all right," for while Phil's sister, Ruth, attended the co-educational institution, so did Madge Tyler, of whom Phil was very fond, and also Mabel Harrison, in whom Sid was more than ordinarily interested. Besides, there were "others." "I was going to row down," declared Phil, stoutly. "But I can go by trolley." "Oh, let's try a little row," suggested Tom. "If we find the current is too strong, we can come back and take a car. I'd like to see the girls." "Brave youth! To admit that!" exclaimed Frank. "I fancy we all would. Well, let's get out the boat." But they found the flood too much for them. Venturing only a little way out from shore they were gripped in the current with such force that they saw it would be folly to proceed. Accordingly, they put back, as did their companions in other boats. As they were tying up at the boathouse, Wallops, one of the college messengers, came in. "Did you hear about it?" he demanded, apparently much excited. "About what?" he was asked. "A lot of boathouses down the river have been washed away in the flood," he went on. "The small one at Boxer Hall came near going, but they anchored it with ropes. One of their small shells was smashed. Oh, it's a bad flood all right!" "Well, we can't help it," said Tom. "I guess the trolley cars are still running. Come on, fellows, if we're going to Fairview Institute." So, leaving the boathouse, they started for the trolley line. "We'll take a row down the river to-morrow, and see what damage the flood did," called Sid to Wallops, as they moved away. They little realized what they would find, or what part it would play in the history of Randall. CHAPTER III THE MISSING TROPHIES "Boys, you really must go!" "Oh, can't we stay just a bit longer?" "No, not another minute. Miss Philock has sent up twice to say that you've stayed long enough." "I think her clock is wrong." "We haven't been here ten minutes." "Oh, Sid Henderson! Why, it's over half an hour!" exclaimed Mabel Harrison. "And he's the fellow who didn't use to like the girls!" said Tom, with conviction. "Oh, Rome, how art thou fallen!" "Cut it out!" growled Sid, under his breath. The four chums had called on their friends and Phil's sister at Fairview Institute, and the result can easily be imagined by the foregoing conversation. There had been jolly talk, a telling of the new chance that had unexpectedly come to Randall, and then the appeal of the girls that the boys must go--not because the girls wanted them to--but because Miss Philock, the head of the co-educational institution, deemed it necessary. "But we can come again; can't we?" asked Frank, as they paused at the door. Somewhere down the corridor a thin lady, with thin lips, was narrowly watching the group of young people. "Sure we can come again!" declared Phil. "They can't stop me from seeing my sister." "Or someone else's," put in Tom, mischievously. "Tom! Stop it!" cried Madge Tyler. "She'll hear you." "But we will come!" declared Frank. "I don't see how we poor girls can prevent you," said Helen Newton, with a mischievous glance of her eyes. "Young ladies!" came a warning voice from down the corridor. "Oh, you really must go!" exclaimed Ruth Clinton. "All right," agreed Tom. "We'll be back soon. When is the next dance?" "We'll send you cards," replied Madge Tyler. "Good-bye!" And the boys moved off, with many backward glances, while the girls lingered in the doorway of the reception hall until Miss Philock advanced to garner them into her charge. "Young ladies!" she began severely, "if your friends overstay their time again I shall not permit them to see you--even if they are _brothers_!" and she looked at Ruth. "Horrid thing!" murmured Madge. "I'll be glad when vacation comes." "Are your folks going to camp on Crest Island again?" asked Ruth, naming the resort in Tonoka Lake. "I think so. Papa sent a man up to look over the cottage this week, to see if it needed any repairs. And, girls, if we do go, I want you all to spend several weeks with me!" cried Madge Tyler. "We will have a scrumptious time!" When the boys got back to Randall they found some mild excitement there. Further word had come from the committee of old graduates that they had perfected their arrangements in the matter of supplying Randall with all that was necessary to enter into aquatic sports, and there was a request that the students at once hold a meeting, and decide whether or not they would accept the offer. Of course it is not necessary to say that the boys did accept. A meeting was called for that same evening, and it was enthusiastically voted to accept the generous offer, with thanks. It was voted to have an eight-oared crew, as well as a four, while as many singles as could be arranged, with possibly a double. A committee was appointed to secure some second-hand shells for practice, pending the arrival of the new ones in the Fall. Another committee was named to negotiate with Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute, looking to planning for the races in the Fall. "If they won't meet us then, we'll have to wait until next Spring," said Frank Simpson. "Oh, I guess they're sports enough to give us a race this Fall," declared Tom. "We'll try, anyhow." It was now June and the weather, after the long rain, was perfect. Within a few days Boxer Hall and Fairview would meet in their annual water carnival, swimming as well as boat races, and, as some of the Randall boys had entered in the swimming contests, it was planned to send a big delegation from that college to the meet. "We can get a line on their rowing that way," said Sid, and the others agreed with him. Meanwhile the flooded river was subsiding, and a few days after their visit to the girls, our four friends went out for a row again. In the meanwhile they had secured some books on the subject of sculling, and, as they went down stream, they endeavored to correct their faults. But, as is always the case when you try to do something opposite to the way you have learned it, whether that way be good or bad, there was trouble. "I can't row for a cent the way the book says it ought to be done," declared Tom. "Me either," came from Sid. "And yet that's the right way," said Frank. "I guess we'll get on to it after a bit. But let's row our old way now, and go down to Crest Island. That will make a good distance, and test our wind. Later we can row right. Anyhow, if we have a coach he'll show us the ropes. Give way now, everybody!" They made good speed, and, a little later, were nearing the island, the largest one of three or four that dotted the lake. Crest Island was the home of several cottagers in Summer. "Look! What's that!" cried Tom, as they neared the upper point of the bit of water-surrounded land. "Looks like a boat wrecked there!" said Phil. "It is," declared Sid. "It's smashed on the rocks." "Let's take a look," suggested Frank. "Maybe it's worth saving." "It's a motor-boat," said Tom, as they came nearer. "But I guess there isn't much left of it." "And there's part of the boathouse it was evidently in," came from Phil. "Probably it was carried away by the flood--boat, boathouse and all, and smashed on these rocks." By this time they had brought their boat to the island shore, and, getting out, they examined the wreck. Truly it had been a bad smash. The hull itself could never be used again, and it was a question whether the engine could, as one of the cylinders was badly cracked. The seat lockers had been broken open, and nothing seemed to remain in them. "Say, this is the same boat that fellow locked in the boathouse, the time we were out rowing when we met the Boxer Hall shell!" cried Tom, as he saw the name on the bow. "That's right!" agreed Frank. "The very same. Wallops said some boathouses had been carried away. This must have been one of them." "I wonder who owns this boat?" ventured Sid, but no one answered him. They looked at the wreck for some little time longer, and then started back up the river. They had not gone far from the island before they met a man rowing down in a small boat. He had an anxious look on his face as he hailed them. "I say, boys," he called, "have you seen anything of a wrecked motor-boat about here?" "There's one down on the point of that island," said Tom. "The _Sylph_." "That's mine!" exclaimed the man. "Is there anything left of her?" "Not much," replied Frank. "Wait, we'll show you where she is. We were just looking at her." "You were?" exclaimed the man, and there was something in the sharp way he said it, and in his tone, that caused the boys to glance at him curiously. "Yes, saw it by accident," went on Phil. "Did you--er--find--that is--Oh, never mind, I can soon tell when I look at her," the man said, rather confusedly, as he rowed on. The four lads turned their craft and accompanied him. "There she is!" cried Frank, pointing out the wrecked craft amid some rocks and bushes. "You can see for yourself there's not much left of her." Without a word the man sprang ashore from his boat, while the college lads kept their craft off the rocks. Rapidly rummaging through the broken-open lockers, the man, muttering to himself, suddenly stood up. As he did so, Tom said in a low voice: "That's the same chap who locked the boat up. I wonder what is missing?" "Did you--excuse me for asking--but did you boys take anything from my boat?" asked the man, in rather hard tones. [Illustration: "DID YOU BOYS TAKE ANYTHING FROM MY BOAT?" ASKED THE MAN.] "Take anything? What do you mean?" demanded Sid, sharply. "Something is missing from one of the lockers." "We certainly took nothing from your boat," said Tom, stiffly. "What is missing?" "Many things," was the answer. "Among others, a number of trophy cups belonging to Boxer Hall College. I had them to repair, polish and engrave, and now they are gone from my boat. Someone must have taken them!" and he looked at the boys. The four chums felt their anger rising. CHAPTER IV IMPLIED ACCUSATION Frank Simpson was the first to take definite action. He looked sharply at the man, as the latter gave the surprising information about trophies, and then, in a low voice, said to his companions in the barge: "Let's go ashore, fellows." "What for; to be insulted again?" asked Tom. "I'm not going to stand for that fellow's insinuations. Who is he, anyhow?" "I don't know," answered Frank, "and for the very same reason that I, neither, do not intend to stand for any imputation, I want to go ashore. Give way!" They urged their heavy craft shoreward. "They are certainly gone," went on the man, as he continued to rummage about in the wreckage of his boat. "And it means a big loss to me. If you boys were here----" "Say, just hold on a minute, my friend," interrupted Frank, in that cool way of his. "Just go a bit slow about making cracks. It might not be altogether healthy!" and the eyes of the Big Californian glowed. "But I tell you it's a big loss!" went on the man. "I must find the things--money won't pay for them!" "Now suppose we go at this thing systematically," suggested Frank, his chums, by common consent, letting him assume the leadership. "We don't any of us know you, except that we all recall seeing you land on the main shore in your motor-boat a day or so ago. It was this same boat, I take it." "The same," answered the man. "And now----" "Wait," suggested Frank, holding up his hand. "As for us, we're Randall College students, as you can easily verify. We'll give you our names--fellows, cards," and Frank handed over one of his own, the others doing the same. "That's all right," spoke the man, in half-sullen tones; "but that isn't going to bring back my stuff." "Do you think we took it?" snapped Frank, and there was a warning glint in his eyes. "No--not exactly--but you lads were at my boat, you say, and this is the first time I've seen it since I left it with those cups and other valuables in." "Well, that's a long way from proving that we took anything," went on Frank. "It's laughable, or, it would be if it wasn't so serious." "Who are you, anyhow?" burst out Tom Parsons, unable to restrain his curiosity longer. "This thing is getting too deep for me. How did you come to have the Boxer Hall trophy cups?" "Perhaps I had better explain," went on the man. "I am Edward Farson, and I'm in the jewelry business in Haddonfield. I've only recently started up, and I'm working a new line of trade. I am an expert repairer and mender of old jewelry, and I find that many residents along the river here, as well as out in the country, have old jewelry they want made into modern forms. "As I happened to own a motor-boat I decided to use that in making calls along the river, and I have been quite successful. Then learning that the colleges hereabouts had many cups and trophies that grew tarnished, or were broken, I solicited orders in that line. I also do engraving, putting the names of the winners and all that on the cups. "The other day--the time I remember now when I saw you at Mr. Borden's dock--I had collected quite a few pieces of jewelry, some from customers, some from the students at Fairview Institute, and a number of trophy cups from Boxer Hall. "I had a call to make at Mr. Borden's, and, leaving the jewelry and cups in a box in one of the lockers of the boat, I ran my craft in the boathouse, as you saw, locked it up, and went up the hill to call on Mrs. Borden. As the box of valuables was rather heavy I did not want to carry it with me. I thought it would be safe." "We heard you remark as much," interpolated Sid. "Yes? Well, I expected to be back right away, but when I got to the house I found unexpected news awaiting me. There had come a telephone message from the clerk in my store, who knew that I was to be at Mrs. Borden's at a certain time. I had told him to that effect, as my elderly mother is very ill, and I wanted to be kept informed of her condition. The doctor communicated by wire with my clerk, and the latter left with Mrs. Borden a message to the effect that my mother was sinking, and that I was to hasten if I wanted to see her alive. "That, as you may suppose, drove from my mind all thoughts of the valuables left in my boat. Or, if I did think of them at all, it must have been to hope that they would be safe, locked in the boathouse as they were, and with no one but myself--as I supposed--knowing of them. "Mrs. Borden, whom I have known for some time, as soon as she had given me the message about my mother, offered me the use of a horse and carriage to get to my mother's house, which is quite a way back from the river, off in the country. "I accepted and drove away, never even mentioning to Mrs. Borden about the jewelry in the locker of my boat. I said I would, on my return, collect the things she wanted repaired. Then I hastened to my mother. "I found the dear old lady quite ill, and for a time her life was despaired of. But she rallied, and when my sister came to take charge of matters, I decided to come back to my business. But, in the meanwhile, as you know, there was the flood. "When I went back to the Bordens, it was to find that their boathouse had been washed away by the high water, carrying my craft with it down to the lake. I was nearly crazy, not only at my own loss, but over the missing valuables, which I knew I could never replace. I borrowed a small boat to-day, and set off in search of my launch. I looked in several places where it might have lodged, and when I saw you boys--well, you know the rest," and the jeweler concluded with a pathetic air, as though his troubles was too much for him. "It's rather a queer story," commented Frank. "As for our part in it, it is just as we told you. We landed here by accident, and saw the wreck of the boat. We assumed what had happened, but we saw nothing of any box of cups and jewelry. Then we rowed away and met you." "I'm much obliged to you for the information," said Mr. Farson, "and I--of course--I'm bound to believe you," he went on, a bit awkwardly. "Then you didn't see a trace of them?" "Of course not!" cried Phil. "Don't you believe us?" "Oh, yes--yes, of course. I only thought that maybe, as my boat is so broken up, and the parts scattered about, that you might have looked farther along the shores of the island. The box may have held together, and be lodged somewhere." "Perhaps it has," said Frank, calmly. "I'd advise you to look thoroughly. You might find it. Come on, fellows," and he led the way back to the boat. Tom Parsons acted as though he intended to speak, but Sid nudged him in the ribs, and the youth kept quiet. Mr. Farson stared after the boys as though much disappointed at their desertion, and then, looking to the fastening of the rowing craft in which he had come ashore, he began walking along the edge of the island, where many signs of the high water still remained. "What did you want to come away for in such a hurry?" asked Tom, in a low voice, when they were some distance out. "You were on your high-horse for fair, Frank." "And why shouldn't I be? Do you think I was going to stay there, and help him hunt, after he practically insulted us the way he did? As if we knew anything about his musty old jewelry!" "That's right!" broke in Phil. "I wouldn't lift my hand to help him, after he made that implied accusation. We didn't see any of his stuff!" "Oh, so that's the reason," replied Tom. "Well, I guess it was a good one, Frank." "Those Boxer Hall lads will be up in the air all right when they learn that their trophies are gone," suggested Sid. "I wonder if there were any of the ones they won in the last meet?" "They didn't get many," chuckled Frank. "But it will be quite a loss to them. However, it's none of our funeral. I wouldn't trust any of my jewelry to a man who would go off and leave it in a motor-boat for a night and a day." "Oh, well, he didn't mean to. When he got that message about his mother, I suppose it flustered him," said Tom, in extenuation. "It's hard to blame him," commented Frank. "But he's in a pickle all right. Now let's do some fast rowing." They hit up the pace, but they did not have enough practice to maintain it, especially in the heavy barge, and soon they were all panting, while the oars took the water raggedly, and Sid caught a crab that nearly sent him overboard. "I guess we need some coaching," admitted that lad, when he had recovered himself. "We're not racers yet, by a long shot. Slow down a bit, fellows." "Oh, we're too soft!" complained Frank. "We'll never amount to anything in a shell if we can't stand this. Think of a four-mile row at top speed." "But we'll be in better shape for it after a course of training and some coaching," declared Phil. "Then, too, we'll have this Summer vacation to practice in." At slower speed they rowed up to their boathouse dock, and were soon strolling across the campus to their room, discussing the events of the last few hours. "I can't get over the nerve of that jeweler!" exclaimed the Big Californian. "He nearly got me going." "I could see that," commented Tom. "It was a good thing we came away when we did." "Oh, well, he wasn't exactly responsible for what he said. Be a bit charitable," advised Sid. "Well, how's the racing game progressing?" asked Holly Cross, as he met our friends. "When is that second-hand shell coming so we can practice?" "That's up to Dan Woodhouse," explained Tom. "Kindlings is chairman of that committee. Let's look him up." "I wonder if Boxer Hall will row us in the Fall?" asked Bricktop Molloy, strolling up. "It will make a double season for them." "I don't believe they'll dare refuse when we've beaten them at almost everything else," spoke Frank. "But we'll soon know about that. Dutch Housenlager said he had written to their crew captain and coach, and expected an answer soon." "They ought to be glad to row us," commented Tom. "It will give them a chance to get more cups to replace those they lost." "How lost?" asked Holly Cross. "What do you mean?" "Oh, it's a great story!" cried Sid, and he proceeded to relate, aided by his chums, the incident of the smashed motor-boat. "Too bad," commented Bricktop. "I know how we'd feel if such a thing happened here. But that fellow may find his stuff. Here comes Pete Backus. Hi, Grasshopper!" he called, to a long lad who imagined he was a champion jumper, "are you going to try for the crew?" "I sure am," was the confident answer. "I used to row a lot when a kid, and I guess I haven't forgotten." "He's too light by fifteen pounds," declared Frank, in a low voice. "About one hundred and sixty is a good average." "Thank goodness we're all of us that," said Tom, looking at the chums gathered about him. "Are there going to be single races?" asked a lad, stepping up to join the group. He was a well dressed chap, reputed to be wealthy in his own right. His name was Reginald Boswell. "Why, yes, Reggie," said Tom, in the drawling tones affected by the other, "we count on having single shells. Are you going to compete?" "Aw, say, I wish you wouldn't call me Reggie. I hate that name!" exclaimed the lad, who was completing his Freshman year. "Cawn't you call me just--er--Boswell?" "How would Bossy do for short, me lad?" asked Bricktop. "Not that you're a calf, you know; but Bossy has a sweet sound, thinkest thou not so, my comrades?" and he appealed to his chums with accompanying winks. "Aw, I say now, quit spoofing me, cawn't you?" appealed the rich lad. "Bossy is too rotten silly, you know," and he drew a scented handkerchief from the pocket of his rather loud, and swagger clothes, which, as he always took the trouble to inform all who appeared interested, were made in "Lunnon." Mr. Reginald Boswell had traveled abroad, it seemed. "You ought to be thankful for any nickname, Bossy," put in Holly Cross. "It isn't every Freshman who is thus honored. It's going to be Bossy or nothing." "Oh, but I say, Reggie isn't as bad as that!" "Bossy or nothing!" insisted Bricktop. "Well, then, tell me about the single shells," went on the rich student, evidently deciding to accept the less of two evils. "I'd like to row in those contests." "Well, I guess you can--if you can make good," said Frank. "Come on, fellows," and he linked his arms in those of Sid and Tom, and walked them off toward their dormitory, followed by others of the chums, leaving Bossy, as he was generally called after that christening, to contemplate them with mingled feelings. "Silly rotters!" he murmured after the manner of some of his English acquaintances. "I'll show them I can row, though!" The news of the loss of the Boxer Hall cups was soon known all over Randall, and, in the next day or so, it was generally talked of, for there was a reward offered by the distracted jeweler, an article appearing in the local paper about it. "I guess he didn't find any trace of them on the island," commented Sid. "The box is probably at the bottom of the lake," was Tom's opinion. It was several days after this that the four chums were in Haddonfield, partaking of a little supper after a vaudeville entertainment. There strolled into the restaurant some lads from Boxer Hall, among them one or two members of the eight-oared crew. "Hello, Dave!" greeted Tom and the others. "Too bad about your trophies; wasn't it," added Phil. "Rotten!" conceded Dave. "Some of them were old timers, too." "I--er--I understand that you lads were the _first_ to discover the loss," put in Harry Cedstrom, one of the new students at Boxer Hall, and a member of the crew. There was a strange emphasis on the word "first." "The _first_ to discover it--what do you mean?" asked Frank Simpson, bristling up. "I mean that you were first at the wrecked boat that had held the box of jewelry," went on Harry, while some of his companions nudged him to keep him quiet. "We happened to be there," admitted Frank, in a quiet voice that, to his friends, always presaged an outburst of righteous indignation. "We saw the wrecked boat, and called the attention of the owner to it. We went back with him, and then he told us his loss. That's how we happened to be the first, after Mr. Farson himself." "Oh, I see," spoke Harry. "Then you were at the boat _before_ he was?" "Cut it out; can't you?" demanded Dave of his friend, in a hoarse whisper. "Yes," said Frank quietly, "we were there before Mr. Farson," and he looked the other student straight in the eyes. "And you didn't see anything of our cups?" "Just what do you mean?" demanded Frank quietly, half rising in his chair, while Tom laid a hand on him in restraint. "Oh," went on Harry easily, "I thought maybe you fellows might have taken our trophies----" "Hold on!" cried Frank, and he arose with such suddenness that his chair overturned. Tom arose also, and clung to the arm of the Big Californian, whispering rapidly: "Quiet, Frank. Keep quiet! Don't have a row here!" "In a joke!" finished Harry Cedstrom with an attempt at a smile. There was a dead silence in the groups of students. CHAPTER V THE CLUE Frank Simpson stared at the Boxer Hall lad for a moment, and then sank back in the chair which Sid Henderson had replaced for him. Harry seemed to breathe easier, and certainly there were looks of relief on the faces of his companions. "A joke?" repeated Frank, grimly. "Well, if that is your idea of a joke, all I have to say is that your early education was sadly neglected. Fellows, I guess it's my treat. Some more of those seltzer lemonades, waiter," and turning his back, with studied indifference, on the Boxer Hall lads, Frank began to chat with his friends. There was an uneasy movement among the students from Boxer Hall. "I tell you he insulted me!" Harry could be heard to fiercely whisper, as he made an effort to rise. "Now you sit right still!" said Dave Ogden, firmly. "If there was any insulting done, it was on your part first. I tell you to drop it. Randall is our rival, in more ways than one, but no one ever yet accused her of unfair tactics--least of all any of those fellows. You cut it out, Cedstrom, or you won't know what happened to you!" "That's right," chimed in Pinky Davenport, another Boxer lad. "That was a raw thing for you to say, Cedstrom, and it might make trouble for us." "I don't care!" exclaimed the other, defiantly. "I wanted to take those fellows down a peg. The idea of them thinking they can row us!" "Well, we'll give them all the chance in the world," declared Dave, good-naturedly; "but I think they'll never see the bow of our shell in an eight-oared race. It takes more than one season to turn out champions." "That's right," agreed Pinky. "But you go a bit slow, Cedstrom. Those fellows are good friends of ours, even if they are rivals." "All right--no harm intended," said the other, seeing that he had gone too far. Aside from uneasy glances from time to time toward their rivals, our friends showed no further interest in the unpleasant incident. It had not come to the notice of others in the restaurant, for the students were in a room that, by custom, was set aside for their exclusive use. "You got his number all right, Frank," commented Phil. "That's what," chimed in Sid. "Well, I wasn't going to stand for any crack like that," declared Frank. "Especially from a Freshman. He may have meant it, and he may not, but the time to put the screws on is in the beginning." The two parties broke up soon after that, most of the Boxer Hall boys nodding friendly good-nights to their rivals as they passed out. "What's the matter, Frank?" asked Tom, a little later, as they gathered in their common study, and the tall pitcher "flopped" down beside his chum on the old sofa. At once there was a cracking, splintering sound, and Sid cried out in alarm. "Cheese it, you fellows! Do you want to spoil that completely? Remember it's an invalid." "I should say so!" cried Tom, getting off as carefully as a skater goes over thin ice, while Frank held his breath. "I didn't mean to come down so hard." "Oh, student spare that couch, Touch not a single spring. In sleep it resteth me, As nice as anything!" Thus Phil misquoted, adapting it to suit his needs. "Punk!" commented Tom. "Fierce!" cried Sid. "That's an old one." "Say, you fellows don't know good poetry when it comes up and shakes hands with you," declared Phil, in disgusted tones. "I'm going to frame that." "We'll have to have a new frame for the couch if Tom does any more of his gymnastic stunts," declared Frank, as he looked to see what damage had been done. "The back's nearly broken again," he added. "Kindly forgive me," spoke the pitcher, in contrite tones. "But those two hulks have the armchairs, and I wanted some place to rest. I guess we'll have to invest in another chair, if that couch is only going to hold one." "We will not, you vandal!" exclaimed Phil. "Sit on the alarm clock, if you want to, or flop down on the floor, or to go to bed; but you don't go getting any new, modern, ugly, incongruous furniture into this den." "Oh, I didn't mean that," Tom hastened to explain. "I meant pick up a second-hand one somewhere." "That mightn't be so bad," admitted Frank. "But say, what ails you, anyhow?" went on Tom, turning to the Big Californian, as though to change the subject. "I was asking you that when they raised this row about the old couch." "Don't you call that an 'old couch' unless in terms of the deepest respect!" cried Phil. "I meant it strictly in the Pickwickian sense," Tom hastened to explain. "But, Frank, is there anything up?" "Well, yes, there is," admitted the other. His chums looked at him curiously. "I hope you didn't take that Boxer Hall puppy's remarks seriously," went on Tom. "Not seriously, no; and yet what he said has set me to thinking." "Hurray! Frank's thinking at last!" cried Sid. "Send word to Pitchfork, and he'll give you a double stunt in Latin." "No, but seriously," went on the Big Californian, "you heard what he said. In a joking way, as I really think he meant it, he suggested that we might know something of the missing cups and jewelry, seeing that we were first on the scene--or, at least, as far as is known. Now if he thought that--even in a joke--and the jeweler thought it seriously--as I am convinced he did--though he soon passed it up--why shouldn't other people?" "Do you think they do?" asked Sid. "They might, and what I've been thinking is that we can't afford to have even the slightest suspicion hanging over us." "But does there?" demanded Tom. "I don't know--there's a possibility that there might. You see, fellows, we _could_ have taken those things!" "We could!" cried Phil. "Certainly. Just figure it out for a moment," went on Frank. "We might as well look at this thing fairly and squarely. Say that box of jewelry was in the wrecked boat when we found it on the point of Crest Island. Say we found it to contain the Boxer Hall trophies. We could have taken them even for a joke; couldn't we?" "Yes, but we didn't," declared Phil. "No, but that won't stop people from thinking so. They may set it down as a college prank, but, even so, they'll think it just the same." "Well?" asked Sid, as Frank paused. "Well, that's what I was thinking of when Tom plumped down, and broke the sofa." "I didn't break it." "You came mighty near it," went on Frank. "I was turning that over in my mind after what happened in the restaurant, and I've got something to propose." "What is it?" demanded Phil, leaning forward so interestedly and suddenly that the old armchair creaked and groaned dismally, and a cloud of dust arose from its ancient upholstery. "I think we ought to go back to Crest Island, and make a search. We may find that box of cups and jewelry caught in some cleft of the rocks, or we may find----" Again Frank paused. "What?" asked Tom. "A clue to who did take it--if it was taken." There was a moment of silence, and then Sid exclaimed: "Frank's dead right! We'll go to Crest Island to-morrow and hunt for clues." Eagerly the matter was discussed, and in the end all four agreed that they would make the search. Then came an hour of studying, and the lights went out. "Oh, for the love of baked beans!" exclaimed Tom, as they were all settled comfortable in bed. "Somebody stop that clock, will you? I'll furnish the toothpick." "Get up and do it yourself," directed Frank. "I'm too comfortable." "So am I," said Sid. "Same here," came from Phil. "Then I suppose I've got to," groaned Tom, and in the end he did. Then, with the fussy, little alarmer quiet, the chums dropped off, their thoughts lasting longest on the prospective races, and on the queer muddle of the lost trophies. "Well, here's where the boat was," said Tom, as they landed on Crest Island the next afternoon. "But it's gone now," added Phil. "Yes, probably Mr. Farson had it towed away on a barge to see if he could save any of it. My opinion is that it wasn't worth it," said Sid. "Well, let's scatter, two going down one shore of the island, and two on the other," suggested Frank. "When the boat struck on the rocks, and split, the things in the lockers may have floated one way or the other." "If they didn't sink," put in Tom. "A box of jewelry would be pretty heavy." "If it sank, so much the better," declared the Big Californian. "Then it would lodge, and when the waters went down, as they did after the flood, it would still stay there. Scatter and hunt." They took his advice, and for an hour or more searched. Then Tom, who was with Frank, on the eastern shore, sprang toward a clump of bushes in which was caught some driftwood. "I've found something!" he cried. "It looks like the seat lockers of a motor-boat." "It is," declared his chum, as he hurried to Tom's side. There, in the debris that had settled around the roots of the bush when the waters had subsided, was part of a boat locker. It was split and broken, but the cover was still on it. Eagerly Tom lifted it and, as he did so he uttered a cry of delight. "Here it is!" he shouted. "The jeweler's box! It has his name on it!" "Open it!" exclaimed Frank, as Sid and Phil came hurrying to join their two chums. Tom lifted the cover. "Empty!" he cried, blankly. CHAPTER VI THE PRACTICE SHELL The four chums stared, almost uncomprehendingly, into the open box. It was of good size, capable of holding several trophy cups, with compartments, velvet lined, for smaller pieces of jewelry. "The things all fell out!" cried Tom. "They must be scattered around here somewhere. Let's look," and he started off. "No use," said Frank, quietly. "Why not?" asked Tom, in wonder. "Because those things never fell out of that box," went on the Big Californian. "Why didn't they?" demanded Phil. "When the box was knocked around in the water, or even inside the locker, why wouldn't it be split open and the things fall out?" "It wasn't split, as you can easily see," went on Frank, calmly, "and the cover wasn't forced open by banging against the rocks. It was opened by some slender instrument being shoved under the catch, and then pried upon. See, there are the marks. No rocks ever made those," and he showed several scratches in the shiny surface of the box, near the clasp. The scratches went entirely under the broad brass fastener, showing that something thin enough to have been employed in this way was used. As Frank had said, no rock against which the case might have been tossed by the storm-waters, could have done it. "Well, let's take it to Mr. Farson," went on Sid. "We'll tell him how we found it, and he can then see that we had nothing to do with taking the things--even in a joke. Let's hurry back to town." "Let's do nothing of the sort!" exclaimed Frank quickly. "Why not?" demanded his chums in chorus. "If you want tongues to wag any more--if you want a real suspicion to be cast on us, where there's only the faintest one now--if you want to make real trouble, take that box to Mr. Farson. If you don't, and if you want to get at the real facts in this case, just keep quiet about it." For a moment there was silence, and then Tom objected: "Well, maybe it's clear to you, Frank, but I can't see it that way." "Me either," declared Phil. "Why, it's as simple as anything," declared the Big Californian. "Well, maybe it is," admitted Sid, "but kindly translate. It's too deep for us." "Look here," went on Frank. "That jeweler saw us at the wreck; didn't he?" "No question about that," admitted Tom. "And we helped him look around. We were here first; and we said we didn't see anything of the stuff." "No question about that," admitted Sid, following Tom's lead. "And now here we go and find the empty box--it has every appearance of having been forced open by human hands. We take it to Mr. Farson, and say--'Here's your box, Mr. Jeweler; but it's empty--that's just how we found it, honest it is!' Say, wouldn't he smell a rat right away, and think we had the stuff?" "No question about that," declared Phil. "That ends it! Frank is right, we'll have to keep mum about this for our own sakes, though I don't like it. It makes us look guilty." "Not a bit of it," declared Frank, stoutly. "It gives us a chance to find out who the guilty party is." "Who do you suppose it is?" asked Tom. "I haven't the least idea," answered the California lad, quickly. "Someone may have been on the island before we were, and found, and rifled, the box; or that person may have come after we did. That's one thing we've got to find out--and it isn't going to be any cinch, take it from me!" They all examined the box, and then looked about the place where it had been found, for other clues. But they found none--no other parts of the wrecked boat seemed to be there. As they were coming away, to get to their boat and row to Randall, Tom stooped and picked from the ground a bit of gaudily-colored silk, a plaid of many colors, in a sort of ribbon. "What's that?" asked Sid. "Looks like part of a Scotch necktie," replied the tall pitcher. "Let's have a look," suggested Frank, as he closely examined the piece of silk. "That's no part of a necktie!" he exclaimed. "It's a piece of a Mexican silk handkerchief of all the colors of the rainbow. I've seen 'em on sale out in my state. The Mexicans and some other folks are fond of sporting them, but they were always too rich for my blood. But, fellows, do you notice one thing about this?" and he held it up for inspection. "Do you mean it might have been worn by the jeweler, and dropped in his motor-boat?" asked Tom. "It _might_ have been worn by the jeweler, but not very likely," said Frank. "In the first place, notice that it shows no signs of having been wet, except by the dew. It was never in the flood, or it would have mud on it. And I don't believe it was worn by the jeweler, and dropped here; otherwise, having good eyesight, as all jewelers and watch repairers have, he would have seen his box." "Then you think----," began Sid. "That it was dropped here by someone who was on this island either before, or after, we were here the first time; by someone who found the box, opened it, and took the stuff away," finished Frank. "And who that person was it's up to us to find out," declared Tom. "Exactly. And here's another thing," went on Frank, "this piece of silk is torn off in a long strip, cleanly, and it looks to me as if it might have been one of several so torn, or ripped, to make a bundle of the cups and jewelry. If we can find a handkerchief like this, with a strip torn off, we'll come pretty close to the person who has the Boxer Hall cups," finished the Big Californian. "Maybe the fellow tore off a couple of strips, used the main part of his handkerchief in which to wrap his stuff, and left one strip here by mistake," suggested Phil. "Maybe," admitted Frank. "Well, we've got about all we can find here, I guess. I vote we get back, and talk this matter over among ourselves. And, mind, not a word to a soul!" All promised and then, carefully concealing in their boat the jewelry box, with the piece of silk inside, they rowed back to college. But the discussion they brought to bear on the matter in their room later, failed to throw any light on the subject. All the conclusion they could come to was that if they found the owner of the gaudy handkerchief they might find the possessor of the jewelry. In the days that followed rowing matters occupied much of the attention and the talk of the Randall students. The chairmen of the various committees called meetings, and made reports of progress to the general athletic body. The offer of the alumni to provide a fine boathouse, and a rowing equipment, was formally accepted, and the required promise made. There was no lack of material for an eight-oared shell--two in fact--several fours, a couple of doubles, and one or two singles. In response to a request for a list of what was needed, it was decided to ask for one first-class eight-oared shell, for two fours, two doubles, and three singles, though the gift committee, naturally, would do as they thought best. This would give plenty of craft in which to practice. In view of the expense of the eight-oared shell it was decided that the students themselves would subscribe enough to purchase a second-hand eight for practice. They learned of one in good condition, that could be had at a bargain, also a single and a four, and, as it would take some time for the generous old graduates to provide their equipment, it was voted to buy the second-hand ones for use the remainder of that Spring. "That will give us a little time for practice," decided Kindlings, who had the matter in charge. He had been elected temporary captain of a tentative eight crew; a temporary arrangement, as it would not be known, until the coach had selected the crew, who would row in the different craft. There would be try-outs as soon as possible. The old boathouse would have to answer until the new one was built, but, to accommodate the many students who now thronged it, a temporary addition was built, the coming warm weather making it unnecessary to have it very substantial. The interest in rowing increased every day. Our four chums and their friends were perhaps the foremost in showing their delight in the coming events. Boxer Hall had been communicated with, as had Fairview Institute, and both had agreed to enter into triangular-league contests that Fall, the details to be arranged later. The second-hand shells had been ordered, and Mr. Lighton agreed to do the water coaching, in addition to looking after the baseball lads, for the affairs of the diamond were beginning to hold the attention of many. Of course our friends did not lose interest in baseball because of the coming water sports. Meanwhile no further trace of the missing cups or jewelry had been found. No one claimed the reward offered by Mr. Farson, to which the Boxer Hall Athletic Association added a substantial sum for the recovery of their trophies. Our friends said nothing of their find, and, though there was hardly a breath of suspicion against them, even in Boxer Hall, still they fretted. "We've just got to find out who took those things!" cried Tom, one afternoon, coming back from a row on the river. "That's right!" agreed his chums. A number of the ordinary rowing boats had been secured, and Mr. Lighton spent some time giving the lads an idea of the rudiments of getting down to the right stroke. Of course with toe stretchers, and sliding seats, there would come a vast change, so he did not want to go too deeply into the matter until the right craft were at hand. "Well, what shall we do this afternoon?" asked Sid, as he yawningly tossed aside a book that he had dipped into on coming to his room after a lecture. "I'm for a row!" exclaimed Tom. "We ought to do some baseball practice," suggested Phil. "We've sort of been letting that slide." "Let's do a little of----" began Frank, when the door flew open, and in came Kindlings, all excited. "It's come!" he cried. "What?" chorused the others. "The new shell--I mean the second-hand eight--the boat we're going to do our practice in! I just got word from the freight office that it's there. Let's get a truck, and have it carted to the river. I'm crazy to get in and go for a row!" "Hurray! That's the stuff!" cried Tom. "Come on, everybody!" and he led the way, the others following. CHAPTER VII THE FIRST TRIAL "Well, now we have it, what shall we do with it?" "Say, but it's a frail thing all right!" "Looks as if one good stroke would split it in two." "And that will hold eight men!" "Nine, counting the coxswain, you gump! Didn't you ever see an eight-oared shell before?" "Not so close at hand! Say, but it's flimsy all right." "Oh, I guess we'll find it stiff enough for us." These were only a few of the comments, and questions, propounded by the students of Randall as they gathered about the new shell--or, rather, the second-hand one--that had been purchased in order to give them practice while the new outfit was being made. Following the enthusiastic announcement of Kindlings, as detailed in the last chapter, the more eager of the rowing contingent, including our four heroes, had gone to the freight depot, and, procuring a truck had, with great care and patience, transported the boat, well swathed in burlap, to the river. Later, under the direction of Coach Lighton, they had attached the outriggers, gotten out the oars, given the boat another coat of varnish, oiled it well, and now it rested in the water alongside the dock, as lightly as a swan, if not as gracefully. "It looks more like a water-spider than anything else," commented Jerry Jackson, one of the Jersey twins. "Here! Can that!" cried Tom. "No finding fault with our boat, or we'll duck you." "That's what!" declared Dutch Housenlager. "Let's get in and take a try!" he proposed, starting toward the frail craft, and preparing to step in it. "Here! Hold on!" cried Mr. Lighton, in accents of alarm. "That's no way to get into a shell. Now you fellows just hold your breaths until I give you a few points." The lads--a score or more--all of whom hoped to make the eight, while others felt that they would be satisfied in the fours, or singles, had gathered around. They had all helped to get the shell into shape, pending the arrival of some more of the second-hand craft. Now they were eager to try their skill. "It is too early to pick out the crew yet," said Mr. Lighton, "as I don't know what any of you can do. So I suggest that you all have a try, and those that develop the most aptitude will come in for more consideration. Have you thought of anyone for permanent captain? Wait, though, I guess you'd better let that go until you see how you make out in rowing. And, as for the coxswain--who wants to be coxswain?" he asked. "Don't all speak at once," he added whimsically. "Remember that, while it's a post of honor, the coxswain doesn't row, though by steering he assumes almost as much responsibility as all the rest put together, for a well-steered boat often means a winning one. We want a light weight for coxswain," and he looked over the assembled group. No one volunteered and the coach went on: "Well, at the risk of seeming egotistical, I'll assume that post myself, for the time being, though I'm a bit heavy. I think I can coach you better from that position--at least at the start. Now then, I guess we're ready. Whom shall we try first?" Once more he looked around. "Holly Cross," he called, and that lad stepped forward, then: "Kindlings, Phil Clinton, Tom Parsons, Frank, Sid," went on the coach. A pause. "Yes, come ahead, Housenlager," said the coach, as Dutch made an eager move. "Let's see, that's seven. Where's Bricktop. Not here. Joe Jackson." "I'm afraid I'm a bit light," said the Jersey twin. "Well, perhaps you are. You may fill in later, though, as coxswain, or row in one of the other boats. I guess----" "I'd like to row!" exclaimed someone. Reginald Boswell stepped forward, a smile of confidence on his face. "I've done considerable of it," he added, with an air of assurance. To do him justice he was a well-built lad, and those who had seen him out on the river knew he could pull a good oar. Whether he had racing qualities in him remained to be seen. "Very well," said the coach, quietly. "We'll give you a trial. That makes the eight. Now then, who'll be for stroke? Simpson, I think I'll try you. You look as though you could set the pace. For number seven--um! Parsons, you try that, though we may change later. Remember that number seven, who sits directly behind stroke, has almost as important a position, for he has to pick up the stroke promptly, and the rest of the crew is dependent, in a great measure, on what number seven does. "Now, let me see. Boswell, you'll be bow oar. Phil Clinton number two, Sid Henderson at three, Housenlager at four, Woodhouse number five, and Cross at six. Now I guess we're all ready. Steady the boat there, some of you, while the crew gets in." Dutch Housenlager once more eagerly started for the boat, and extended his foot to step down into it at his designated seat. "Wait! Wait!" cried the coach. "Don't get into a shell that way. Remember that it's almost as thin as its name indicates. Put your foot lengthwise of the keelson, not athwart, or you may force your heel or toe through the sides. Have all of you your rubber-soled shoes on?" "Sure," replied Dutch, a bit abashed. A glance showed that all were in sufficiently regular rowing costume. "Now, while we're at it, I might as well tell you how properly to get in a shell," went on the coach. "You may all listen, as you can't tell whom it may fit. "In the first place take your oar, and, if you're to row on the side of the shell that happens to be nearest the float at the time, lay your blade on the platform. If you're on the water side, lay the blade flat on the surface of the water. "Now get in, facing the stern, being careful to step lengthways, as I told Housenlager. Stoop down, with a hand on either gunwale, and lower yourself into your seat. You will of course notice the seats slide back and forth, that you have outriggers instead of gunwale oarlocks, and that there are stretchers, or loops under which to thrust your toes. "Once in your seat, ship your oar by thrusting the handle in through the outrigger oarlock from outside. Sit straight, not to one side, and squarely face the handle of your oar, have your shoulders a bit back, and your elbows close to your flanks. I'll give you more points as we go along. "Hold your oar with the outside hand close to the end of the handle, but not over the edge of it. You get more power from your outside hand, remember. The 'outside' hand, strange as it may seem, is the one nearest the centre of the boat, and the inside one, that nearest the 'loom,' spoon, body or blade of the oar. Put the other hand not more than two and a half inches from the outside hand. Thumbs underneath, or toward the bottom of the boat, of course; though some men row with the thumb of one hand in the same position as the fingers. "And now then, to give you brief instructions in how to row. First give a full, fair reach out over your toes, with both arms perfectly straight, dip your oar in the water--plunge it in with force. Get a good hold on the water with the blade, and the instant it is immersed, pull with all your might, and then follow through, as we say, with a long, firm stroke without vibration or wavering. "Then, with a light finish, get your oar blade clear of the water cleanly, feather light, low and quick--into the water again all together with a 'chug'--another pull and--there you are--you're rowing!" There was silence for a moment, and then Tom remarked: "Sounds easy; doesn't it?" "Yes, and some of you will find it easy," remarked Mr. Lighton, with a smile. "Others will not. But we can tell soon who the rowers are going to be, though that is not saying that, with practice, some of those who seem the least fitted may not become very proficient." "I once belonged to a swell New York club," remarked Reginald Boswell. "Why did they put you out, Bossy?" asked Kindlings, with a wink at Sid. "They didn't--I resigned," and the rich lad shot an indignant glance at his tormentor. "Same thing," remarked Kindlings. "Now then, get into the shell, and we'll try a little spin," called the coach, and he watched carefully as each of the eight lads followed his instructions more or less accurately. Some were a bit awkward, but all were careful to at least step into the shell properly. "Push off," commanded the coxswain-coach, as he took his seat in the stern, with the tiller ropes in his hands. "You will notice that some of you are on what is called the stroke side--that is, with your oars on the same side as Frank Simpson, who faces me. So when I say 'stroke side pull,' it means that only those on that side, or at my right hand, are to row. "Oppositely, some of you are on what is known as the bow side, or with your oars on the side on which sits Boswell, the bow oar. That is on my left. Though, of course, you all sit in the middle of the boat. So when I give orders for the stroke oars to do certain things I mean for those on Frank's side to obey. Now then, row, stroke oars!" Four blades shot back and took the water, not all at once, as they should have done, but fairly well for the first time. As the craft was heading down stream, with the stroke oars nearest the float, this man[oe]uver tended to swing the craft farther out into the river to clear the dock. "Row, bows!" came the order, and the others, dipping their blades, slewed the craft around until she was straight again, and far enough out to enable a good start to be made. "Very good!" complimented the coach. "Now then, row all!" The frail shell, like some grotesque water spider, darted ahead, the water swirling under the broad blades. "Hurray!" yelled the crowd along the bank and on the dock. "They're off!" shouted Jerry Jackson. "The first spin!" added his brother. "I wonder if we can turn out a winning crew?" "Of course we can, Joe me lad!" cried Bricktop Molloy, coming up at that moment. "Of course that's not sayin' it wouldn't be much better with me in the boat, but it can't be helped now. I'm a bit late," he added. "Ten thousand maledictions on Pitchfork for detainin' me. But who's that at bow?" "Bossy," some one told him. "That calf! Sure he can row though!" the Irish student added, half-admiringly, as he watched the efforts of the rich lad. The shell was well out in the river now, spinning along at a rapid pace. Of course it was far from being at racing speed, but even a little power sent the knife-like boat along at a great rate, so little resistance was there. "Steady all!" called Mr. Lighton, in a low voice, as he noticed a tendency to splash on the part of some. "Get your oars in the water with force. Get hold of the water all together. When you do, it will sound like a stone falling in--a chug--a noise like a 'rotten egg', as it is called. Try for that. The eight oars ought to sound like a single pair when you learn to row in unison. "Pick it up a little faster, bow!" he called to Boswell. "This is the way I learned to row," came the retort from the bow oar. "Well, you'll have to unlearn some things," retorted the coach, grimly. "Don't look so worried, Tom," he went on a little later. "You're picking up your stroke fairly well. Frank, a little more forward--reach out well over your toes. That's better. Now let's hit it up a little." They had been rowing about twenty strokes per minute--rather slow, and, as Mr. Lighton indicated an increase, Frank followed, until they were doing twenty-four, a substantial advance. As they rowed along, Tom glanced away from Frank's rising and falling back, and said in a low voice: "Here comes Boxer Hall!" CHAPTER VIII RUTH'S LOSS "Silence number seven--eyes in the boat--on the man in front of you!" Thus the coach called to Tom, but there was no sting in his words, and the tall baseball pitcher of Randall knew that it was for the good of himself and the crew. Nothing is so important in a race as to save one's wind, and to keep one's eyes fairly glued on the back of the man in front of one. For on unison, and in rowing exactly in time with every other man in the shell, does the race depend. "Never mind Boxer Hall," went on Mr. Lighton. "We're going to beat her, but we won't unless we learn how to keep our eyes in our own boat. Steady there, Sid!" On came the Boxer Hall eight. They were rowing down the stream, as were our friends, but the rival college shell was in the rear, having gone up stream earlier in the day, being now on the return trip. "Don't try to race them when they pass us," cautioned Mr. Lighton, who had not even turned his head to see the approaching shell behind him. "It will be a temptation, I know, but we are not ready for a spurt yet." "Are we going to let them pass us?" demanded the rich lad, almost forgetting to row. "Don't talk!" came sharply from the coxswain. "It's your business to row, Boswell, if you want to be in this eight. You almost lost a stroke then, and see how the boat slews! I have to shift the rudder to correct it, and in a race that might mean the loss of considerable distance. Pick up your stroke, and don't race!" The face of the rich lad expressed disappointment, and his was not the only one. Certainly it was a bit galling to let Boxer Hall--their ancient rival--pass them, and the first time Randall was out in her eight, too! But afterward all admitted the wisdom of the course taken by the coach. They were in no condition to race, and, green as most of them were as to how to behave in a tricky shell, they might have had an upset. Not they would have minded that, but they would have been the laughing-stock of Boxer Hall. On came the rivals, the oars being feathered beautifully. They took the water with that peculiar chugging sound that always denotes a well-trained crew. "Listen, all of you," advised Mr. Lighton in a low voice. "That's what I mean by the 'rotten-egg' sound. It's when the oar blade is plunged under water as you begin your stroke. Try to attain it--after they pass." The Boxer Hall lads, rowing perhaps a trifle faster than they had been doing, sitting perhaps a trifle straighter, and pulling a bit harder--a natural showing off--came opposite the shell containing our friends of Randall. "Want to try a little spurt?" called Dave Ogden, from the coxswain's seat. "No, thank you--we're just out for practice. It's our first spin," replied Mr. Lighton. "Some other time." "Why not now?" murmured Boswell. "Silence in the bow!" exclaimed the coach, sharply. "You're a martinet!" retorted the rich lad, but in so low a voice that only Phil, sitting in front of him, heard. Not a lad in the Boxer Hall shell spoke, though several nodded in friendly fashion at their acquaintances in the Randall boat. They were evidently well trained, and were saving their wind. On they rowed, passing those who hoped to prove themselves formidable rivals by the following Fall. And in spite of the command of Mr. Lighton for all eyes to be in the boat, hardly a lad of the eight but glanced enviously at the smoothly-swinging shell, that looked so trim and so neat. For, in spite of the work expended on the second-hand craft, it showed what it was. "But it won't be long before we have a better one," thought Tom. "Row easy, all," came the command from the coach, when the Boxer Hall boat had passed around a bend of the stream. The stroke was slackened, to the relief of all, for, though they were sturdy lads, rowing was a form of exercise to which they were not much accustomed, especially in a shell. The strangeness of the seats, the toe stretchers, and the outriggers added to their confusion, so that the fatigue was almost as much one of attention and brain power as of muscle. "Now for a turn against the current," remarked the coach, when they had gone on a mile or two more. "This will give you some resistance to work against." The shell was turned, after a fashion, Mr. Lighton being anxious not to bring too much strain on the outriggers, the turning action always involving this. "Give way!" came the command, and the shell started back up stream. This was harder work, but the coach, desiring to know if he had any members on the crew who were likely to prove of less service than the others, kept them all up to a good stroke. There was some panting when the float was reached, a larger crowd than before being there to welcome the first tentative crew. But, to do the lads justice, not one but had stood the strain well, even the fault-finding Boswell. "Well rowed for the first time!" complimented Mr. Lighton. "Now, then, a good shower bath and a rub-down, and then some light exercise to keep from getting stiff, for you have used muscles to-day that seldom came into play before. Now who's for another crew?" and he picked out eight more lads, who went off in the shell. "That was great!" cried Tom, as, with his three particular chums he started for the gymnasium. "It sure was," agreed Sid. "I never thought I could do so well." "And I never knew I could do so rotten!" came from Frank. "I used to think I was some pumpkins with an oar, but this has taken all the conceit out of me." "Same here," agreed Phil. "But I think we're on the right road." "Boxer Hall did fine," went on Tom. "I give them credit for that. I wish we'd started at rowing years ago. It's a shame it was so neglected at Randall." "It was dandy of those old grads to think to put us in the way of it once more," went on Sid. "We'll have to pass them a vote of thanks." Thus talking the boys went into the gymnasium, whence they emerged a little later, glowing, and feeling the spring and buoyancy of youth. "Hello, what's this?" asked Phil, as they entered their room, and saw some letters on the table. "From the girls!" cried Tom, as he saw a certain hand-writing. "Here, you've got mine!" declared Frank, making a grab for the epistle in Sid's hand. "Beg your pardon old man--so I have. I'll trade," and soon the four lads were busy perusing four notes. "They're going to have a dance," spoke Tom. "A week from to-night. Will we go? I guess yes! That is, I don't think we have any date for that evening." "If I have I'll break it," said Sid, quickly. "Listen to the old misogynist--him as wouldn't used to speak to a girl!" cried Phil. "Oh, what a change! What a change!" "Dry up!" commanded Sid, making a reach for his chum, who nimbly escaped by leaping behind the sofa. "Say, this is pretty indefinite," went on Tom. "They just ask us to come, and don't say who's to take who, or anything like that." "And there are a new lot of fellows at Fairview," said Frank. "I move that we go over and make sure of our girls. I don't want to get left." "I should have thought Ruth would be more definite," put in Phil. "But say, we've got time to run over and back before grub. Come on." Regardless of the fact that they had just come in from a hard row, they soon got into their "semi-best suits," as Sid called them, and hurried to the trolley that would land them at the co-educational institution. "There are the girls!" exclaimed Tom, who, being in the lead, as he and his chums crossed the campus a little later, saw the four; Ruth, Madge Tyler, Mabel Harrison and Helen Newton. They paired off--as they always did--and soon were walking in different directions. Tom was with Ruth Clinton, and after the matter of the dance had been settled, and she had agreed to accompany him, as doubtless the other girls had done for the other lads, the tall pitcher, with a glance at his pretty companion remarked: "New pin, Ruth? Where did you get it?" and he looked at her collar-fastening. "Hush!" she exclaimed, looking quickly around. "Don't tell Phil!" "Why not?" Tom wanted to know. "Doesn't he want you to have jewelry?" "Yes, but listen, you remember that dear old-fashioned brooch I used to wear? The one with the secret spring in the back, that, when you pressed on it, showed a little picture of me. Do you remember that?" "Do I? I should say I did! And how you dropped it at a dance once, and I had to crawl down under the palms in the conservatory to get it." "And you in your dress suit, poor boy!" and Ruth laughed. "I should say you might well remember it. But, Tom, this is serious," and she grew grave at once. "I've lost that brooch!" "Lost it--how?" "Or, rather, it's been stolen, and I don't dare tell Phil. You know the clasp was broken, or something was the matter with it. That's the reason it fell off that time you had to hunt for it." "And did it drop again? Tell me where, and I'll search until----" "No, Tom, it wouldn't do any good," and Ruth sighed. "Why not?" "Because it's been stolen!" "Stolen!" "Yes. Listen. I feel dreadfully about it. You know it was a gift from my grandmother. She is a dear, old-fashioned lady, and she has lots of lovely old-fashioned jewelry. She always said she disliked the present styles, and when she gave me that pin she made me promise to wear it, and never be ashamed of it, even if it was a century old. "Of course I promised, for the pin _was_ a beauty. And grandmother always said that if I took good care of it, and wore it whenever I went out, she would leave me her lovely string of pearls. Of course I would have worn the pin without that. And now it's been taken!" "Taken! By someone here at college?" "Hush, not so loud! I gave it to a jeweler, a Mr. Farson, in Haddonfield, to repair the clasp, and I just got word from him to-day that it was taken. So I had to buy another pin to fasten my collar with, and I'm so afraid Phil will notice it; or that grandmother may hear about it! She'll say I'm careless." "Did Farson have your brooch?" cried Tom. "Yes. Why?" "And did he tell you how it was taken?" "Well, he said it was taken with a lot of other things that he had collected from his customers to repair. He offered to get me another, but of course I never can get one like that." "Say!" exclaimed Tom, greatly excited. "Your pin must have been in that box he left in his motor-boat, when the craft was wrecked on Crest Island and when the Boxer Hall cups were taken. By Jove! This brings that robbery home to me all right!" and Tom looked strangely at Ruth. CHAPTER IX ON CREST ISLAND "What do you mean?" cried the girl, impressed by Tom's strange manner. "Why, didn't you hear? This jeweler had been going about collecting work for repairing, and left a lot of it in a box in his boat. Then he was called away suddenly, and remained away over night. A flood came up, swept his boat away, wrecked it on Crest Island, and we four fellows found it there. But the jewelry case was empty. Didn't you hear that--and about the Boxer Hall cups?" "I believe I did," answered Ruth, slowly. "But I did not know then, that my brooch was in that box. Oh, Tom, do you suppose it could be on Crest Island?" "I don't know, Ruth. The box was empty when we found it, and we think someone located it before we did, and rifled it." "Oh, Tom, my dear pin! If grandmother hears I've lost it she'll never forgive me--and then her pearls, too; not that I care so much about them, but this pin was given her by her husband, when they were courting, and she thought the world of it. It was made abroad, of a peculiar pattern, and never could be replaced. It was an heirloom, and she must have thought a lot of me to let me take it. "Oh, I just can't bear to tell her it is gone! Maybe we can find it. Perhaps it is on the island yet. Maybe it dropped from the box. Tell me; was Phil along when you found the box?" "Yes, but of course he didn't know that anything of yours was in it." "Then please don't tell him. He might think I ought to tell grandmother about it--he's so peculiar. And I _will_ tell her, if worse comes to worst, and I can't get it back. But, oh, Tom! do you suppose it could be on the island?" and she looked eagerly at him. "If it's there I'll find it!" declared the tall pitcher, perhaps with more zeal than discretion. "And don't you tell a soul!" "I won't," he promised. "Could you take me with you, Tom? I'd like to help you hunt for it." "Of course," he said, promptly. "The weather is getting fine now. We'll row over to the island some day, and make a search. But that pin isn't going to be easy to find." "No, I realize that, Tom. But it will make me feel better to help look for it. Oh, how careless of that jeweler to leave his things in the boat!" "It was, in a way, but he could not tell he was going to be summoned away, nor that the flood would come. I feel sorry for him." "So do I, but--I want my brooch back," and Ruth smiled at Tom. "Now don't say anything, and don't notice my new pin--at least in front of Phil," she stipulated. "If I can get the old one back, then it will be time enough to tell him. Oh, here he comes now, with Madge. Yes, I think the dance will be perfectly fine!" exclaimed Ruth, in loud tones, to change the conversation for the benefit of her brother and Madge. Tom took his cue instantly, and the four were soon engaged in a lively conversation, Ruth, meanwhile, telegraphing signals to Tom with her eyes, while she arranged a bit of her lace collar over the new pin, so that her brother would not notice it. Plans for the dance being duly made, the boys took a regretful departure. But it was high time, for Miss Philock sent one of the teachers to Ruth and the girls, to tell them that visiting hours were over. "Until the next time!" called the girls, as the boys walked off. "And, Tom," whispered Ruth, "don't forget." "I'll not!" he promised. "Hello, what's up between you and Sis?" asked Phil, quickly. "Oh, we're just arranging a little expedition," was the answer of his chum. But Tom could not carry out his plan of taking the girl to Crest Island the next day. It rained, and baseball practice was ordered in the cage at the gymnasium. As I do not, in this book, intend to devote much space to baseball at Randall (seeing that I have fully discussed several games in other books of this series), it is sufficient to say that all of our friends played on the varsity nine, together with some new students, and that Randall bade fair to win the championship at this time. Which she later did, though not without hard work. Then came several days of practice in the eight-oared shell, and in the four, the double, and singles, which had, in the meanwhile, been received. There was much enthusiasm, and Mr. Lighton had to press in as coaches some post-graduate students who knew rowing fairly well. But he himself gave his time to the eight. A number of other lads had been tried in it, and among those who had taken the first practice spin several shifts in position were made. But at last a fine, warm, sunny Spring day came, and Tom, after an early lecture one afternoon, arrayed himself in a costume suitable for rowing, and, with some cushions under his arm, set off for the boathouse. "Whither away?" asked Phil, as he surveyed his chum. "Oh, out for a row," and Tom strove to make his voice indifferent. "With cushions; eh? Want any company?" "No, thanks, old man. No offense, of course," he hastened to add, "but----" "None taken!" exclaimed Phil. "Guess I'll go get a girl myself." As Tom neared the boathouse he met Sid and Frank. "Want me to pull an oar?" asked the former, as he saw the tall pitcher. "No. I can manage," and Tom proceeded to get out a light boat. "I say, old man," put in Frank, with a wink at Sid. "Lend me one of those cushions; will you. I'm going----" "You're going to get one of your own!" interrupted Tom. "I need these." "You mean the lady does," added Sid, with a laugh. "Go on, you old deserter. We'll be going out in the shell, later." "Will you?" exclaimed Tom. "I wonder if I'd better--Oh, go and be hanged to you!" he added. "I'll get practice enough," and he got into the boat and rowed away. "Wonder where he's going?" spoke Frank. "Give it up," replied Sid. "Let's find Phil, and get ready for a spin." Meanwhile Tom made good time to Fairview, and found Ruth awaiting him, he having previously telephoned to her to be in readiness. "Oh, Tom, I wonder if we will have any luck?" she exclaimed, as they set off, her three girl chums watching her curiously. "I hope so," he answered, "but, really, I can't hold out much. A brooch is so small, and Crest Island is rather large. But we'll look near the place where the box lodged. The pin may still be there." It was not a short row to Crest Island, but Tom did not mind it. Indeed he was rather sorry when the place was reached. He lost no time in proceeding to the spot where he and his chums had picked up the jewelry box. The place seemed just the same, with no evidence of any other visitors. It was rather early for the Summer crowds to come, and none of the several cottages had opened. The two spent some time in making a careful search, beginning at the point where the wrecked boat had been found, and working along both shores--that is, after a search at the spot where the box had been picked up. But no brooch rewarded their efforts. "I guess you'll have to wait until the other things are located," said Tom. "Your pin may be among them." "Let's walk on a little farther," proposed Ruth. "I want to look at Madge Tyler's cottage." "Has Madge a cottage here?" asked the lad, in surprise. "Her people have taken one for the Summer. Madge has invited us girls to spend several weeks with her. Where are you boys going this vacation?" "To Crest Island!" replied Tom promptly, though, a moment before, he had had not the slightest idea. "Oh, you're just _saying_ that!" challenged Ruth. "No, really I'm not!" he insisted. "If you girls are going to cottage here, I don't see why we can't camp. Other fellows do." "Oh, it would be nice, of course," she admitted, as they strolled along. "There's the Tyler place," called Ruth a little later. "I recognize the description. Isn't it lovely?" "Fine!" agreed Tom. "And that looks like a good camping place," and he indicated a spot not far off. They soon gave up looking for the lost brooch, which, as Ruth said, was like searching for a needle in a haystack. They strolled some distance on the island, admiring the Summer cottages that would soon be open, and then turned back. Not far from the spot where Tom and his chums had found the rifled jewelry box Tom saw a sort of shack, or small hut, off between the trees. "I wonder whose that is?" he ventured. "Let's go take a look." "It doesn't seem very inviting," returned Ruth. "Perhaps some boatmen live there." The shack was deserted, but a look through the grimy windows showed that it probably had an occupant, for there were some dishes on a table, some pans on a rusty stove, and, in through another room, could be seen some bunks. "Probably a caretaker for the cottages," suggested Ruth, as she rested her hand on a window-sill, and idly pulled out some threads that had caught in a splinter. "Rather a strange sort of caretaker," she went on, "who wears silk--see, these are silk threads," and she held up a number, brightly colored. "Where did you get those?" asked Tom, and the girl started at the strange note in his voice. "On the window sill," she explained. "Why?" "Oh--nothing," was his answer, but she noted that he took the threads from her, and carefully put them in a card case. "They might do to make a fishing fly with," he explained, after a pause. "Oh," she said. They strolled around to the front door of the building to find it locked. "There's someone's card," remarked Ruth, as she touched a bit of pasteboard with the toe of her shoe. "Maybe it was on the door, telling at what hour the person who lives here would return." "Maybe," agreed Tom, stooping to pick it up. "I'll fasten it back again. I wonder who does live here?" Idly he turned the card over. Then he started in surprise, for the name that met his eyes was: _Reginald Boswell_ "Who is it?" asked Ruth. "Anyone I know?" "I--I fancy not," answered Tom, still staring at the card. "I wonder how that got here?" he mused. "And I wonder who lives in this shack?" and putting the bit of pasteboard in his pocket, he swung around. "I guess we'd better be getting back," he said to Ruth. "It's getting late, and it's a bit of a pull. I'm sorry we couldn't find your brooch." "So am I," she admitted, with a sigh. "But it can't be helped. Oh, _how_ can I tell grandmother?" She took Tom's arm, as the way was rough. They had not gone many feet before they heard someone approaching, tramping through the underbrush. "Who can that be?" asked the girl. "I don't know--we'll look," whispered Tom. CHAPTER X THE GAY HANDKERCHIEF "Who are you--what you do here?" The question was snapped out at Tom and Ruth as they stood near the shack. A man had come to an abrupt halt as he emerged from the bushes and faced them; something of fear, Tom thought, mingled with anger showing on his face. It was this man whom they had heard approaching, a man clad in ordinary garments, yet with an indefinable foreign air about him--an air that was accentuated by his words and inflection. He was dark of skin, swarthy, and when he smiled, which he did a moment after his rather harsh words of greeting, his very white teeth showed beneath a small black moustache. A Spaniard Tom put him down for, or a Mexican. The latter guess proved correct, as the lad learned afterward. "You come here to--to--pardon, senor, I am forgetting my manners," went on the fellow with a bow, and a sharp glance at Ruth. "You are here perhaps to look at cottages--you and your charming bride." Ruth drew in her breath sharply, and a rosy glow suffused her face. She did not look at Tom, who chuckled audibly. "I--I'll never speak to you if you do that again," said the girl, in a low voice. "Do what?" asked Tom, innocently enough. "Laugh at--at what he said," and she still blushed, and refused to look up. "Pardon, senor," went on the man. "No offense, but----" "That's all right," said Tom easily, master of himself now, but wondering much who the man might be. "We were just looking around. Some friends of ours have a cottage here--the Tylers----" "Oh, yes. Then you are very welcome. In fact you would be welcome anyhow, as this island is more or less of the public--what you say, I have not the very good English?" and he looked questioningly at them. "Oh, you mean that it is open to the public." "That is so, yes, senor, and senorita. You are interested in my poor abode here--yes?" "Oh, we were just looking around," explained Tom. "We did peep in. No harm, I hope." "None at all, senor." "I'm from Randall," the pitcher went on. "Miss Clinton is from Fairview." "Oh, you are fellow students then?" "Not exactly--say, rather--rivals," and Tom looked at Ruth and laughed. The blush had somewhat subsided. "Ah, I comprehend. I am Rafello Mendez, at your service, senor." "My name is Parsons," went on Tom. "Sorry I haven't a card," and he thought of the one he had picked up, which he had quickly thrust into his pocket at the sound of approaching footsteps. "I am what you call the take-care man around here," went on Mendez. "I am the take-care man of the cottages--not all--some." "The 'take-care' man," murmured Tom. "It sounds like the bugaboo-man." "Oh, he means the care-taker," exclaimed Ruth. "I understand. You look after the property while the cottagers are away; isn't that it?" and she smiled at the man, who bowed low and answered: "The senorita has said it. I am the take-care man." "But I thought old Jake Blasdell had that job," said Tom. "I know he used to be here. But I never knew he had this shack, though I haven't been much on this part of the island." "Senor Blasdell did was the take-care man," explained Mendez. "But he was took sick, and had to leave, and a friend got me the place. Me, I used to be of the sheep take-care in my country--Mexico, but I long for this country and I come. I do what you call a business on the edge." "On the edge?" murmured Tom. "Yes, senor, on the edge. Or maybe you say on the point. You see he is like this: I am the take-care man for the cottages in place of Senor Blasdell in Winter. In Summer I am the cut-the-grass-man or the garden-man, what you like. Then, besides, in addition, on the edge I sell things in my store which it is unfortunately not open now, or I should show the senorita some pretty things. The store I do on the edge--or maybe on the point, I know not how you say," and he shrugged his shoulders expressively. "Oh, he means on the side!" cried Ruth. "Don't you understand, Tom? He is a caretaker, and at odd times he sells things to the Summer cottagers." "The senorita has said it," went on Mendez. "It is on the side, not on the edge--pardon!" "What do you sell?" asked Tom, curiously. "Everything. Things from the country. Of a specialty I have the beautiful Mexican push-work, senorita." "Push-work, that's another new one," said Tom. "I guess he means Mexican drawn-work," explained Ruth with a smile. "Some of it is very beautiful. He ought to do a good business here in the Summer." "I should, if I had all customers like the senorita," said the man with a bow to Ruth, again showing his white teeth in an expansive smile. "I am covered with confusion that I can show her none now. But it is all put away. Perhaps, though, if you wait----" "No, we must be moving on!" interrupted Tom. "It is getting late. And so you live here all Winter?" "Yes, senor. This little hut was part of the place where Senor Blasdell used to stay. It was donated to me. I moved it here when I succeeded Senor Blasdell, and added to it. It is very comfortable. I have been over to the main land for some supplies, and when I come back I see you. At first I am suspicious, for which I ask your pardon. You are always welcome, the senor and senorita," and again he bowed. "Thanks, Mr. Mendez," said Tom, rather carelessly, for somehow he did not like the fellow. "We may see you this Summer. Some of us fellows may camp here." "Then I shall be pleased to show you some fine Mexican leather work. Perhaps a lariat, spurs, bridles, and some fine silver work for the pretty senoritas, is it not?" and the fellow smiled genially. "Good-bye!" called Tom. "Come along, Ruth. I'll have to hit up the oars going home or I'll have you so late that you'll get on the bad books of the Ogress." "Oh, I'm there already," she replied, as she nodded to the Mexican, who bowed low in farewell. "All our crowd is, but we don't mind. Now, Tom, did you really mean what you said about going to camp on Crest Island this Summer?" "I do, if I can get the other fellows to do it. I know they will, too, for we'll be near our rowing shells, and we can have the best kind of practice." "Oh, is _that_ the only reason you want to come here?" and she looked archly at him. "Why, isn't that----" he began and then a light dawned on him. "I guess we wouldn't come if you girls weren't to be here," he added, quickly. "When I tell the fellows that, I know it will cinch matters. Oh, we'll come all right." They reached their boat, embarked, and Tom was soon sculling away from the island. "Queer chap--that Mendez," remarked the youth after a bit. "Isn't he?" agreed Ruth. "I didn't know those Mexicans were so thrifty," the rower went on. "Being a 'care-take' man and doing Mexican 'push-work' on the 'edge'. Pretty good; eh?" "Yes," laughed Ruth. "I can see where we girls will spend a great deal of our time this Summer." "So can I," declared her companion, boldly. "With us fellows." "Oh, you're not at all conceited; are you?" "I didn't know it," went on Tom, tantalizingly. "But say, do you know I didn't much like that fellow, for all his fine airs." "Why not, pray? I thought him quite polite." "He was--altogether too polite," murmured the lad, with a little more force than seemed necessary. "I don't like foreigners, anyhow." "Well, I could forgive anyone, even a foreigner, if I could get back my brooch," sighed Ruth. "I don't know what I'm going to do about it." "It is too bad," agreed Tom. "Now, Ruth, we won't say anything about what happened to-day, and if you promise not to tell, I'll whisper a secret." "Oh, Tom, of course I won't tell--you know that!" and she looked reproachfully at him. "Of course--I was only joking. Well, we four fellows are trying to do a little detective work, and recover the stolen jewelry." "You are?" "Yes, and if we do we may get back your brooch." "Oh, I hope you do!" and she clapped her hands in spontaneous delight. "Do you think you will, Tom?" "Hard to tell, Ruth. There aren't many clues to work on. At least there weren't until to-day----" "Oh, did you find some to-day, Tom? Tell me, I'm so fascinated with detective work! Did you really see some clue that escaped me?" "Ahem! Detectives never talk about their cases, or tell about their clues!" he exclaimed, with exaggerated gravity. "Tom Parsons!" "Well, really, I don't know whether I did find a clue or not, Ruth. I'm going to think about it over night. If you can help me I won't hesitate to call on you." "Will you, really, Tom? That's good of you. And now I'm afraid you'll have to row a little faster. It _is_ getting quite late." "All right," agreed the lad, as he bent to the oars. As he rowed his thoughts went to the card in his pocket and to the strands of silk from the gay handkerchief. Fortunately Ruth was not so late that Miss Philock found fault. Tom proved himself a good rower, though after he had said good-bye he took the course easy on the way to Randall. "Some sculling," he told himself, as he tied up the boat and, in the dusk of the late Spring evening, walked toward his room. "This ought to stand me in good stead for the eight. My muscles are hardening," and he felt of his biceps. He was in extraordinarily good training from his baseball work. As he was about to enter the building where he and his chums had their rooms, he saw Boswell approaching. Tom's mind flashed to the card he had picked up at the shack. "I wonder what he could have been doing there?" the tall pitcher mused. "If Mendez didn't have his store open and his stock ready for sale, how could Bossy have bought any? And, if he didn't go there to buy anything, why did he go at all? I give it up." There was no time for further speculation just then, as the rich lad, with a nod, addressed Tom. "Where were you?" he asked with an air of familiarity that Tom rather resented in a Freshman. "We had a fine row in the eight. I'm almost sure of bow, and Lighton may shift me to stroke, or number seven." "Yes?" questioned Tom indifferently, yet resolving to make a brave struggle not to let this usurper put him out of his place in the boat. "Sure thing. I'm coming on fine, and I've got a dandy scheme for keeping in trim this Summer." "Yes?" "Yes. Our folks are going to take a cottage on Crest Island, and----" "You are?" and Tom fairly exploded the words. "Surest thing you know, though it's a beastly slow and unfashionable place. We usually go to the shore. We have one cottage there, and another in the White Mountains, but I persuaded dad to take one at Crest for the Summer, just so I could be near the water here and get familiar with the course we'll row next Fall. Nothing like knowing the course, old man, really." "No, I suppose not," and Tom's mind was busy with many things. With Boswell on the island, matters might not be so pleasant as he had anticipated. "That's right. I'm going to get a professional coach, too." "You are?" Tom's voice was still indifferent, but Boswell did not notice it. "Sure thing. When I go in for a thing I go in hard, and I'm going into this rowing game for keeps." "Well, I hope we all do," and Tom tried to be pleasant as he turned away. "See you later," murmured the Freshman, in a patronizing tone, and, as he turned aside he drew from his pocket a gaudy handkerchief. At the sight of it Tom stared, for it was the same pattern as the strip of silk found near the looted jewelry box. Tom stared at it intently as the rich lad flourished it. "By Jove!" suddenly exclaimed Boswell, "I've got that torn handkerchief again," and he held it up, showing where a strip had evidently been ripped from it. "I've got two," he explained, "and this one got torn the other day. I thought I laid it aside, but, in my hurry, I must have grabbed it up." "How--how'd you tear it?" asked Tom, when he could trust his voice. "Oh, it caught on a nail down at the boathouse, and a piece was ripped off." "Why--why couldn't you have it sewed on?" asked Tom. "What? Carry a mended handkerchief? I guess not. Anyhow the piece fell in the water and floated away. Hope you'll be in the eight next time we practice, though I may get your place." "Maybe," answered Tom, and he did not take the trouble to designate which clause the word modified. CHAPTER XI THE FIRST BREAK "Say, where in the name of Diogenes's lantern have you been, Tom?" "Yes, come in you musty old deserter, and give an account of yourself. You've been away so long that you must have forgotten the counter-sign." "It was a girl, fellows--I can smell the perfumery!" Thus Sid, Phil and Frank greeted the advent of our hero into the common room, soon after he had left Boswell. Tom's brain had been so busy with so many thoughts, after the sight of that torn handkerchief, that he had eaten scarcely any supper, though his appetite just before that had been of the best. "Shove over; can't you?" was all Tom said to Phil, who was stretched out on the old sofa. "Sure I can. What's the matter? Got a grouch!" "No, but I'm dead tired." "Be careful how you flop," warned Sid, as he watched with anxiety Tom's preparations to sit down. "That sofa doesn't gain strength with age--it isn't like cheese in that respect." "Where were you?" asked Phil, as Tom managed to find a resting place without bringing forth from the sofa more than a protesting groan, and a series of squeaks. "Ruth and I were out for a row," said Tom shortly, knowing that the truth would out sooner or later, and having nothing to conceal. "Oh, ho!" exclaimed Sid. "Where'd you go?" asked Phil, with brotherly interest. "Crest Island. That's what kept me so long. I got her home in good season though, and rowed slow the rest of the way." "Crest Island!" exclaimed Frank. "Did you find any more clues, Tom?" The tall pitcher hesitated. He was in two minds about what had taken place that afternoon. Should he tell his chums the secret he thought he had discovered, and get their opinions in working it out? Or should he play a lone hand? A moment's thought convinced him. He would tell all--that is, all save Ruth's secret. That he had no right to divulge. "Well?" asked Frank, as his chum hesitated. "Did you find anything, Tom?" "I sure did, fellows," and he tossed on the table the card of Boswell, and the strands of silk. For a moment no one spoke, and then Sid, picking up the card remarked: "This looks suspicious, Tom. Did you and Bossy quarrel over a girl, and go to Crest Island to have a duel? It begins to look that way--exchanging cards and all that." "We didn't exchange cards," said Tom shortly. "I found that card near a shack where a caretaker lives. And, by the way, fellows, we're going to camp on Crest Island this Summer." "We are?" cried Phil. "I like the nice, easy way he has of laying out our vacation plans for us," remarked Sid. "Just as if he was our manager," added Frank. "Well, I only thought it would be handy if we want to practice rowing," went on Tom, holding back the other reason. "We could get a boat, and drop down to college here every day or so, take out the shell and have a spin. If we want to beat Boxer Hall we've got to do some tall hustling, and practice like all get-out!" "Oh, I fancy I can practice rowing on Crystal Lake, where our folks intend taking a cottage," said Sid. "No Crest Island for mine!" "The girls are going to cottage there," went on Tom, with a fine appearance of indifference. "Madge Tyler's folks have a neat little shack there, and Ruth, Helen and Mabel are going to spend some time with her." "They are!" cried Frank. "Why didn't you say so at first?" asked Sid, indignantly. "I--er--I guess I can fix it to camp there," spoke Phil, just as if he had never intended spending his vacation at any other place. "Oh, you fellows were so sure you knew your own business that I didn't want to butt in," went on the pitcher. "But, boys, what do you think of that?" and he indicated the card and silk. "It's the same material," spoke Frank after a bit, as he compared the shreds Tom had pulled from the window-sill of the shack on the island, with the torn strip found near the looted jewelry box. "And what would you say if I told you that Bossy had a handkerchief of that same pattern, with a strip torn off?" asked Tom, slowly. "Has he?" asked Frank, looking sharply at his chum. "He has." "Then, by crimps! He's the fellow who has the cups and jewelry!" cried Sid. "Go easy," advised Phil. "That's the worst of you--always jumping to conclusions." "And why shouldn't I, when I can land on 'em as easily as I can on this one? Isn't it as plain as can be?" "Not altogether. We'd make fine specimens of ourselves if we went and accused him on this evidence. You say, Tom, that you found this card near the Mexican's shack?" "Yes. And the shreds of silk there, too. It looks to me as if Bossy had been there to buy a handkerchief. Two of 'em, if we're to believe him. The Mexican probably has them as well as his 'push-work' as he calls it," and he told all the circumstances of the visit to the island, omitting only the search for Ruth's brooch. "I guess that part is right," admitted Frank. "I mean about Bossy going there to buy one of these gay handkerchiefs. But just because he did doesn't make him guilty. In fact, what object would he have in taking some trophy cups that he could get very little for if they were melted up, and nothing for, if he tried to sell them as they were? No one would buy them, for on the face of them they show what they are. Some were engraved with the Boxer Hall fellows' names. And the other jewelry wasn't so very valuable. Bossy wouldn't have any object in taking that. He's got more money now, than is good for him." "He might have been gambling, and gotten short of cash, and been afraid of asking his folks," suggested Sid, remembering an ordeal he had gone through in having a relative under similar circumstances, as I related in "Batting to Win." "I don't believe it," declared Frank. "To my mind I'd sooner suspect this Mendez. He seems a fishy sort of character." "Oh, I think he's straight," declared Tom. "I made some inquiries about him while I was having grub. It seems some of the fellows here have been buying stuff of him--last year when he was traveling around the country. He bears a good reputation, and Hendell's father, who owns part of Crest Island, was telling me that the property owners looked up his record well before they let him succeed old Jake Blasdell as caretaker." "Hum!" mused Frank. "It doesn't look as easy as it did at first, in spite of these clues, Tom." "That's right. Say, I'm not as much of a detective as I thought. I wonder if that jeweler could be double-crossing us?" "What do you mean?" asked Sid. "I mean could he have lost the box of jewelry overboard before his boat was carried away by the flood? If he did, he could make up the story that he left it in the locker, and that someone else got it when the boat was wrecked." "That's possible, though not probable," admitted Frank. "Fellows, my advice is that we put these things away, and forget all about them to-night. In the morning we may see matters clearer. I've got to do some boning anyhow. Put 'em away, Tom." Soon only the ticking of the fussy, little alarm clock was heard, mingled with the rattle of paper as books were leafed or as the lads wrote out their lessons. Even the clock stopped after a bit, and the sudden silence was so startling that Phil exclaimed: "She's run down! Hope nothing's the matter with her," and he picked up the timepiece with an anxious face. "Probably got toothpickitis," suggested Tom. "Give it a shake." Phil did so, with the result that a piece of toothpick did fall out, and then the clock went on ticking again. "That's better," sighed Phil, though often he had objected to the incessant noise. "It would be like losing an old friend if that went back on us." He settled into the depths of one of the old armchairs, Sid being in another, while Frank, who had succeeded to the sofa stretched out luxuriously on that, having ousted Tom, who, on a stool drawn up to the table, was making an ancient war map that was to be used in class the next day. Morning brought no clearer view to the puzzling problem of the clues to the missing jewelry, and, having all agreed to keep silent about the matter, the lads laid aside the articles and hurried to chapel. In the several days that followed nothing new in that line developed. There came several baseball contests, in which Tom and his chums distinguished themselves. The long vacation was approaching, and more or less "boning" had to be done if the lads intended to pass their examinations. All these things, with the rowing practice, kept them busy so that Tom, as was the case with the others, had little chance to see the girls. The other second-hand rowing craft were made good use of, and those who were to go in the four were practically picked. So were the singles and doubles, though of course a change might be made in the Fall, when new material would come to Randall. All eyes, and most of the interest, however, was on and in the eight. On this Randall built her hopes of becoming champion of the river and lake league. Though when word came of the fast time made by Boxer Hall and Fairview in their practice spins, there were doubtful shakes of the head, for Randall was nowhere near as good. Then came the annual Boxer Hall-Fairview races. It was about an even thing between the two colleges, until it came time for the eight-oared contest. There was even a tub race, and the boys at Randall decided to have one when it came time for them to take part in the regatta. But Boxer won the eight with ease over Fairview, and when Mr. Lighton, who with most of those who had practiced in Randall's big shell, witnessed the exciting finish, he shook his head. "We've got to do some tall hustling," he remarked, "and make some changes. I'll start in on them to-morrow." There was a larger number than usual at practice on Sunny River the next day. All Randall seemed to be at the boathouse. Adjoining the old one a start had already been made on erecting the new structure, presented by the alumni. Word had been received that the new shells would be ready in ample time for the Fall races. "Young men!" exclaimed Coach Lighton, as the eight was slipped into the water, "I'm going to make some radical changes in the crew, and I want none of you to feel sore, because, you know, it is for the good of the college. We have not been rowing well, of late, and there are several faults to correct. The boat hangs a bit, and is a trifle heavy by the stern. She drags. I know one reason for this, it is my own weight, and so I am going to suggest that you now try one of yourselves as coxswain. I am a little too 'beefy' for the place. "Jerry Jackson, you take the tiller ropes. You've had more practice than any of the others, and you're too light to hope to be at the oars." "All right," agreed Jerry, cheerfully. After all it was an honor to steer the eight. "Simpson, you'll stay at stroke, and, Parsons, I'm going to send you back a bit. No offense, but you're not quite quick enough in picking up the stroke. I think it's your baseball arm that's at fault. Molloy, you take Parsons' place, and Tom will go number three. From three, Henderson will go to bow. He's about the right weight for there when we get Jackson in as coxswain. And, Jerry, you'll want to shift your seat a bit aft, to make up for the extra weight they've been carrying in me. That will make a good change, I think." There was some murmuring over the changes, and obviously nearly all were pleased. Molloy especially, for he had been fretting lest he be kept out of the eight. As for Tom he was rather glad, on the whole, that he did not have the responsibility of picking up Frank's stroke, for it was a responsibility, and it was telling on him. He had begun to realize that his baseball pitching had made him a bit awkward in one arm. "Say, where do I come in?" suddenly asked Boswell. "I was at bow, and now--I'm nowhere, Mr. Lighton." "I'll work you in another crew, Boswell," said the coach, sharply. "But I want to be in the varsity." "This isn't the varsity any more than any other collection of eight rowers is. The varsity isn't picked yet, and won't be until the Fall." "Well, this looks very much like the varsity to me," sneered Boswell. "All the fellows in it are on the varsity nine----" "That'll do you!" said the coach, snappily. "Then I'm not to row at bow?" "Not in this eight." "Then I don't row at all!" and, with a fierce glance at the selected rowers, the rich lad turned sharply and walked off to the dressing rooms. "The first break," murmured Tom. "Take your places," spoke the coach, quietly. "I'm going to follow you in the launch. Jackson, make 'em do as you tell 'em!" CHAPTER XII A FRIENDLY BRUSH There was a small motor-boat, the property of the rowing association at Randall, having been acquired since the new interest in racing, and several times Mr. Lighton had used it to coach the lads in the fours, singles or doubles, running alongside of them. He now proposed to make use of it to coach the eight, since this was the first time (save for a few practice runs of short length) that he had not acted as coxswain. In the latter tries Jerry Jackson had steered, and, as he owned a motor-boat of his own, which he ran every Summer, he was an apt pupil. Little was said of the changes made, until the shell was well out in the river, and then Phil, who was, in the new arrangement, next to Tom, remarked: "How do you like it, and what do you think of it?" "I think Bossy was a calf to show his temper that way, and I like it here better than in the stern. I can row better when I don't have to worry about picking up Frank's stroke." "Say, but he's a peach at it!" exclaimed Sid, admiringly, from his place at bow oar. "Silence in the bows!" came the sharp command of Jerry Jackson. "Listen to him," spoke Bricktop, who was at number seven. "That won't do, boys!" came the sharp voice of the coach, as he ran his little launch up alongside. "If you're not going to accord to Jackson, while he is in the position of coxswain, the same respect you gave me, you might as well give up rowing now and for all. You can't talk and row. You need too much breath for the latter. So if you want to talk, and gibe the coxswain, then the place for you is on shore." "Right!" exclaimed Sid. "I'll be good." "Same here," came from Tom. "I beg your pardon, coxswain," said Phil. Bricktop Molloy, grinning while the sweat ran down from his forehead, outlined in red hair, into his eyes, whispered: "What you say, goes!" And then Bricktop, being as loyal a Randallite as there was, proceeded to row as he had never before, while Frank set a killing stroke. The little lesson was not wasted. Running along in the launch, by means of which he could keep close to the shell, Mr. Lighton gave valuable advice. He could do it to better advantage now that he was not in the boat. "Cut 'em down some," advised the coach, after Frank's little spurt. "About twenty-eight a minute will do now. We'll try a ten-mile bit to-day." Some of the lads felt their hearts sink at this. Eight had been the limit so far, but they realized that they were in for a grilling, and they stiffened their backs to it. "Row out your strokes," went on the coach. "Use every ounce of strength you have, and remember that your muscular force, applied at the beginning, does ten times the work as if you put it in at the end. Keep together. Get the oars in the water at the same time, and out together. "Feather a bit higher--the water is rough to-day and you don't want to splash. Try to imagine you are all a part of one man rowing in a small boat. Make your oars rise and fall together. They're a bit ragged now." With such good advice did the coach urge on the lads, and they responded nobly. In a short time, though the rowing had gone a bit awkwardly at first, there was a noticeable improvement. As Mr. Lighton had said, the boat had been a bit heavy aft, and had dragged. With his weight gone, and with a lighter coxswain, and with the other changes, there was great improvement. Instead of hanging in the water the shell seemed to glide through it at a steady rate. There was no jerking progress, but a steady onward movement, the perfection of rowing. "Get a little more into the finish of the stroke!" called the coach at one point. "You must get the beginning of the stroke with the body only, but finish with the arms and shoulders. Send your elbows past your sides. Drop your shoulders, but keep up your heads and chests." Thus he corrected fault after fault, until on the return from that row not a lad but felt he had made great improvement. They were all grateful for the change, even Tom, who had been shifted from the post of most honor, next to the stroke. Of course, Boswell, who, like Achilles, sulked in his room, could not be expected to be happy. "It wasn't a fair thing," he declared to his chum, Elwood Pierce. "I ought to have been kept at bow, or they might have made me stroke." "That's right, old chap," agreed Elwood. "But what can you expect of such beastly rotters? It wouldn't be that way over in Oxford." Rumor had it that Pierce had tried to enter Oxford, but had failed miserably. He always declared that the English climate did not agree with him. The Randall eight was within a few miles of their boathouse when the rowers saw approaching around the bend of the stream the Fairview eight, swinging along at a good pace. Instantly there came into the minds of all the same thought. Mr. Lighton who was alongside, must have realized it, for he called out: "I won't mind if you have a brush with them, if they're willing. But don't get too excited or anxious over it." "Ready!" called Jerry Jackson. Not get excited! As well tell a racehorse not to gallop when he hears the pit-pat of hoofs behind him. The hearts of all quickened. On came the Fairview eight out for a final practice spin. Their season was over, but they were keeping in training for the races in the Fall. "Want a brush?" asked Jerry of Roger Barns, who was coxswain. "Sure!" came the reply. "And we'll give you a start." "We don't want it!" snapped Tom. "Even terms or nothing!" "That's right!" murmured Frank, as he took a tighter grip on his oar. The two eights were now on even terms. Mr. Lighton, with a final nod of encouragement, steered his craft out of the way. "Give way, boys!" cried Jerry, as he grasped the tiller lines. "Show 'em how we row, even if Boxer Hall did beat us!" called Roger. With eager strokes the lads took up the race, and, though it was but a friendly brush it meant more to Randall than any realized, save those thinly-clad lads in the shell. It was their first chance to see what they could do against a formidable rival. CHAPTER XIII THE LONG VACATION "Come on now, fellows! Hit her up!" exclaimed Jerry Jackson, in a low voice. "No, not yet!" whispered Frank, as he bent forward in his place at stroke until he was nearer the lad at the tiller ropes. "Feel 'em out first, Jerry. Don't go breaking our hearts in the first mile. We've got a good ways to go in this little race, and the spurt will come toward the end, if I'm not mistaken. It would be pie for them if we rowed ourselves out, and then they would simply spurt past us. They're older hands at it than we are." "I guess you're right, Frank," admitted Jerry, who took the advice in good part. He had not been acting as coxswain long enough to feel resentment that his orders were not obeyed. He realized, also, that the lads at the oars had all the work to do, and, as it was not a regular race, when the coxswain had to be the general, it was no more than fair that the ones who had to do the labor should have a voice in saying how it was to be done. "Wait until we--get into a--good swing. Let us pull at--this stroke--for a while," went on Frank, speaking rather jerkily, and whispering every time his head came close to Jerry, in leaning forward to make his stroke. "Watch 'em, and when--you think we can spurt--then give--the word." "All right," assented the coxswain. He looked over at the Fairview shell, and noted that Roger Barns, the coxswain, was closely regarding the Randall eight. "They're sizing us up," thought Jerry. "Well, we may not be such a muchness now, but by Hector! When we start in regular training this Fall, if we don't make 'em sit up and notice which side their tea is buttered on I'm a Dutchman, and that's no wallflower at a dance, either!" and Jerry shut his lips firmly and felt delicately of the tiller lines, shifting the rudder slightly to learn that the shell was in good control. She responded to the lightest touch, being indeed a well-built craft and as light as a feather, though with sufficient stiffness--that quality always hard to get in a frail shell. The two racing machines were now moving swiftly along, being about on even terms. Now and then, seemingly in response to a signal from their coxswain, the Fairview lads would hang back a bit, allowing the Randall shell to creep up. Evidently it was a little trick, played with the hope that Randall would spurt, and give her rivals an opportunity to sweep ahead of them in splendid style, thus winning the impromptu race. If such was the intention Randall did not bite at the bait, for Frank, in a few whispered words to Jerry, advised him not to signal for a quicker stroke. "Say, is this a race or a crocheting party?" grumbled big Dutch Housenlager. "Vat you t'ink, Kindlings." "I'm thinking that--I'm--getting winded," panted Dan Woodhouse. "Silence up there!" exclaimed Jerry, sharply. "It isn't a talking match, whatever else it is! You'll get all the race you want pretty soon. We're coming to a good stretch and I think they'll hit it up there. Be ready for the word, fellows." "Say, boys, he talks; but he won't let us!" complained Bricktop, winking at Jerry. "That means you!" insisted the coxswain. He glanced ahead. The launch with the coach had speeded off and was some distance up the river now, evidently waiting for the finish of the little brush. The talk in the Randall eight had been carried on in low tones, for sounds carry wonderfully clear over water, and the lads, realizing this, did not want their rivals to hear them. Jerry stole another glance at the Fairview eight, and, unconsciously, probably, nearly every Randall man did likewise. The result was some uneven and ragged rowing, and a bit of splashing. "Eyes in the boat!" came the sharp command from the little coxswain. "Oh, you tyrant!" breathed Bricktop Molloy, but his smile took the sting from the words. An instant later Jerry detected a movement in the rival shell. "The spurt is coming!" he reasoned. "We must be ready for it!" He hesitated but an instant, and then, as he noted Roger Barns straighten up slightly in his coxswain seat, and take a fresh grip on the tiller ropes, Jerry called: "Ready boys! Hit her up. Thirty to the minute!" At once the Randall shell shot forward almost as though raised from the water, for the oars caught evenly and every man fairly lifted himself from his seat, to urge the craft ahead. "Come on, now!" cried Jerry. "Keep it up!" He swayed his body to indicate the time of the stroke, and he was pleased to note that all the lads in the shell were rowing in unison. The blades of the oars dipped well--not too deeply--and the feathering, while it might have been better, was fair for a raw crew. Jerry stole one look over to the Fairview eight, and noted that he had not been mistaken. They, too, had spurted at the same time. Randall had not been caught napping. For several minutes this kept up, and Fairview could not seem to shake off her rival, and shoot ahead. Then a command could be heard given in that shell. What it was Jerry could not catch, but he saw the time of the Fairview rowers quicken. "Can you stand another stroke or two, boys?" he asked in a low voice. Frank nodded without speaking. Indeed his breath, as well as the breath of his companions, was all needed for the work. "A little livelier," ordered Jerry, and he added two more strokes to the minute. Of course the effect was not so great as before, but it told, and Fairview, which had begun creeping ahead, was held in check by Randall. Another minute passed, and then the superior training and practice of Fairview told. Slowly she forged ahead, and nothing the Randall lads could do could prevent it. They were at their limit now, or at least the limit to which Jerry dared push them. With straining eyes he shot a quick glance across, and noted with despair that Fairview was a good quarter of a length ahead. Another minute and she was a half. "One more stroke!" pleaded the coxswain, and Frank nodded desperately. Slowly Randall began creeping up again, but it could not last. And then came a narrow turn in the river, a rather dangerous place with cross currents. "Easy all!" called Roger Barns, and his crew ceased rowing. It was a signal that the impromptu race was over. "Easy all!" commanded Jerry, with a sigh that they had not won. But at that Fairview was only a scant quarter of a length in advance. Randall had been beaten, but not by much. "Congratulations!" called Roger to his rival steersman. "You're coming on, Randall." "Oh, we'll beat you in the Fall," retorted Jerry, cheerfully. "We'd have walked away from you if it hadn't been the tail end of the season," declared Hadfield Spencer, the Fairview stroke. "We're not in training." "Oh, don't crawl," said the coxswain. "They rowed a good race." And this was praise indeed, from no mean rival, and from the coxswain of a crew that had given Boxer Hall, the river champions, a hard race. "Well done, boys! Well done!" exclaimed Coach Lighton, as he came puffing up in his launch. "You did better than I expected you would. Fairview, we'll be ready for you in the Fall." "We'll take you on all right," replied Roger Barns, with a genial laugh. "And you steered exceedingly well, Jackson," went on the coach, as the Fairview shell pulled off. "I was afraid you would spurt too soon, but you held yourself well in." "I was watching the other fellows," said Jerry. "That's the way to do," was the comment. "Now take it easy to the float." There was talk all through Randall that night of the performance of the eight. "I think we have just the right crew now," confided the coach to Dr. Churchill, when he went to dine with the venerable head of Randall. "Ah, I am exceedingly glad to hear that. It will be a source of gratification to the alumni who have so generously provided for the racing material. And you say our boys nearly won from Fairview? How many innings did the game go? What was the score, and did Parsons pitch?" "Ah--er--my dear Doctor,--er--we were talking about the crew," said the coach, delicately. "Oh, yes, so we were," admitted the good doctor, in some confusion. "I was thinking of football, was I not? And so we have a good crew. Hum! Very well. I am so occupied with my translations of those Assyrian tablets that I fear my mind wanders at times." At times! Ah, Dr. Churchill, more often than "at times" did your mind wander! But what of that? It was keen enough on all occasions, though running in various channels, as many an old graduate will testify. The practice at Randall went on. There were sore hearts, but it could not be helped when the lads who thought they should be picked for the tentative crews, or for the singles, were passed by. For Mr. Lighton was impartial, and insisted on only the best no matter at what cost. Perhaps sorest of all was Boswell, he who had been displaced from what had come to be regarded as the varsity eight, though, as the coach pointed out, there might be changes in the Fall. Boswell was ordered into what was termed the "second" eight, but refused to go. "I may not row at all," he said loftily to his crony, Pierce. "Or I may go in the singles." "I would," suggested the latter. "My word! A man's his own boss in a single." "I'll think of it," replied Boswell. Examinations came, with all their grilling and nerve-racking tendencies, and were more or less successfully gotten through with by our friends and their chums. Then came the long vacation. CHAPTER XIV OFF FOR CAMP "See you soon again, old man!" "Yes, we'll get together in a couple of weeks. I've got to spend some time with the folks." "I'll write when I have the camp site all arranged for." "And don't forget to plan for plenty of grub!" "I want a soft cot, anyhow." "Say, what about the girls? I suppose there's no doubt about their going to Crest Island?" and Sid Henderson, who asked this question, interpolating it among half a dozen others, as well as amid numerous interjections, looked anxiously at Tom, as the four chums were saying good-bye preparatory to dispersing for the vacation. "Of course they'll go," declared Tom. "I had a letter from Ruth to-day----" "You did?" cried Phil. "I'll have to have a little seance with Sis. She writes to you oftener than she does to me, of late. Tom, you rascal, take care!" and he shook a warning finger at his chum. "And hark to Siddie, would you!" mocked Frank. "Sid's so anxious about the girls that he won't play if they don't come; will you Siddie?" "I'll play my fist on your nose, you old allosaurus!" cried Sid, as he made an unsuccessful reach for his tormentor. Books had been put away in the study of our heroes. The armchairs had been covered with dust-cloths, as had the creaking old sofa; the alarm clock had been wrapped in cotton, and put on the shelf. Its tick would not be heard until September. It would have a vacation, too. Randall College began to take on a deserted air, but there was still some activity around the boathouse. The shells were to be kept ready for use--the eights, the fours and the singles. For Mr. Lighton had urged all, who could, to come, if only for an occasional spin on the river to keep in condition. As we know, our friends had arranged to camp on Crest Island, and from there, as they had a boat, they could take a run down to Randall, and get in a four for practice. If they could get four others, and someone to act as coxswain, they would also row in the eight, they told the coach. "An excellent plan," he declared. "It will give us a good crew for the eight in the Fall, I'm sure." "The only drawback about Crest Island," said Phil, "is that Bossy is going there. He'll be an unmitigated nuisance, if I'm any judge of human nature." "Especially if he does as he says he will, and takes to practicing in a single," added Tom. "But the island is big enough," added Sid. "Even if the cottage his folks have taken is near the Tylers'," put in Frank, with a grin. "Is it?" asked Sid, eagerly. "It sure is." "Then he'd better look out!" declared Sid. "What's the matter? Afraid he'll take your girl?" asked Tom, with a laugh. But Sid did not reply. Nothing more had been discovered about the missing jewelry, nor had Tom and his chums been able to follow the clues which they had stumbled upon. The torn handkerchief, the empty jewelry box, the shreds of silk, had been put away, together with Boswell's card. Mendez, the Mexican, had been seen around Haddonfield several times since Tom and Ruth had met him on the island, and he seemed to be selling his wares, there being little need of his remaining on the island as caretaker all day. Whenever he met Tom, he was very polite, but our hero cared no more for the swarthy man than he had at first. "He's altogether too nice," decided our hero, though he realized this was nothing against the man. Certainly there seemed to be nothing to point suspicion to him, any more than to Boswell, and the four chums did not dare make an untoward move. It was too risky, Frank said. As for the Boxer Hall lads, though some might have held a faint thought that their Randall rivals were responsible for the loss of the cup trophies, no one said so in that many words. Still many Randallites felt that a grim suspicion hung over the college, caused by the unfortunate fact that Tom and his chums had been first on the ground when the articles were discovered to be gone from the wrecked boat. "Hang it all!" exclaimed Tom, as he and his chums were about to separate for the vacation, to meet soon again, "I wish we could get on the trail of that stuff, and the man who took it!" "So do I!" added Frank. "Well, maybe something will turn up this Summer." As for Ruth, she had successfully kept her secret with Tom. If her girl friends noticed the absence of her old brooch they said nothing. Mr. Farson, the jeweler, fretted much over his loss, but it did no good. He even increased the reward, to no more purpose. It all remained a mystery. He did not even know as much as the boys did about the affair, and, for their own reasons, the students kept silent. Our four heroes dispersed to their homes, to meet warm welcomes there. Then came preparations for going camping on Crest Island. The Tyler cottage was opened by some of the servants and put in shape for Summer occupancy. Madge wrote to Ruth, Mabel and Helen, bidding them get ready to come when she sent word. Tom spent a week or two at the shore, "recuperating," as he put it, from the hard study incidental to the examinations. "I guess, more than likely, it's to rest from the hard work of pulling in that shell," said his father, grimly. Frank Simpson went on a short trip to his beloved California, and Phil and Sid put in two weeks at various Summer resorts. Finally the time came to go to camp. Tom, who was in charge of most of the arrangements, sent out letters to his chums bidding them assemble at his home, as he was nearest to Randall College. And, one fine morning, with their baggage gathered, and with their camping paraphernalia sent on ahead, they departed. "Off for Crest Island, and the mystery!" exclaimed Tom. "Not so loud!" cautioned Frank. "Say, rather," interpolated Sid, "off for Crest Island and--the girls!" "Hark to the lady-killer!" mocked Phil. "Talk about your Beau Brummels!" "Punch him for me, Tom," besought the badgered one. CHAPTER XV THE OLD GRADUATE "Say, did you think to bring any spoons, Tom?" "What about the condensed milk?" "And say, Tom, this isn't a good brand of coffee!" "What made you get all canned corn? Why didn't you include some beans, Tom?" "Say, if I've got to eat coffee with my fingers I'm going to quit right now!" "Look here, Tom! Didn't I say I wanted a soft cot? You've given me one as hard as a board. I won't stand for it!" You can easily imagine the scene. The boys had arrived in camp, and were just unpacking. The tents--sleeping and dining--had been erected after much labor, and with the aid of Senor Mendez, who courteously offered his services. "And for the love of the seven wonders of the world, Tom, what made you buy this brand of canned chicken?" demanded Sid, who was opening a case. Tom Parsons put down the blanket he was taking out of a trunk. He strode to the middle of the tent, put his hands on his hips, surveyed his three chums, and began: "Say, look here, you fellows! I've done most of the work around this outfit. I saw to it that the baggage didn't go astray when you chaps were trying to flirt with those pretty girls in the train! I ordered all the eats, and most of the other stuff. I got Mendez to give us a hand, though none of you wanted me to. I've looked after everything from A to Z and you fellows have been loafing. And now you jump on me because I didn't get mock-turtle soup instead of mulligatawny. You don't like the kind of coffee, and I suppose you'll faint if you don't have condensed milk. "Say, don't you want finger bowls? Will you have paper napkins, or just the plain fringed style? Do you want your shaving water hot every morning, and what time shall I have the 'bawth' ready? Are your nails manicured? If not, I guess I can find time to do that. Would you like silk pajamas, or will linen do? And if there's anything more that you confounded dudes want in this camp--just get it yourselves--I'm done! DONE! Do you hear? I'm through!" and, fairly shouting the words Tom stalked out of the tent and went and sat down on a log near the edge of Lake Tonoka. The other three stared at each other in amazement. The rebellion of their chum had come like a thunderbolt out of a clear sky. "Er--what did--what did we do?" faltered Sid. "Did you ever hear the like?" came from Phil. "He's mad all right--clear through," spoke Frank. "I guess we have been rather piling it on." "It's the first time I ever knew Tom to act like this," said Phil, soberly. "He has done a lot of work," put in Sid. "And we have been finding a deal of fault," added Frank. "How can we square him?" asked Phil. "You go out and talk to him, Frank," proposed Sid. "No, I've got a better scheme than that," came from the Big Californian. "Let's finish slicking up in here ourselves, go on and get grub ourselves, and then invite him in. He'll see we didn't mean all we said, then." "Good idea," declared Phil. "We'll do it," agreed Sid. Thereupon, paying no more attention to the justly sulking lad by the water's edge, the three chums shortly had the sleeping tent in some kind of shape. An oil stove had been brought, and on this some coffee was soon steaming away, while the appetizing odor of ham and eggs wafted itself over the camp. Through it all Tom never turned his head, nor did his companions speak to him. He must have heard what was going on, but he never acknowledged it. With merry whistles his chums drove away the suggestion of gloom. "Grub's ready!" came the announcement of Frank, as he walked over toward Tom. "Wilt your most gracious majesty deign to partake of our humble fare?" and he dropped on one knee, and offered to Tom, on a plate, a slice of bread. For a moment the tall pitcher held out against the envoy, and then a faint smile broke over his face. "If you fellows are done finding fault," he said, "I'll come in and help. But I don't like to do all the work, and then have it rubbed in the way you chaps did." "That's right, we did lay it on a bit thick," admitted Frank, contritely. "And I got a bit hot under the collar," spoke Tom, confessing in his turn. "Come on and eat," urged Frank. "The stuff is getting cold. It isn't such bad coffee after all." "I paid enough for it," retorted Tom. And thus the little cloud was blown away. Soon all were eating merrily. The meal being finished, they began to get the cots in shape, for it was drawing on to afternoon. The boys had two large tents, one for eating, and the other for sleeping in, and lounging during the day. A smaller one served as kitchen and storeroom. By evening they were in good shape, and accepted an invitation to take supper at one of the cottages, the owner of which with his wife and daughters, had learned that the boys were friends of the Tylers, who had not yet arrived. "Well, now for a good snooze!" exclaimed Tom, as they got back to their tent that night, having spent a pleasant evening with the Prudens. "Did you bring any mosquito netting?" asked Phil. "If you didn't I----" "Silence!" warned Frank. "A certain amount of mosquito bites will do us good--put ginger into us for the rowing game." "All right--all right!" cried Phil, quickly. "I didn't mean that," and he looked quickly at Tom, fearing a return of the morning outbreak. "When are the girls coming?" asked Sid, as he began to get ready to turn in. "What do you care?" asked Tom, quickly. "Didn't I see you trying to hold the hand of that youngest Miss Pruden under the table?" "Oh, fie!" cried Frank. "I was not!" cried Sid, indignantly. "She had lent me her ring, and it was so small I couldn't easily get it off again. She was trying to help me." "Say, when you tell 'em, tell 'em good and big!" laughed Tom. "'When are the girls coming?' Say, you're a nice one, you are, and----" Tom ducked in time to avoid the shoe Sid threw at him. "Easy, fellows," cautioned Phil. "There are other people on the island besides us, and they may want to go to sleep." "Then make him dry up!" demanded Sid. "I'll be good," promised Tom. "But when you hold hands don't be afraid to admit it. I----" The other shoe came in his direction with such poor aim that the candle was knocked over, the lanterns not yet being in service. "Cheese it!" warned Frank. "You'll have the place on fire. Light a match, somebody." All began groping about in the dark tent. "Oh, for the love of tripe!" suddenly exclaimed Tom. "What's the matter?" asked Phil. "I stuck my foot in the water bowl!" exclaimed the lad. "It was on the floor. I'm as wet as a duck." "Serves you right!" declared Sid vindictively. "'Be good, sweet lad, and let who will be clever,'" misquoted Phil with a chuckle. But finally order was restored, and our friends fell into a deep sleep. "Well, what's doing to-day?" asked Sid, after breakfast. "I vote we take a trip down to college, and see if any of the fellows are there rowing," proposed Frank. "If we can't scare up enough to make the eight, we can take out one of the fours." "Second the motion," came from Tom, and the others agreed, too. They rowed down leisurely, being a bit stiff, not only from their unusual exertions in making camp, but also because they were out of practice. But finally Randall was reached, and, to their disappointment, they found only one or two lads there, practicing in the singles. They all declined to take a try in the eight, as they were going in for the sculling races. Anyhow, there would not have been enough for an eight with a coxswain. "We'll have to take a four," said Tom, with a sigh. "Frank, you'll have to steer, as you can do it better than any of us." A four-oared shell, as I explained, and as doubtless most of you know, is steered by a mechanical arrangement, worked by the feet of one of the rowers. Soon the four chums were pulling down the river, gaining in skill each moment, as the memory of what Coach Lighton had said recurred to them. They rowed a good distance, and then drew up at a private float and got out to stretch their legs. As they were about to put off again, an elderly man, with a pleasant face, approached and asked: "From Boxer Hall?" "From Randall," replied Tom. "Ah, yes, I noticed you rowing in. I think you might improve your stroke a little if you would feather differently. You don't turn your hands quite at the proper time." "You must be an old oarsman?" said Tom. "Well, I've been in the game. I used to row at Cornell years ago. Pierson is my name." "Are you _that_ Pierson?" cried Frank, remembering the name as that of one of the best scullers Cornell ever turned out. "I'm afraid I am," was the smiling answer. "Say," burst out Sid. "Would you mind watching us a bit, and telling us our mistakes? We're new at it, as you probably noticed," he went on, "and Randall is just getting into the water sports. We want to beat Boxer Hall. Can you give us a few points?" "Where are you staying?" asked Mr. Pierson. "On Crest Island--we're camping there." "So! Well, as it happens, I have friends there, and I have been invited to spend part of the Summer there. If I come I shall be glad to tell you what I know of rowing, and coach you a bit. It is the best sport in the world!" and Mr. Pierson's eyes sparkled as though he would like to get in the shell himself. "That will be fine!" exclaimed Tom. "We shall look for you." They talked a little longer, the old oarsman giving them some good advice about training. Then he bade them good-bye, and walked off up the hill leading from the river. The boys got in the shell again, intending to row to Randall, and then back to their camp. As they neared the college float, and noted the activity of the men building the new boathouse, Sid exclaimed: "Look who's here!" "Who?" asked Tom. "Bossy, by all that's tragic! He's just taking out a single shell. I wonder if he's going to the island?" CHAPTER XVI THE GIRLS Rowing on up to the float, the four chums took their shell out of the water just as Boswell got his in. He looked over at them, and nodded in what he evidently meant to be a friendly fashion, but which he succeeded in making only patronizing. "Out for a row?" he asked, needlessly. "Just a bit of practice," answered Sid. "And you're going in for the same thing, I see," added Phil. "Yes, I've gone a bit stale since I was here last. I just came back to-day, and I thought I'd take a little row before I went up to our cottage on the island." "He's going there all right, then," murmured Tom. "Are you fellows in camp yet?" asked Boswell. "Yes," replied Frank. "We haven't got settled yet, we'll soon be in shape." Then, with an effort, he went on: "Drop in and see us--when you get a chance." Phil administered an unseen but none the less swift kick to his chum. "What'd you want to go and do that for?" he asked, in a whisper. It was safe since Boswell was busy rattling the oars in his shell and could not hear distinctly. "I couldn't do any less," retorted Frank. "It would look pretty raw not to ask him." "I hope he doesn't accept," murmured Sid, and, the next moment the rich lad replied: "Thanks, but I don't expect to get much time for calling. I'm going to be pretty busy with my sculling, and I expect a friend or two up. Besides, I never did like a tent. It always seems so musty to me. I much prefer a cottage." "Thank the kind Fates for that!" murmured Tom. Boswell got in the shell, and rowed off, rather awkwardly, the four thought, but then they had yet to see themselves row, though, truth to tell, they were becoming more expert every day. "I'm going to have a professional oarsman coach me," Boswell threw to them over his shoulder as he sculled off. "I expect to be in good trim, soon. As long as you fellows didn't want me in the eight, I'm going to win in the singles, just to show you what I can do." "We never said we didn't want you in the eight!" declared Frank. "In fact I thought you did as well at bow as anyone. It was the coach's doings." "All right," replied Boswell. "It doesn't matter. I rather think I prefer this, on the whole. And I'm going to win, too!" he boasted. "Good! We hope you do!" exclaimed Tom. Then, to his chums he added: "Come on, let's get back to the island and enjoy it before he starts his monkey business there. I wonder when his cottage opens?" "I saw a woman and a man working around there to-day, just before we left," volunteered Sid. "Then Bossy's folks must be coming soon--more's the pity--I mean as far as he is concerned," put in Phil. "His folks may be decent enough, but he's the limit." "I suppose he and that English pal of his--Pierce--will be drinking tea every afternoon at five o'clock," said Tom. "They'll have their cakes and Young Hyson out on the lawn, and--Oh, 'slush, isn't it fierce! A bally rotter, dontcherknow!'" "The Knockers Club will please come to order!" exclaimed Frank, in mock seriousness. "Say, I guess we have been piling it on pretty thick," admitted Tom, with a grin. "Let's get in our old tub, and pull back. It's my turn to rest this trip." Laughing and joking, with occasional references to the proper way to handle an oar, and some talk of the offer of Mr. Pierson to coach them, the lads rowed back to their camp. They spent the next two days in getting the place in better shape. "For exhibition purposes," Sid explained. "The girls might come to lunch some day." "Say, he's got girls on the brain!" complained Phil. "Duck him, Tom, you aren't doing anything." But Sid discretely got out of the way. A day later the Boswell family arrived at the island. There were several servants--almost too many for the simple cottage--and Mr. and Mrs. Boswell, in addition to their son. It was hard to see from whom the lad inherited his unpleasant mannerisms, for both his parents were of the old-fashioned school of gentlemen and ladies, with exceedingly kind hearts. Boswell had evidently been spoiled, unless he did the spoiling process himself, which was more than likely. When Mr. Boswell learned that some of his son's college mates were on the island, he paid a formal call on them, and invited them to the cottage. They promised to come--some time. "When Bossy isn't home, I hope," murmured Sid. Pierce, Boswell's English chum, arrived that same week, and after that our friends saw little of the rich lad. He and his friend were generally off together in a boat rowing or fishing. Then another personage made his appearance, an athletic-looking man, whom Boswell introduced as his "trainer." Then began the instruction in sculling. Tom and the others heard and saw some of it. "He's teaching him a totally different stroke than we row," said Sid. "I wonder if it can be right?" "I'll stick to Lighton's method," declared Frank. "Yes, for it's the same as that used by Mr. Pierson," added Tom. "It's good enough for us." The Cornell oarsman had paid a visit or two to the lads in their camp, coming from where he was stopping on the mainland, as his friend, whom he expected to visit on the island, had not yet opened his cottage. Mr. Pierson gave the boys some good advice, and getting into the shell several times, practiced what he preached. He had not forgotten his early skill, and his illustrations were valuable. "He can pull a good stroke yet," declared Frank, one day, following some spirited instruction and practice. Mr. Pierson had left, promising to devote more time to the boys later on. "He sure must have been a wonder in his day," declared Tom. It was one morning just after the lads had finished breakfast, and were getting their camp in shape for the day, preparatory to going for a row, that Tom made a momentous discovery. He had been to the spring for a pail of water, and, on his return he noticed on the porch of the Tyler cottage a number of trunks and suitcases. Then a flutter of dresses caught his eye, and he heard a chorus of musical laughter. "The girls have come!" cried Tom, and he raced for his own camp, as he had on a pair of old trousers and a disreputable sweater, and wanted to get in more presentable shape for making them welcome. "The girls have come!" he cried, springing into the midst of his chums with such force that he spilled half the water. "The girls have come!" CHAPTER XVII AT PRACTICE "Did you see 'em?" "Are they all there?" "What about Helen Newton?" "Say, where's my brown suit?" "Has anyone seen my purple tie?" "Give me those shoes, Sid! Who said you could take 'em, anyhow--my best ones?" and Phil fairly upset his chum in order to rescue the footgear that had been taken without his permission. I presume the reader can understand the meaning of the expressions which open this chapter. They had to do directly with Tom's startling announcement, and who said which or what does not matter. Sufficient to state that Sid, Phil and Frank thus overwhelmed Tom with the above questions. "I didn't see any of 'em," went on Tom, when he could get his breath. "But I heard her laugh----" "Heard who laugh?" demanded Phil. "Your sister." "I thought you said they _all_ came!" reproached Sid. "So I did, and so they have. Do you think one girl would have four trunks and four suitcases?" asked Tom, in indignant justification. "They might--I have known of such," said Frank. "But are you sure they're all here?" "Of course. Didn't I hear 'em all laugh? Anyhow, Madge must be here, or Ruth wouldn't be at the cottage. And if two of 'em are there the other two are, too." "That's no reason at all," said Phil, firmly. "This will have to be investigated. Where's my clean shirt? I'm going to see my sister!" and he strode into the tent. "It's the first time Phil was ever so thoughtful of his sister, fellows. I guess we'd better all get togged up a bit," said Frank, and the activities, that had begun when Tom came in with the news (which activities had ceased momentarily while the glad tidings were being confirmed), were again resumed. "Glad rags," as the lads slangily designated their habiliments, other than the ones in which they worked about the camp, were soon being donned, and a little later the boys were on their way to the Tyler cottage. "I wonder how long they're going to stay?" said Sid. "As long as we do, I hope," said Tom. "There they are!" "All four of 'em, sure enough," added Phil. "You were a good guesser, Tom, old man." "Oh, leave it to your Uncle Dudley!" declared Tom, puffing out his chest. "Little Willie knows what he's about." "Hello, boys!" called Madge Tyler, as she caught sight of the advancing four. "Welcome to our city," added Ruth, as she threw a kiss to--her brother. At least Tom said so, when they accused him later of intercepting it, and Tom ought to know. "Glad you're here." "Isn't this place lovely?" "Where is your boat?" "Have you a motor?" "Are you going to invite us to lunch in the tent?" These questions and comments were bandied back and forth among the boys and girls, no one caring very much who said what, so glad were they to see each other, and exchange greetings and experiences. "We girls just came up this morning," explained Madge. "We didn't wait for mother, and father has some tiresome business to look after so he couldn't come. But I just said that Jeanette, our maid, was chaperone enough, and so we came. I guess the man on the boat thought we had baggage enough." "But he was nice about it," added Ruth. "Yes, after I gave him a quarter," explained Helen. "Oh, you dear! Did you really tip him?" asked Madge. "Certainly--he--er--well, he seemed to expect it," and the boys laughed at her naive explanation. "Won't you come in?" invited Madge. "It isn't much of a cottage, and we can't even offer you a cup of tea, for we're all out, and I had to send Jeanette for some." "Don't worry about that," remarked Phil. "We've got all the food we can eat over at the tent," went on Tom. All entered the charming little cottage, and the boys told of their experiences since coming to camp, while the girls detailed the happenings of their journey that morning. A small steamer, making regular trips about the lake, had left them and their baggage at the island, which was beginning to be quite a Summer resort. A new store had recently been built on the place, and provided a variety of articles, including foodstuffs for the cottagers. "There's a boat or two with this cottage," explained Madge. "We'll have to get them in the water to soak up, I suppose, and then we girls will give you boys some lessons in rowing; won't we, girls?" "We might try," said Ruth, drily. "Your boats are in the water, I think," said Sid. "I saw that Mexican 'take-care' man, as he calls himself, at them the other day, caulking up some cracks." "That's good," retorted Madge. "I know father wrote on to have this done, but I've been so busy, getting ready to come here, that I forgot to ask if it had been attended to. I wish we had a motor-launch, but father is so old-fashioned, if I must say it, that he won't hear of it." "Haven't you boys a launch?" asked Helen. "No," replied Tom, "but perhaps we can hire one," and he looked at Ruth, who had been trying to signal him when the Mexican's name was mentioned. "That's a good idea," declared Phil. "We'll see about it this afternoon." Then Jeanette, the maid, having come from the store with the tea, the boys took their leave, to allow the girls time to change into more comfortable and camp-like garments, and also to enjoy their beverage. "We'll see you after lunch," called Phil. "We'd ask you to stay," spoke Madge, "but really we haven't quite found ourselves yet. Later on----" "Come on over to our tent," invited Sid. "No, thank you," laughed the young hostess. "Some other time. We have to unpack our dresses, or they'll get wrinkled." The boys thought lunch time would never pass, but it did, though they made a hasty meal of it. Then they hurried back to the cottage, and a little later four pairs of young persons were strolling in four different directions over the beautiful island. "Oh, Tom!" exclaimed Ruth. "I've been just wild to get you alone for a moment to ask if you've found out anything about my brooch?" "Not a thing, Ruth, I'm sorry to say. In fact the whole business is at a standstill. We had some suspicions, but they didn't lead anywhere, and we're up against a stone wall so far in the game." "Well, perhaps something may develop," she said with a sigh. "I hope so, for I'm afraid every day some of my folks will discover that I'm not wearing the brooch. When I went to bid grandmother good-bye I wore a large bow tie, so she couldn't see the place where the pin ought to have been, but wasn't. Isn't it dreadful to be so deceitful?" "Not at all," Tom hastened to assure her. "It isn't your fault, and, as you say, something may develop." They strolled on, as did the others, and the afternoon seemed wonderfully short. I note, in looking back over some pages I have written, that I headed this chapter "At Practice," and really I meant to devote considerable space to detailing the doings of Tom and his chums in the shell, under the guidance of Mr. Pierson. But I find that the girls have taken up such a large proportion of my available space that I have not much left for rowing matters. And, in fact, the boys found themselves in the same predicament. After all, I suppose, it is not an unforgivable crime. Tom and his chums kept promising themselves, from day to day, after the arrival of the girls, that they would buckle down to hard work in the shell, but each day saw them over at the cottage as early as decency and good manners would allow, and the same thing kept them there as late as possible. They hired a small gasoline launch, that was continually getting out of order, and stopping out in the middle of the lake. They had to be towed in so frequently that they became very well known. But it was all the more fun. "There's something about this launch that you don't often find," remarked Frank, one day when they had been drifting helplessly about. "And it's a good thing you don't," added Tom. "What I meant," said Frank, "was that it never gets monotonous. The same thing never happens twice." "I should say not," declared Sid. "Everything on the old tub has broken one time or another, from the old cups to the piston rings, and everything from the spark coil to the batteries has given out! Monotonous? I should say nixy!" Yet the boys did practice. Frank grew desperate when a week had gone by without their getting into the shell, and he spoke to such advantage, dwelling on the necessity of keeping in condition, that the others agreed with him. So they left the girls to their own devices one morning, and rowed down to college. They found quite a number of their chums there, and considerable practice was going on. Mr. Lighton had paid one of his flying visits and was giving the lads some instruction. Our friends told him of Mr. Pierson's offer, and the coach said: "You could not do better, boys, than to follow his advice. I wish we could get him to come to Randall in the Fall." "Maybe he will," suggested Sid. "We'll ask him." Mr. Lighton said he had word from Bricktop Molloy, and one or two of the others, that they were getting in some practice during the Summer vacation. "I hope we have a good eight when college opens again," he concluded, as Tom and his chums rowed off in the four-oared shell. Mr. Pierson was staying on the island now, and for the next few days he was with the boys considerably, giving them valuable advice. They kept at practice, setting aside certain hours for it, and manfully withstanding the temptation of going off on little excursions with the girls. So far as solving the mystery of the missing jewelry was concerned, no progress was made, though the boys talked about it often. The faint suspicions against the Mexican and Boswell were still maintained, but that was all. As for Boswell, he and his English friend and his "trainer," as he called the athlete, kept pretty much to themselves. Mendez was the same over-polite Mexican as before. He opened his store, and did a good business, our friends patronizing him to some extent--partly to get a look inside his place. But, though their eyes were used to the best advantage, they saw nothing that would aid them in their quest. "But I'll get Ruth's brooch back yet!" declared Tom, to himself. CHAPTER XVIII "SENOR BOSWELL" "Shoulders back a little more! Heads up! Don't feather quite so high. That's all right to do when there are little choppy waves, that would cause splashing, but in calm water the lower you feather the less you have to raise the spoon of the oar. Of course don't do any 'riffling.' That holds back the boat. When I see you in an eight, with a coxswain, so you don't have to think about steering, I can tell better how you will do." This was Mr. Pierson giving some coaching advice to the four boys, who were out in the shell. He was following them in the launch owned by his friend, at whose cottage he was visiting. "I'm wondering if I'll have wind enough for a four-mile race, pulling even thirty to the minute?" said Sid. "And we may have to hit it up to thirty-two or three," put in Tom. "Don't worry about those things now," advised the Cornell graduate. "They will work themselves out when you get in training. Of course you're not training now, and that makes a difference. My chief anxiety at present is to get you in the way of taking the proper stroke, to teach you how to sit, how to slide in the moving seats, how to bring your whole weight where it will do the most good, and how to depend on the toe stretchers. Your wind will take care of itself when you get down to hard practice. If it doesn't--well, you can't row in an eight, that's all." The old graduate glanced sharply at the lads, and, noting a look of anxiety on their faces, he hastened to add: "But I'm sure it will come out all right. Don't think about it. Now then, hit up the stroke a little." And so he accompanied them over the course, giving them advice almost invaluable, which they could have obtained in no other way. The boys appreciated it deeply. Camp and cottage life on Crest Island was endless delight to the boys, even with the hard practice they put in occasionally. I say "occasionally" advisedly, for they did not forget, nor did Mr. Lighton or Mr. Pierson want them to forget, that they were on their vacations. Truth to tell, the girls took much of the time of our heroes. And this was as it should be. We can never be young but once, if I may be pardoned that bit of philosophy in a story book--a bit that is not original by any means. "Well, thank our lucky stars, we don't have to grind away in the boat to-day!" exclaimed Sid one morning, as he got up ahead of the others, for it was his turn to prepare breakfast. "That's right," called Tom, in a sleepy voice from his cot, as he turned over luxuriously amid the scanty coverings, for the night had been warm. "I vote we get the launch in running order, if that's possible, and take the girls off for a picnic." "Second the motion," exclaimed Sid, "with the amendment that the girls provide, and put up, the lunch." "We'll pay for it, if they put it up," said Frank. "That's better," remarked Phil. "I'll tip Sis off, and I guess they'll do it." Behold then, a little later, the eight young persons, lively and gay, in the wheezy and uncertain launch, voyaging over the lake toward a distant dell of which they knew, on the mainland, where they proposed to picnic for the day. They ate the lunch which the girls had put up in dainty fashion, sitting on a broad, flat rock near the edge of the lake, with the wind rustling in the trees overhead, and the birds flitting here and there. "Isn't it glorious here?" mused Sid. "Gorgeous!" declared Madge. "It's just a perfect day." "'O, perfect day!'" began Phil. "Cut out the poetry," interrupted Tom. "There's a little snake crawling toward you, old man." "Oh!" screamed four shrill voices, and there was a hasty scramble, until the snake was discovered to be only a tiny lizard, which the girls declared to be "just as bad." Then came saunterings two-by-two off in woodland glades until it was time to think regretfully of returning to the island, for the shadows were lengthening. It was just as they were about to start off in the little gasoline launch, which, strange to say, had been behaving wonderfully well that day, that they saw Mendez, the Mexican, rowing toward them in a small boat. He seemed in much of a hurry. "Senors and senoritas!" he hailed them. "Wait a moment, I pray of you." "Gracious--I hope nothing has happened at home!" exclaimed Madge Tyler, for her mother was not at the cottage. "Perhaps it's a telegram for some of us," suggested Ruth. "Oh, dear, I do hope I don't have to go home." They all regarded the approaching Mexican curiously. "Pardon," he began with a smile that showed all his white teeth, "but I seek Senor Boswell. Is he with you?" "With us? No," answered Tom. "He doesn't train in with our crowd." "Most likely he's having tea on the lawn, and talking about 'beastly rotters,'" suggested Sid. "Oh, Sid!" exclaimed Ruth. "He isn't such a bad sort." "Oh, do you know him?" asked Tom, quickly. "He called one evening," explained Madge, while just the faintest suggestion of a blush suffused her pretty face. "He and Mr. Pierce." "They did!" exclaimed Phil, looking keenly at his sister. "Hush!" she exclaimed. "Silly boy. Don't make a scene!" "Senor Boswell--is he not here?" went on the Mexican, and there was anxiety in his voice. "I was inform that he come off on a boat, and in this direction. I see your launch moored here, and I am of the belief, perhaps, that he may be here. Is it not?" and again he smiled. "No, he isn't here, and we haven't seen him," said Tom. "Pardon, senors and senoritas," said the Mexican, bowing as well as he could in his small boat. "I shall look farther. I have the honor to bid you good afternoon," and he rowed away, up the lake. "What do you suppose he wanted of Boswell in such a hurry?" asked Sid in a low voice of Tom, as they were getting in the launch. "Give it up," was the answer, but Tom was doing some hard thinking just about that time. CHAPTER XIX JEALOUSY "We've got to do some pulling to-morrow," remarked Frank, as they rowed toward the island. "Mr. Pierson said he'd show us a new wrinkle or two." "And we want to begin to hit up the speed a bit," added Tom. "That's right," agreed Phil, who was fussing with the motor, that missed every now and then. "But say!" exclaimed Sid. "I thought we were going to take the girls down to watch some of the other fellows row opposite college to-morrow?" and there was a rueful look on his face. "Well, I know we did speak of that," said Tom, "but----" "The implied invitation is declined with thanks," broke in Ruth. "We girls simply have to do some house-cleaning to-morrow. The cottage is a perfect sight, and it's sweet of Madge not to have found fault before." "Oh, it's nothing of the sort!" declared the young and pretty hostess. "Don't decline on that account." "No, don't!" besought Sid. "But we really must stay home," declared Mabel. "I know we have upset things terribly, and tossed our belongings about until I'm sure that poor maid must be distracted picking things up. Besides, Mr. Tyler is coming up to-morrow and I know your mother will want the place in some sort of decent shape, Madge. We must stay and help." "Indeed, yes," echoed Helen Newton. "Too bad!" declared Phil. "Besides, it's all you boys' fault that it is so upset," went on Ruth. "How do you make that out?" demanded Tom. "Why you're always coming along, begging us to go out with you, and you're always in such a hurry that we can't wait to pick up things. So there!" "Any reason, even if it's a poor one," remarked Frank, drily. They glided along for some time, and then the motor suddenly stopped. "Now what's wrong?" asked Frank. "I knew something would happen if Phil didn't stop monkeying with it," declared Tom. "Monkey yourself!" retorted the lad who had been acting as engineer. "All I did was to screw the spark plug in a bit tighter, and shut the pet-cock." "Then you probably cracked the porcelain on the spark plug, and there's a short circuit," spoke Frank. "Here, let me take a look, and see what the trouble is," and as Frank had been successful in times past, when the others had failed, they made room for him at the motor. He looked it over a moment, and then, seeing that the switch was on, gave the flywheel a couple of turns. There was only an apologetic wheeze. "He knows so much about motors," sarcastically murmured Tom to Ruth. "He knows enough to turn on the gasoline, at any rate, and not try to run the motor with what's in the carburetor," snapped back Frank, as he opened the cock in the pipe leading from the tank in the bow. "Who started this motor, anyhow?" "I did," confessed Tom, the tables thus being turned against him. "Next time turn on the gas," repeated Frank. "It's one of the first things to do in running a motor-boat, sonny. You may write the word gasoline twenty-five times before you go to sleep to-night," and all joined in the laugh against poor Tom. "Huh! I supposed it was always kept turned on," he said in defense. "The carburetor leaks a little, so I always shut the gas off at the tank," explained Sid. "I guess I forgot to mention it." "And I can easily guess why," spoke Frank, with a significant glance at the pretty girl beside whom his chum was sitting. "Well, it's another little wrinkle--one of a number--we've learned about the boat," spoke Tom, when they were once more under way. "All good things have to come to and end, I suppose," remarked Sid, when they had landed and were bidding the girls good-bye. "But we hope there'll be more excursions." "You can always ask us--at least as long as we're here," said Mabel. "Though I'm afraid we'll have to go next week. It's been perfectly lovely of Madge to keep us this long----" "Indeed you're not going so soon!" declared the hostess. "Why, you haven't been here any time at all yet, and when you do go I'll be so lonesome----" "So will we!" chorused the lads. "Don't go," and the girls laughingly promised to stay as long as possible. True to their determination, the lads went out in the four-oared shell the next day, with Mr. Pierson in the launch to coach them. He put them through some stiff practice, and increased the stroke to a number where the boys were almost on the point of protesting. But they realized that they needed it, though they were glad to stop when the word was given. "A few days of that will put you in the way of bettering your wind," said the old college graduate, with a whimsical smile. I have spoken of him as an "old" graduate, but, in point of fact he was not at all an elderly man. I merely used "old" in a comparative sense. "I wonder what's the matter with Boswell?" ventured Sid, as they rowed the shell back to the college float, and prepared to motor back in the launch. "I haven't seen him out practicing to-day." "That's right," agreed Tom. "And say, did it strike any of you as queer the way that Mexican was looking for him?" "Somewhat," admitted Frank. "There must be something between them," went on Tom. "I wonder if, after all, it can have anything to do with the missing jewelry?" "What makes you think so?" asked Phil. "I don't know that I do, very definitely. But that Mendez was certainly anxious to find Bossy, though for what reason I can't even guess. Wouldn't it be queer if Bossy had found those cups and other things, and gotten rid of 'em through the Mexican, after he found he had carried the joke too far?" "I believe you," replied Frank. "But it's pretty far-fetched to my way of thinking. I'd hate to believe that any Randall man would be guilty of such a thing." "So would I," added Phil. "Oh, well, I only mentioned it as a supposition," said Tom, in self-defense. "Anyhow, Bossy sure does practice hard in his single. I guess that trainer of his knows his business." "Yes, he's a good trainer," admitted Frank. "I've heard of him, but it's pretty near the limit for a fellow to have a private trainer. It's too much like putting on lugs." "It is that," said Phil. "And I suppose, when we get back in the Fall, about all we'll hear will be Bossy and his shell." "I wonder if he has a chance to win?" asked Tom. "They have some expert scullers at Boxer Hall." "Well, they ought to have; look how long they've been at it," retorted Frank. "I'll be rather glad to get back to college again," went on the tall pitcher. "This loafing life is good, but I'm anxious to get in the eight." "So am I," came from Sid, "but it's sport here," and he looked toward the island they were approaching, probably thinking of the girls. So far the four chums had not been able to get five others, one the coxswain, with them so that they could row in the eight-oared shell. But the four gave them sufficient practice, Mr. Pierson thought, since, after all, it was a matter of the stroke, and could be acquired in one craft as well as in another. Meanwhile, a little scene was taking place near the Tyler cottage, that, had our friends beheld it--or, rather one of our friends in particular--might have caused some trouble. The girls were kept busy with some light housework, helping Mrs. Tyler and the maid, after the boys left. Then, having put their rooms in order they attired themselves in fresh gowns and walked off toward the water. Near the cottage Boswell occupied, the four young ladies met the rich lad and his English chum. The two were out for a walk, and, as the youths stopped to chat for a moment with Madge, whom they had met formally, she could do no less than halt a moment with the other girls, who had been introduced to the lads. "Come down and I'll take you out in my launch," invited Boswell. "I've just got a new one, and it's quite fast." "Oh, come on!" cried Ruth, impulsively. "That one Phil and the boys have is so slow, and something is always happening to it." "My word! I should say so!" laughed Pierce. "But we declined an invitation to go out with--our boys," said Mabel Harrison, in a low voice. "Oh, well," spoke Ruth. "They had to go to practice anyhow, and we won't be long. Come on." It was a delightful day, and the invitation was hard to resist. Behold then, as a Frenchman would say, behold then, a little later, the four pretty girls in Boswell's launch, with himself and Pierce making themselves as agreeable as they knew how. And to give them their due, they knew how to interest girls, and were deferential and polite in their demeanor. "Your pin is coming unfastened," remarked Boswell to Ruth, as they were speeding along, and he motioned to a bit of lace at her throat--lace caught up with a simple gold bar clasp. "Oh, thank you," she answered, as she fastened it, and then she blushed, and was angry at herself for doing it. "Where is that lovely old-fashioned brooch you used to wear?" asked Madge, looking at her chum. "Oh--er--I wouldn't wear it out in a boat, anyhow," said Ruth, blushing redder than before. "I--I might lose it. See, wasn't that a fish that jumped over there!" and she pointed to the left, glad of a chance to change the subject. "Yes, and a jolly big fellow, too!" declared Pierce. "Why can't we get up a fishing party, and take you girls?" he asked. "My word, it would be jolly sport! We could take our lunch, and have tea in the woods, a regular outing, dontcherknow." "That's the ticket!" exclaimed Boswell. "Will you girls come?" and he looked particularly at Ruth. "I don't know," she replied and then, in the spirit of mischief, she added: "I'll ask my brother. Perhaps he'd like to come. He is a good fisherman." "Oh--er--it wasn't so much about the fish that I was thinking," spoke Pierce, a bit dismayed, and then he dropped the subject. "Are you fond of old-fashioned jewelry?" asked Boswell, in a low voice to Ruth. "I mean old brooches and the like?" "Yes--why?" asked Ruth rather startled. "Oh, I only just wanted to know. I'm a bit that way myself. My mother has a very old brooch that I gave her. I mean it was old when I came across it and bought it. I'll borrow it some day and let you see it." Ruth murmured a polite rejoinder, scarcely knowing what she did say, and then, as one of the lake steamers approached rather dangerously close to the launch, there was a moment of excitement aboard both craft, for Pierce, who should have been steering, had neglected it for the agreeable task of being polite to Mabel Harrison. But nothing more than a scare resulted. When matters had quieted down, the talk turned into another channel, and Ruth was glad to keep it there. The topic of the brooch, she thought, was a rather dangerous one for her, since she wanted to keep from her friends, and especially from Tom and her folks, the knowledge of the missing pin. She was hoping against hope that it would be found. She wondered what Boswell meant by his reference, but did not dare ask him. The ride was a pleasant one, though the girls--all of them--felt that they had, perhaps, been just a bit mean toward their boy chums. Still, as Madge had said, Tom and his friends did have practice. "We better go back now," said Ruth, after a bit. "It has been delightful, though." "And the engine didn't break down once," added Helen. "Oh I don't get things that break," spoke Boswell, with an air of pride. "But you don't want to go in so soon; do you?" "We must," insisted Madge, and, rather against their wishes, the boys turned back. As Fate would have it, the new launch got to the Boswell dock just as the craft containing Tom and his chums hove in sight. Their wheezy boat puffed slowly along, and as it was steered in toward the dock they had improvised near their tent, the boys saw Boswell and his chum helping the girls out. Then Boswell walked alongside Ruth, seeming to be in earnest conversation with her. "Say, would you look at that!" cried Sid. "The girls were out with those chaps!" "And after refusing to come with us!" went on Frank. "I like their nerve!" declared Phil. Tom said nothing, but there came a queer look in his eyes. "Well, I suppose we're not the only fellows on the island," spoke Frank, philosophically. "We couldn't expect them to stay in, waiting for us to come back, on such a fine day as this." "But they said they were going to be busy," objected Sid. "Oh, well, I guess what they had to do could be dropped and picked up again, when there was a launch ride in the offing," went on the Big Californian. "We'll call around after supper and take 'em out. There's going to be a glorious moon." "Fine!" cried Sid. But when evening came, and the others attired themselves more or less gaily, ready for a call, Tom did not doff his old garments. "What's the matter, sport; aren't you coming?" asked Sid. "Nope." "Why not? Ruth won't want to go unless you're there." "I don't care. I'm not going. I don't feel like it." "Oh, come on." "Nope." "What shall I tell her?" asked Sid, looking to see that Phil and Frank had gone on ahead. "Nothing," and Tom began filling a lantern, this being one of his duties that week. Sid stood regarding his chum for a moment, and then without a word, but with a suggestive shrug of his shoulders, went out. CHAPTER XX A STRANGE CONFERENCE "You missed it, old man; we had a dandy time," remarked Frank, when he, together with Sid and Phil, drifted into the sleeping tent some time later. "That's right, Tom," added Sid. "The cake was good." "And the lemonade, too," added Phil. "Um!" sleepily grunted Tom. Or was he only simulating sleep? "And the girls were jolly," went on Frank. "And Ruth wanted to know why you hadn't come," proceeded Sid, keeping up the chorus of description. "Oh, let me go to sleep," growled Tom. "Bossy and his chum blew in, but they didn't stay long," added Phil. "I guess they didn't expect to find us there." "Was Boswell there?" demanded Tom, sitting up on his cot. "Sure," retorted Sid, at the same time giving Frank a nudge in the ribs as much as to say: "There's where the shoe pinches." "I've got a headache," said Tom, only half truthfully. "I guess that row in the hot sun was a little too much for me to-day." "Can we do anything for you?" asked Frank, trying to make his voice sound anxious. "No, I'll sleep it off," and turning with his face toward the tent wall, Tom proceeded to slumber--or pretend to. It was two days after this when Tom and Ruth met. He had studiously avoided calling at the Tyler cottage, though the other boys went over each evening. Tom gave some excuse, and each time Sid and the others came in at night they would remark about the good time they had had. "You're missing it," declared Phil, winking at his chums. "Boswell is filling in your place fine." "Was he there again?" snapped Tom. "Sure thing. He and Sis seem to get on well together, though I don't care for the chap. Still he isn't such a bad sort as I thought at first." As a matter of fact Boswell had not called since that first evening, but Phil guessed Tom's secret, and wickedly and feloniously egged it on. "What's the matter, Tom; why haven't you called?" asked Ruth with perfect sincerity when she and the tall pitcher did meet, following some busy days devoted for the most part by the boys to rowing practice. "I wanted to ask you about something?" "I--er--I've been busy," he said, trying to make himself believe that. Ruth didn't. "Besides," he blurted out, with a school-boy mannerism that he hated himself for disclosing, "I thought Mr. Boswell could keep you interested." "Tom Parsons!" and Ruth's eyes flashed dangerously. "He seems to be quite a steady caller," he stumbled on, growing more and more confused and uncomfortable. He felt more childish than ever, and I am not saying he was not. "I didn't know whether there'd be room for me and----" "Tom, I don't think that's fair of you," and Ruth was plainly hurt. "Mr. Boswell has only been over one evening, when the other boys were there, and----" "Only once?" cried Tom. "That's all. The same evening of the day when we were out in his launch. I couldn't help talking to him then, and if you think----" "I don't think anything!" broke in Tom. "I've been a chump. They said he'd been over there every night. Oh, wait until I get hold of your brother!" "Did Phil say that?" "He did." "Then I'll settle with him, too. But, Tom, I wanted to ask if you thought there was any chance of finding my brooch?" "I don't know, Ruth. It begins to look rather hopeless." "That's what I thought, and, as long as I'm not going to get it back I may as well admit that it is gone. I can't go on deceiving people this way, even in so small a matter. I suppose it was careless of me to let the clasp get broken in the first place. I put it on in a hurry one day, and strained it. And in the second place, I suppose I ought to have given it to a more reliable jeweler. "But that Mr. Farson called at the college one day soliciting repair work to do. He said he had some from Boxer Hall, so I thought he was all right, and let him take my pin. I'm sorry now." "Yes, it is too bad," assented Tom, "but it can't be helped. I don't really believe, Ruth, that there's any use looking on this island for the pin. I have been keeping my eyes open for it, but I'm beginning to think that it's like hunting for the proverbial thimble in the straw pile." "You mean needle in the haystack." "Well, it's the same thing. I never can get those proverbs straight. The only hope is that we might, some day, discover who took the things, and your brooch might be recovered. But it's a pretty slim chance, now that all our clues seemed to have failed." "That's what I thought. So I guess I'll confess and brave grandmother's wrath. But, oh! I know she'll never leave me her lovely pearls!" "Maybe someone else will," suggested Tom. "Will you come down to the store and have some soda water? He's got in a fresh lot, I believe." "I will, Tom, for I'm thirsty enough to drink even the lemon-pop Mr. Richards sells. Come on," and the two walked on, the little cloud that had come between them having blown away. But Ruth said nothing about Boswell's promise to show her his mother's old-fashioned brooch. Perhaps she thought he had forgotten the matter, and, she reasoned, there was no need of awakening Tom's jealousy. It was after Tom had parted from Ruth, with a promise to call that evening with the other boys, that, walking along the island shore, taking a short cut to the camp, he heard voices coming from the direction of the water. He looked through the screen of bushes, and saw Boswell and the Mexican caretaker, sitting in a boat not far from shore. The college lad was handing Mendez something, and by the sun's rays Tom caught the glitter of gold. At the same time a puff of wind brought their voices plainly to him, the water aiding in carrying the tones. "Do you think you could get an old-fashioned pin like that?" Boswell was asking. "You know something about jewelry; don't you?" "Of a surety, senor. But this would be hard to duplicate. It is very old." "I know, but I want one like that, or as near it as possible. Can't you get one the same place you got that?" "No, senor, that was the only one there was, and when I sell him to you for your respected mother I regret that I can get no more of him." "Where did you get that?" asked Boswell, as he took back from the Mexican what Tom could now see was some sort of breastpin. "Why do you ask, senor?" retorted the man, quickly. "Oh, nothing special. Why, you act as though you thought that I was going to accuse you of stealing it." "Never, senor!" exclaimed the man quickly. "I get this from a friend, and I sell it to you for very little more than I paid." "Oh, it was cheap enough," went on the lad. "I'm not kicking. Only I'd like to get another. I knew mother would like this, and she did. She loves old-fashioned things." "And you want another for one who also loves of the time that is past--is that it, senor?" "You've guessed it, Mendez. But keep mum about it. I want to surprise her." Then the wind, blowing in a contrary direction, carried the voices away, and Tom kept on, having only halted momentarily. CHAPTER XXI IN THE SHACK "Jove!" murmured Tom, as he hurried on, "what have I stumbled upon?" For the time being his thoughts were in a whirl, for like a flash it had come to him that the pin he had seen being handled by Mendez and Boswell was Ruth's missing brooch. "I couldn't get close enough for a good look, but it sure was an old-fashioned pin, from their talk, and it looked like the one I've seen Ruth wear. The one with the secret spring." He walked on a little farther. "Now what's to be done?" he asked himself. "I guess I'll sit down and think this thing out." Rapidly Tom went over in his mind what he had seen and heard. "This seems to let Boswell out of it," he murmured. "And I'm glad of it--for the honor of Randall," and Tom thought of the events that had taken place some time ago, when the honor of Randall seemed to be threatened, events which I have narrated in the book of that title. "If Boswell bought the pin of Mendez, then it must be the Mexican who is the man we're after," Tom went on. "He deals in jewelry, though most of it is that filigree silver stuff that I don't fancy. And Boswell wants Mendez to get him another old-fashioned pin like the one he already has. I wonder who for?" But Tom did not wonder long on this point. "The insolent puppy!" he exclaimed, clenching his fists. "If he tries to give Ruth a pin I'll----" And then he calmed down, for he realized that, aside from the ethics, or good taste of the matter, Boswell had as much right to present Ruth with a token as had he himself. "I guess I'd better reason along a new line," he told himself. "I'll have to let the boys know about this, and----" Then, like a flash something else occurred to him. "No, I can't do that," he said. "Phil isn't supposed to know that Ruth has lost her pin--that is, not yet. It would be too bad if the grandmother were to turn cranky, because of the loss of the brooch, and give her pearls to someone else--at least until I can buy Ruth some pearls myself--and that's a long way off, I'm afraid," thought Tom, ruefully. "No, I've got to play this hand alone," he went on. "I can't bring the fellows in--just yet. And I must tell Ruth not to admit that she has lost her brooch--at least, not yet. I may be able to get it back for her. The idea of Boswell having it--at least, I think it's the same one. "And then by Jove! If Mendez had the brooch he has the other stuff that was in the jewelry box--the Boxer Hall cups and so on. Tom Parsons, you've stumbled on the solution of the mystery, I do believe. And you've got to work it out alone, for if you tell any of the fellows Ruth's secret will come out. Now, how are you going to do it?" He pondered on the matter, and the first thing he decided on was that Ruth must be warned not to admit her loss. "I'll attend to that right away," murmured the lad. "Why, Tom, is anything the matter?" asked Ruth, when he saw her, a little later, at the Tyler cottage. "Well, yes, something, but----" "Oh, is Phil hurt?" and she clasped her hands. "No, nothing like that. What made you think something was up, Ruth?" "Because your face told me. What is it?" "Well, if I were you, I wouldn't tell--just yet--that you haven't your brooch." "Oh, Tom! Do you mean you think you can get it back?" "I think so, but I'm not sure. But don't say anything." "I won't. Oh! I'm only too glad not to have to admit it, though I'm afraid it's only postponing the fatal day. But what have you found?" "I can't tell you Ruth--just yet. I've got quite a problem to work out. Later on I may need your help." "Why, can't some of the boys?--oh, I see, you're keeping my secret for me. That's fine of you!" "Just wait--that's all," was Tom's final advice. In the exuberance of his youth he imagined, that, should it prove that Boswell had bought Ruth's pin from the Mexican, the brooch could, by some means or other, be recovered. "And now I am up against it," he went on, still communing with himself, after he had left Ruth. "I can't get the boys to help me, so I've got to go alone. And what's the first thing to be done?" There were several points that needed clearing up. "In the first place," reasoned Tom, "if Mendez had the brooch, which was in the jewel box, he has, or had, the other things. The question is--has he them yet? If he sold Boswell the pin he may have sold the other articles. I guess the only thing for me to do is to try and get in his shack--when he's not home. It would be a ticklish piece of work to stumble in there, and be searching about, and have him find me. I wonder if I can get in when he's out? He does go out quite often." Tom went on to camp, and his absentmindedness caused his chums no little wonder, until Sid exclaimed: "Oh, it's all right--Tom's got the symptoms." "What symptoms?" demanded our hero. "The love symptoms. A lovers' quarrel made up is worse than falling in at first. Look out!" for Tom had shied a shoe at his tormentor. "Practice to-day," announced Frank, the next morning. "Mr. Pierson said he'd be over early and we've got to go down and get the shell. He's going to put us through a course of sprouts to-day." "All right," yawned Tom, with a fine appearance of indifference. "But I've got to mix the stuff for cake if I'm going to bake it." He had promised to show his skill in pastry-making. "So if you fellows will go down and get the shell I'll be ready when you come back." "Three of us can't row a four-oared shell," protested Sid. "Well, tow it up by the launch, then. I'm not going to have the cake spoiled." "That's right," declared Frank. "The cook is a sacred person. We'll tow up the shell," and they went off, never suspecting their chum. And how Tom had dissembled! The making of the cake, he knew, had only been a subterfuge, for he had made up his mind he would buy one at the store, and offer some excuse to his chums that the camp-made one had "fallen" which, I believe, is the technical word to use when the top of a cake displays a tendency to lie on the bottom of the pan, and not stand up properly. I was once a camp cook, and some of my friends are still alive to bear witness against me. Now what Tom planned was this: As soon as his chums were out of the way he decided to enter the Mexican's shack, having learned the evening before, by skillful questioning, that Mendez had some work to do around a distant cottage, and would be away all morning. "And we'll see what I can find there," murmured Tom, as he set out. It was an easy matter to enter the shack, at least that part where the Mexican lived. The store section was closed, but Tom knew there was an entrance to it through the main shack. A carelessly-fastened window gave admittance, and soon after his chums had departed to get the shell (which was kept now in the new college boathouse, that structure having been nearly completed), Tom found himself inside the shack. He began rummaging about, taking care not to unduly disturb objects. Tom was looking in a trunk, that appeared to contain some clothing, as well as some of the Mexican drawn-work, and some silks and satins, when he heard a noise outside. "Someone is coming!" he whispered. "I've got to hide!" and he made a dive under the cot. CHAPTER XXII THE PAWN TICKETS "Well, I'm certainly going to be in a nice pickle if that's Mendez coming back," thought Tom, as he gave the blanket on the cot a surreptitious pull to better conceal his person. "I guess I was seven kinds of a chump to come here. I ought to have told the fellows, and then one of them could have done sentry duty for me. As it is, if anyone comes in here I'm as good as caught. A nice story it will make, too--a Randall man found in a caretaker's shack." He listened intently, and heard the approaching steps pause outside the door. Then came a key rattling in the lock. "Just my luck," murmured Tom. "It's Mendez coming back. That job didn't last as long as I thought it would, or else he's forgotten something. Whew! If he sees me there'll be a fight all right. He'll take me for a burglar, sure, or else he'll know why I'm here. I wonder if all Mexicans carry knives? There isn't much here for a fellow to defend himself with." Tom peered out from under the cot, and made up his mind, if worst came to worst, that he would roll out, and grab up the heavy stove poker he saw. "That will make a pretty good club," he reasoned. "Hang it all! why didn't I tell the fellows? If this Mendez does me up he may hide my body here, and the fellows will never know what became of me. I ought to have told them--and yet I did it this way to keep Ruth's secret. I meant it for the best." Again Tom listened. The fumbling at the lock of the door continued. "If that's Mendez he doesn't seem to know how to open his own door," mused Tom. "Maybe he's got the wrong key." This seemed to be so, for there was a jingling as of several keys, and then a voice was heard to mutter. Tom started in his hiding place under the cot. "That's not the voice of Mendez!" he exclaimed. "What am I up against?" A wild idea came to him. "Maybe some of our fellows got wise to the same thing I did, and they're trying to get in here," he thought. "If they see me there'll be a surprise," and he smiled grimly. The unknown person outside the shack seemed to be trying a number of keys, one after the other, in the lock. At the same time there was an impatient muttering. "That's not Mendez," decided Tom. "And from the voice it's none of our fellows, either. I wonder if it can be Boswell?" The complications that might ensue if it was the rich student, who seemed to be sharing some secret with the Mexican, kept Tom busy thinking for a few seconds, and then his attention was further drawn toward the person outside. "Hang it all!" exclaimed a voice in nasal tones--plainly the voice of an elderly man--"he's got some newfangled kind of a lock on here, and I can't get in. I wonder if a window is open?" There was the rattle of a bunch of keys being returned to a pocket, and then the sound of footsteps coming around to the side of the shack. "He's going to try my game," thought Tom. "Well if it isn't Mendez it's someone who hasn't any more right in here than I have, and I'm not in so much danger. But who can it be?" There was a struggle at the window, the sound of a fall, as if the attempt to enter had failed. Then came muttered words of anger and pain, and they were followed by the sound of feet beating a tattoo on the side of the shack. "He's scrambling up to the window," thought Tom, pulling the cot blankets farther down. A moment later someone dropped down inside the shack, and remained quietly in the middle of the floor, as though taking a survey of the place. "Humph! It ain't much changed from when I was here last," a voice said, and Tom peered out from beneath a cautiously-raised blanket. The identity of the unexpected visitor startled him. "Old Jake Blasdell!" murmured Tom, in a whisper. "The former caretaker! What in the world does he want here? I thought he had cleared out of these diggings." [Illustration: "OLD JAKE BLASDELL!" MURMURED TOM, IN A WHISPER.] Blasdell, for it was he, stood in the middle of the room of the shack where Mendez cooked, ate and slept--did everything, in fact, save conduct his small store, which was an addition. "It's better than when I had it," Blasdell murmured, for, as I have said, when Mendez succeeded the former caretaker he had moved the shack from the place where Blasdell had built it, and had considerably improved it. "Much better," went on the old man. "Them Mexicans ain't so lazy as I've heard. Lucky for me I knowed of that window that didn't close very tight or I mightn't have gotten in. And lucky I happened to see Mendez as I did, and learned that he would be away all day. Now I'm in here where can I hide 'em. I don't dare carry 'em around with me much longer. Folks is beginning to suspect. And I'll take away that piece I left here, too." "What in the world am I stacking up against?" thought the puzzled Tom. He looked out eagerly. Blasdell's back was turned toward the cot, but the old man did not appear to have anything to hide. "Can he be out of his mind?" thought Tom. He heard the man fumbling about, but from his position could not see what he was doing, and Tom dared not put out his head from under the cot. "There, I guess nobody'll think of lookin' for 'em there," went on the old man. "I s'pose mebby I ought t' destroy 'em, but they may come in useful some time or other. I'll leave 'em here, and take away that trinket." Then came a sound as if the man had stepped down off a chair, or bench. Tom wished he could see what he had done, but at least he knew that something had been hidden on that side of the room were the stove was. "Now I wonder if I can get out of the consarned window?" the man murmured. Tom heard him cross the room, and, after a struggle, there came the sound of a jump on the earth outside. "He's gone!" murmured Tom, as he listened to the retreating footsteps. Then he scrambled out from under the cot, and began making a hasty search of the room. If he had hoped to find Ruth's pin, the cups from Boxer Hall or any of the missing jewelry, Tom was disappointed. He made a thorough, but quick, search, not only in the shack proper, but in the store, though he knew Blasdell had not gone in there. "What could he have hidden?" thought Tom. "I've got to get out of here soon, or the fellows will be waiting for me." He saw a small wooden clock on the mantle over the stove. An idea came to him. "Maybe that clock hides a secret hole in the wall," he thought. Stepping on a chair he moved the timepiece. As he did so the door came open, and in the lower part, where swung the pendulum, he saw several bits of paper. There was no hole in the wall, but, wonderingly Tom picked up the papers. Then he started. "Pawn tickets!" he cried, "and some of them for silver cups! I'm on the trail at last!" CHAPTER XXIII TWO MISSING MEN "Well, what do you know about that?" "So that's where you sneaked off to when we went after the shell?" "And that's why you didn't bake the cake?" Tom's three chums gave expression to these sentiments as they looked over the bunch of pawn tickets he had brought away with him from the Mexican's shack. A hasty glance through them had shown Tom that none was for a brooch, and realizing that he could still keep Ruth's secret, he had decided to tell his friends the whole story. Which he did, keeping back only as much as was necessary not to let them know of Ruth's loss. He related how he had overheard a "certain" conversation between Boswell and the Mexican, hurrying over that part of the story so they might not ask what the talk was about. Then he told of his own and Blasdell's visits to the shack. "Say, this beats anything I ever heard of!" declared Frank. "That's right, but what did the old beggar hide--if anything?" asked Sid. "The pawn tickets, of course," declared Phil. "I'm not sure of that, of course," spoke Tom. "I didn't see him, for I couldn't look out far enough from under the cot. But he was certainly on that side of the room. And he didn't hide the cups and jewelry, for they're in pawn, as these tickets show. So it must have been the tickets." "Then if he had the tickets he took the stuff!" declared Sid. "Not necessarily," objected Frank. "The Mexican and this Blasdell may be in partnership in crime. Either or both may have taken the jewelry, and Blasdell may have pawned it. Anyhow, I think this lets Boswell out, and I'm glad of it." "So am I!" exclaimed Tom, and yet he wondered what the rich student and the Mexican could have in common, and he wondered about the old-fashioned brooch he had seen flashing in the sun, when the two talked in the boat. Also he wondered what Boswell wanted of another like it. In fact Tom was doing considerable wondering, and it was a puzzle in the solution of which he could not ask his chums' aid. "So that's why you wanted us to go get the shell, and leave you here; is it?" asked Phil. "Yes, I wanted time to investigate, and I didn't want you fellows to give me the ha ha! if nothing came of it." "But lots did come of it!" declared Frank. "We can clear ourselves of the faint suspicion that I believe Boxer Hall thinks hangs over us, and we can get them back their trophy cups, and the other people their jewelry." "Yes, I suppose the pawnbroker can be made to give up stolen stuff," said Tom. He was puzzling his brains to think of some reason why Ruth's brooch was not pawned with the other things. Recalling the list of missing articles, given out when the jeweler offered the reward, it was seen that all were represented by the pawn tickets, save Ruth's trinket. "They're made out in the name 'A. Smith,'" said Phil, as he scrutinized the bits of paper. "Might be a blacksmith for all you can tell--probably a fake name. And the pawnbroker's place is in Munroe," he went on, naming a town about twenty-five miles away. "Well," spoke Tom, "I suppose the thing to do is to go there, see the police, get the stuff, and return it to the jeweler. Then he can do as he likes with it." "Incidentally we'll collect the reward," declared Sid. "We'll donate it to the new racing association," suggested Frank. "Wouldn't it be a joke, if we did take that part of the reward offered by Boxer Hall, and use it to help beat them in the race!" "Sort of adding insult to injury," suggested Tom. "But I'm thinking we ought to let the Boxer Hall lads know about these tickets, and that there's a prospect of them getting back their trophies." There were two opinions about this. Tom and Sid were one side, while Frank and Phil held it would be better to first get the stuff and then let Boxer Hall know. "'There's many a slip 'twixt the cup and the lip,' you know, Tom," said the Big Californian. "Not meaning a pun, either. But there may be some complications and it may take some time to get the stuff away from the pawnbroker. A delay would only fret all those who have lost things, and would be unpleasant for us. Get the stuff first, I say, and then hand it around." And in the end this idea prevailed. "Well, I can see where we get in precious little practice to-day," remarked Tom. "I think we'd all better go to Haddonfield and give these tickets to Mr. Farson. Let him get the police busy." "All right, we're with you," said Phil. "But we need the practice, for it won't be long now before we're back at college." "What about arresting Blasdell and the Mexican?" asked Sid. "Let the jeweler attend to that," suggested Frank. Without telling the girls of their discovery, the boys went to town in their launch, which, for a wonder, did not break down. Frank declared it was because he had put in a new set of batteries. That Mr. Farson was astonished, is putting it mildly. He could not thank the boys enough. Privately, to Tom, who managed to get him a word in secret, the jeweler said he could not account for Ruth's pin not being represented by a ticket. "But I'll look all through that pawnbroker's stock for it," he said. Mr. Farson decided that they would first go to Munroe and get the cups and jewelry, and later see about causing the arrest of the guilty person, or persons. "The pawnbroker would have to identify the thief, anyhow," he explained. "Now you boys go back to the island and stay there. I'll hire an auto and go to Munroe. As soon as I get back I'll run over and let you know how I make out. Oh, this is good news for me!" "What became of Blasdell after he jumped out of the shack, Tom?" asked Phil. "How could I tell? I was under the cot." "That's so. And he doesn't seem to be around these diggings any more. He just showed up with these pawn tickets, and then lit out again. And to think he was the fellow who had the stuff all the while!" "He or Mendez," said Tom. "I'm not sure which. It's queer that Blasdell should come all the way back to hide the tickets in the shack. I heard him speak of getting something that belonged to him, but I don't know what it was." They argued the matter, but could come to no agreement. Going back to their island camp, they found time for a little practice in the shell, Mr. Pierson coaching them. Then they waited impatiently for the return of the jeweler. "I wonder what Mendez will think when he gets back and finds his place has been ransacked?" suggested Sid. "He won't know it," declared Tom. "I was mighty careful, and Blasdell wasn't inside more than a few minutes. Let's take a stroll around there, and size it up." "No, keep away," decided Frank. "It might make trouble. Let's wait until Mr. Farson comes." It was nearly dusk when they saw a small launch approaching the island, and they recognized the jeweler as one of the occupants. "He doesn't seem very joyous," remarked Tom. "He isn't waving his hat, or anything like that." Somehow his words brought a feeling of doubt to his chums, yet they could not tell why. Nearer came the launch. It drew up to the little dock the boys had made. "Well?" queried Tom, nervously. "How did you make out?" "Not at all," was the surprising reply. "What! Didn't you get the things?" demanded Phil. "No. The pawnbroker closed out his place of business last week, and the store is vacant." For a moment no one spoke. Then Frank said: "But look here. You know a pawnbroker has to be licensed. He can't go out of business that way. He may move, but he has to let people know about it. And he can't dispose of their things inside of a year, either. That man had no right to do that." "I don't know about his rights," said the jeweler, "but the fact remains that he has skipped out. He may have taken the cups and jewelry with him for all I know. The police say he was a sort of 'fence' through which stolen property was often disposed of. He's been arrested several times, but nothing could be proved against him." "What did you do?" asked Sid. "The police in Munroe promised to try and trace him. I'm going to have circulars printed, too, and sent to other cities, asking for news of this pawnbroker." "Say, this is tough, to almost get the stuff and then lose it!" remarked Phil. "It's a good thing we didn't tell the Boxer Hall lads." "That's what," declared Tom. "Fellows, I've got an idea!" exclaimed Sid. "Chain it so it doesn't get away," advised Frank. "I say let's go to that Mexican's shack, and see if we can get anything out of him," went on Sid. "We got on the trail there, and he must be mixed up in it some way. Come on, Mr. Farson, you've got a right to question him." "I believe I will!" decided the jeweler, and he followed the lads toward the shack, through the lengthening shadows. "I guess he isn't home," remarked Tom, as they saw no light in the place. "Knock and see," suggested Phil. A tap on the door brought no response. Tom peered a bit closer. "The place isn't closed," he exclaimed. He pushed open the door. Someone struck a match. Then came an exclamation of surprise from all. For there was evidence that Mendez had hastily fled. The room was in confusion, things being scattered about, and a look into the store showed that everything he had had for sale had been removed. Mendez was missing, as was the pawnbroker and the jewelry. CHAPTER XXIV BACK AT RANDALL "This is the limit!" "Where could he have gone?" "He smelt a rat all right--he's sure mixed up in this business." "And the quiet way he sneaked off! Let's find out if anyone saw him go." Thus the chums exclaimed as the queer situation dawned upon them. Mr. Farson, too, was surprised, and did not know what to make of it. "I think I will devote all my efforts to locating the pawnbroker," he said. "If I get the stuff back that belongs to other persons, I don't care so much about an arrest." "But we'd like to solve the mystery, seeing that we had a hand in it," said Tom. "I wonder where Mendez could have gone?" But no one knew--no one had seen him go. Later that evening, when the young men, after the jeweler had gone to his store, made inquiries of the owner of the cottage where the Mexican had been working all that day, they were told by a servant that a boy, coming in a boat, had brought a message to the caretaker. He had seemed surprised, and had hurried off, leaving his work partly finished, promising to return. But he did not, and that was the last seen of him--at least for the time being. Evidently he had taken alarm at something, had hurried to the shack, hastily packed up his belongings, and fled in a boat. In fact the rowboat he generally used was missing. As far as it went there was nothing criminal in his actions. There was no direct connection between him and the missing jewelry. He bore a good reputation among the cottagers, and had always done his work well. He was honest in his dealings, and his word could be taken in regard to the things he sold. Some of the cottagers even owed him for work performed. "It's another mystery connected with this strange affair," said Tom, as he and his chums turned in for the night. "We may get to the bottom of it some day." "I hope so," murmured Frank. "We've been doing more detective work than rowing of late. We'll have to buckle down from now on. College opens in three weeks." Of course the flight of Mendez was known to the girls, as well as to all others on the island, but the circumstances connected with it, and the finding of the pawn tickets, was kept a secret. I say from all, but that is not quite correct. Tom did tell Ruth all, and they both puzzled over the fact that there was no ticket for the brooch. But Tom did not tell Ruth what he had overheard between Boswell and Mendez. "It might be Ruth's brooch that Boswell bought of Mendez, for his mother," reasoned Tom. "If Ruth thought so she might make a fuss and insist on having it back. Then, again, it might not be hers, and that would make trouble. I've got to investigate a little more before I tell her." The Boswell family closed up their cottage the next week, and left for their mountain home, where the rich lad and his parents were to spend the rest of the vacation. Our boys put in some hard practice in the shell, once or twice getting enough rowers so that they could use the eight. Mr. Pierson gave them valuable coaching. Then, on his advice, they gave themselves up to a good rest, and the enjoyment of camp life. "You'll want a week or two when you don't see an oar," he explained. "There is such a thing as overdoing it. And you will soon be back at college you say, and begin hard training. So take a rest now." And the boys did, though their "rest" consisted chiefly in giving the girls a good time. The wheezy little launch was worked to the limit. Then came the approach of the college season. Several cottages on the island were closed. The girls said farewell to Madge, for they must spend some time with their own folks, and one day Tom remarked: "Say, fellows, let's break camp. It's no fun here without the girls." "That's right," agreed Sid, and so the tents were struck, and our heroes went their several ways to enjoy what was left of their vacation before again gathering at Randall. And in that time nothing new developed about the missing cups and jewelry. Nor was any word heard of the pawnbroker or Mendez. * * * * * "Hello, there's Dutch Housenlager, bigger than ever!" "Yes, and there's Bricktop redder than ever. I say, Brick!" "Hello, Parsons, you look as brown as a berry. What have you been doing with yourself?" "Camping." "You look it. I was at the shore--beastly hot, too!" "Say, isn't the new boathouse swell?" "Nothing like it. Oh, it's going to be great at Randall this Fall." "Over this way, Henderson! Where's Phil and Frank?" cried Tom. "I don't know. I just got in. Have you been up to the room?" "No, I just landed, too. Have you fed your face?" "Not since I got here. Let's grub and then we'll open up the place. Hi, there, Snail! How's the night work?" "Oh, so-so," replied Sam Looper, re-christened "Snail," because of his slowness, and his propensity for night prowling. "Here come the Jersey twins!" "That's right. I hope Jerry makes a good coxswain in the varsity eight," went on Tom. "We need him." "Hear you did some practicing this Summer," remarked Dutch, as he playfully dug his elbow into Tom's ribs. "We did. I'm anxious to get hold of an oar again. Have the new shells come?" "I haven't heard. We'll inquire. I saw Mr. Lighton a bit ago." It was the opening of Randall College for the Fall term, and our friends, as well as their chums, had returned not only to lessons but to sports as well--cross-country running, football--ever glorious football--and now and chiefly, rowing, for the regatta was to be held before the big battles of the gridiron took place. "Come on!" cried Tom, as he spied his three chums. "Let's slip up to our room and talk things over." This was after a more or less hurried meal had been eaten. "And we sure have lots to talk about," remarked Sid. "But let's get through with it and take a run up to Fairview. I guess----" "You guess the girls are there--that's what you guess!" interrupted Tom. "Hark to him, fellows. Isn't he the limit!" And then, linking arms, the four inseparables strolled across the campus, through groups of students, toward their room. CHAPTER XXV THE NEW SHELLS "Say, aren't they beauts!" "All to the cream!" "Nothing like 'em ever seen on this river before!" "And look at the eight! Isn't that a peach?" "Easy there, Housenlager, that isn't a ferry-boat!" and Jerry Jackson kept the big lad from stepping into the new eight-oared shell. The other exclamations, as may easily be surmised, came from the college lads as they gathered about the new float and boathouse, in front of which were the new craft that had been put in the water that day. It was a week or so after the opening of Randall, and matters were shaping themselves up in some kind of order. "Two fours, four singles, two doubles and the eight!" remarked Tom. "Say, that committee of old grads certainly did themselves proud all right!" "They sure did," agreed Sid. "And this boathouse can't be beat!" added Phil, as he and the others inspected the new structure. "I only hope that same thing applies to our boats," remarked the Big Californian, grimly. "There'll be something coming to us if they can't be beaten." "Let's get in and have a trial," suggested Sid. "Come, we've got enough for two eights--one crew in the old shell and one in the new. We'll find out if she's stiff enough." "Better wait until Mr. Lighton gives the word," suggested Tom. "They'll want to soak up a bit, anyhow, being new; and our weight might open up the seams too much." In fact the boats had only been in the water since that morning, a committee of the rowing association superintending their removal from the freight station on trucks. The letter announcing that they were on their way had been received some little time before, and the advent of the rowing craft was eagerly waited. Then had come a simple ceremony, when a committee of the presenting graduates had formally turned over the boathouse and outfit to Randall College. "Well, we'll have to organize soon, pick out a coxswain and captain, and arrange for hard training," said Tom. "Yes, there isn't much time between now and the football season," agreed Frank. "Boxer Hall and Fairview will want to wind up the rowing game as early as they can. It's been a double drill for them, since they raced in the Spring. Next Spring we'll get in the game with them." "Here comes Mr. Lighton," suggested Sid. "Maybe he'll have something to say," and he indicated the coach coming down toward the boathouse. "Well, boys, how do you like them?" asked Mr. Lighton, as he indicated the new craft. "Swell!" "Peachy!" "Pippy!" These were only a sample of the many expressions of approval. "I guess I'll slip in one of those singles and have a try at it," remarked Boswell, starting for the dressing rooms to change into rowing costume. "No, don't, please--not just yet," said Mr. Lighton. "I want to look them over first, to see if there are any flaws. You can take out one of the old ones." "Say, you don't seem to want me to do anything in the boating line!" exclaimed the rich lad. "You shifted me out of the eight, and now you don't want me to practice in a single. I tell you I know something about a boat--I've done as much work this Summer as those fellows," and he indicated Tom and his three chums. "That's all right," responded Mr. Lighton, quietly. "I'm not denying that, but I want you to understand that I did not shift you out of the eight without good reason, and there is still time for you to try to make good--even yet." "No, I'm going to stick to the single--and I'm going to win!" snapped Boswell. "Good--I hope you do," assented the coach. "Now, boys, we've got to get together, select a captain for the varsity, also the coxswain, as well as officials, and rowers for the other boats. It won't do to go at this slip-shod fashion. What do you say to a meeting to-night to select the officials?" "Good!" came the general cry, and then matters were talked over at length. As far as arrangements with Boxer Hall and Fairview were concerned, they had been practically completed in the Spring. All that remained was the selection of the day for the regatta, the marking of the course, the settlement of rules, which would be practically the same as those governing Boxer Hall and Fairview, and the selecting of the officials. The other two colleges had very little to do to get ready for the races, but Randall had considerable. However, under the guidance of Mr. Lighton, affairs soon shaped up. There was some wire-pulling in regard to the election of a varsity captain, but the choice eventually fell upon Frank Simpson, who pulled stroke. It met with general approval, for all liked the Big Californian, and no one who had been tried at stroke did anywhere nearly as well as did he. For coxswain the choice fell upon Jerry Jackson--in fact there was no opposition, for many who might have liked to try for it, felt that they were not equal to the responsibility. But Jerry seemed to fit in there naturally. He was just the right weight, Mr. Lighton said; he had a certain delicacy, yet firmness, in steering, and he could use judgment. As for the singles, their disposition was simple. A number of lads signified their desire to enter into a competition among themselves, the best to be picked to meet Boxer Hall and Fairview contestants. Boswell was to be one who would enter the elimination trials, and he accepted the responsibility with an air of confidence that caused much secret amusement, and no little disgust. Snail Looper also expressed a desire to try, as did a number of others. In the doubles a number of new lads, with whom we are not immediately concerned, entered, and as for the fours, some juniors and sophomores, together with a few freshmen, made up three combinations, the best one of which was to meet the rivals. "As for the eight," said Mr. Lighton, "which craft, in a measure will be regarded as the main varsity boat, we now have two crafts--the old one and the new. I suggest that there be elimination trials, and several friendly races between the two crews. "In this way not only will you get practice, but you will have experience in pulling against another boat, which will stand you in good stead. "I have also to announce that Mr. Pierson, whom some of you know as the old Cornell oarsman, has kindly consented to help me in coaching you. We will draw up a set of training rules, and I expect every man to follow them faithfully. Otherwise there is no use in going into this thing. Remember the condition of this magnificent gift to Randall was that she should prove herself a victor." "And she will!" cried Tom, while the others echoed his words. There remained a few other preliminaries to arrange, and minor officials to select, and then the meeting of the athletic committee ended. "Oh, I say!" cried Phil, at the conclusion. "I wonder if it's too late to go see the girls?" "Guess not," agreed Tom. "I'm with you." "Same here," echoed Frank and Phil, and they hurried to catch a trolley for Fairview Institute. As they walked up the steps to the building where the young ladies were permitted to receive visitors, they saw a lad standing there. Just as Tom was about to ring the bell, the door opened, and a maid announced to the waiting lad: "Miss Clinton can see no one." "She is out, do you mean?" "I do not know. That was the message Miss Philock told me to give you." "Oh, all right," and, turning so that the light from the hall shone on his face, the countenance of Boswell was disclosed to our friends. "Oh!" he exclaimed blankly, as he recognized them. Then looking at Tom he added: "Perhaps you'll have better luck than I did, Parsons!" "Perhaps," admitted Tom, drily. CHAPTER XXVI "ROW HARD!" The four chums watched Boswell go down the steps and get into a waiting auto, the maid, meanwhile, regarding them half curiously, for she knew them well, from frequent visits. "Some class to him," remarked Sid. "Yes, he's finding his way here all right," added Tom. "Well, it's a free country," added Phil. "He came to see Ruth, if I'm any judge." "And got turned down," added Frank. "I wonder if the girls are really out?" ventured Tom. "I'll see if the young ladies are in," remarked the maid. She did not have to ask which young ladies were meant. She returned shortly to say that, while it was almost too late for visitors, Miss Philock had consented that the four chums could see their friends for ten minutes. "Say, what's gotten into the old Ogress--she's so pleasant to us?" Sid wanted to know. "Probably this is the calm before the storm," suggested Phil. "We may be turned down after this, the same as Boswell was." "I wonder what he wanted?" mused Tom. "Oh, probably to ask the best way to darn socks without tying a string around the hole," suggested Frank, with delicate sarcasm. "Here come the girls!" exclaimed Tom, and the murmur of voices bore out his remark. While the conversation that followed was probably of intense and absorbing personal interest to those who took part in it, there was not enough of general interest to warrant me setting it down here. Sufficient to say that all sorts of matters, from the coming regatta to the opening of the football season, were discussed, and commented upon. Needless to say the Fairview girls, with commendable loyalty, declared that their college was going to be the champions of the gridiron and river. Tom found chance for a quiet word with Ruth just before the ringing of a warning bell announced that visiting hours were nearly over. She explained that it was a surprise to her when Boswell called, and she and her chums decided not to meet him. "I haven't found out anything more about your pin," Tom said. "That is, I haven't located it," for he did not want to go into details about the missing pawnbroker and Mendez. Nothing more had been heard of either. "Too bad," Ruth declared. "I suppose, though, I might as well keep quiet about the loss of it until some one of my folks notice that it's gone," she said. "It will be time enough then to confess, though I suppose I'll be in for a wigging from grandmother for keeping still about it so long." "Yes, it can't do any harm to keep quiet now," decided Tom, "and something may turn up at any minute." "Then you really have some hope, Tom?" "Yes--a little," he admitted. "But I can't talk about it, Ruth. It involves others." "Oh, tell me Tom! I'll keep it a secret!" she pleaded. "No, really I can't," he said, and though she made it rather hard for him, he kept to his resolve. "It is time your friends left, young ladies!" announced the rather rasping voice of Miss Philock, a little later. "I have been lenient with you to the extent of ten minutes, but now I must insist." "Thank you for your kindness," exclaimed Phil, with a low bow. "We greatly appreciate it." "I am glad that you do," declared the preceptress, not allowing a smile to change the hard contour of her face. Poor Miss Philock! Doubtless she did not have a happy time of it, and her responsibilities must have weighed on her. It is not an easy task to be the dragon, guarding a number of pretty girls, when two colleges for young men are not far off. And Miss Philock did her duty, however unpleasant it was. Tom was awakened that night, shortly after one o'clock. At least he judged it to be about that hour, for he dimly recalled hearing a distant clock booming out twelve; then he had fallen into a doze, and it could not have been over an hour later when a noise and movement in the main apartment, out of which all their rooms opened, roused him. "Wonder who that is?" he thought, sleepily. "Maybe we did a little too much to-day, and some of the boys can't rest. I'll take a look." He raised himself upon his elbow, but, though he had a partial view of the sitting room from that position, he could see no one. The scuffling of feet on the carpet, however, and the faint rattle of paper, told that someone was up and about. Softly Tom put his legs over the edge of the bed, so that it would not creak, for, somehow, he had a faint suspicion that perhaps the person in the other room might not be one of his chums, and, in that case, he wanted to be prepared. Gently he stepped out until he stood in the door of his own room, and had a view of the main apartment. Then he saw a white-robed figure standing looking out of the window that gave a view of the campus, over which a faint moon was then shining. "That looks like Sid," thought Tom. "I wonder if he's getting spoony--or loony or moony? Maybe he couldn't sleep and got up to change the current of his thoughts. Well, shall I go out and keep him company, or----" Tom reconsidered the matter a moment. "No," he thought, "if I go out there, and we get to chinning, even in whispers, it will rouse Frank and Phil, and then we'll all be wide awake. And the land knows we need all the sleep we can get. I can find my way to dreamland without being sung to, anyhow." For a moment he watched the figure by the window. It was Sid, Tom felt sure of that, though night-garments, be they pajamas or the more prosaic shirts, do not make for identifying individuals. There is little of character to them. Then the figure by the window turned partly toward Tom, but, as the face was in the shadow, the watching lad could not see it plainly. The figure approached the table, on which was a litter of paper, where the lads had been doing some studying earlier in the evening. "By Jove!" thought Tom. "Old Sid is writing poetry--or he has been courting the muse! This is rich! He can't sleep and he gets up in the night to jot down a verse or two. That's it! And about a girl, too, I'll wager! Oh, Sid!" and he chuckled silently. "I'll rig you for this in the morning! Loony, spoony, moony Sid! This is rich!" and Tom doubled up with silent mirth. The figure continued to approach the table, and from the other rooms the deep, regular breathing told of sound sleepers. Then the figure began fumbling with papers and Tom saw a pencil taken up. "How the mischief can he see to write in the dark?" the watcher wondered. But that was evidently not the intention. For, after hesitating a few seconds over the table, the white-clad figure turned and went out of the door into the hall. "Well, what do you make of that?" Tom asked himself. "He has got 'em bad! Sneaking out to some other room to write his slushy poetry. He's the limit! Wait until we get at him in the daylight--there won't be any loony-moon then. But I should think he'd want to put on a bath robe. It isn't the warmest night of Summer," added Tom to himself, being aware of a distinctly chilly feeling about his legs. "Wait!" he counseled with himself. "I'll find out about this. I'll just follow him and give him a scare. I'll catch him with the goods." Pausing to make sure that none of the others were awake, and waiting to give Sid a chance to get a little way down the corridor, Tom slipped out of the door, his feet encased in a pair of bath slippers, that lent themselves better to soft movement than not, for they avoided the scuffling that always goes with bare soles. Tom reached the corridor, and, looking down it, saw at the farther end the white-robed figure. "He made good time all right," Tom mused. "Where can he be going to though, in that rig? Oh, probably to the reading room," and Tom recalled the large room at the end of the hall, a sort of library fitted up for the use of the dwellers of the dormitory--a room seldom used by the way, for the lads preferred the seclusion of their own apartments. "Maybe he's looking for a rhyming dictionary," thought Tom. "That's it. I'm on to his game now." Tom thought he understood it all. Sid, who used to care nothing for the girls--indeed having a veritable aversion for them--had, of late, been quite different, as Tom and all the others saw and knew. There was one in particular--and it would not be fair for me to mention her name--one in particular about whom Sid, if he did not talk, thought much. "And he's going to finish out some poem he began, and got stuck with," decided Tom. "Probably he knows we'd rig him if we saw him writing that Valentine stuff. "A rhyming dictionary though. I don't see what he needs of that. Love, dove, above--you true--eyes of blue. Heart--part--die, sigh--moon--soon--spoon--no, not that. But hair--fair--ever there--thine--mine--valentine. There you are, done without the aid of a net, and with nothing concealed up my sleeve," mused Tom, shivering slightly as a chilling breeze from the corridor not only crept up his arm, but over other parts of his anatomy. The figure ahead of him glided on, and Tom followed. Then, instead of turning into the library, it mounted a flight of stairs that led to the rooms above, where other students slept. "For cats' sake!" thought Tom. "What is Sid up to anyhow? Is he going to snare someone else in on this game? Or is he playing some trick? The bell in the tower! Jove, if he dares to ring that at this hour!" For, when the new dormitory had been built, a bell had been hung in an ornate corner tower, though it pealed forth but seldom, being more of an ornament. Still it could be rung if desired. "That's what old Sid is up to!" decided Tom. "He must be going daffy. He's sure to be caught, for Simond has a room up there, and he's a light sleeper." Simond being one of the new teachers, who had been assigned to this dormitory as a sort of moral-policeman. He was, however, a well-liked instructor. "I wonder how it would be for me to tip Sid off not to do it?" thought Tom. "If he does jingle the chimes they'll say we all had a hand in it, and it will be bad for the bunch. I guess I'll call him off. No use going too far for a joke." Tom was about to sprint forward, when, to his surprise, the figure turned and entered one of the student's rooms, the door opening noiselessly and closing again as silently. "Well, what do you know about that?" asked Tom of himself. "Who rooms there, I wonder? And what is Sid going in there for? Can it be that he isn't up to dashing off a fervid love poem himself, and has to get someone else, under the cover of night, to do it for him?" Tom came to a halt, some distance from the door that had opened and closed, and remained gazing down the corridor. He seldom came up here, and did not know which students occupied the different rooms. And, as the corridor was long, and as Tom was looking down it on an angle, he could not be exactly sure which door had opened, they being all alike, and many without numbers. "I'll just stay here and wait," he decided. "He can't stay in there very long," and then Tom began to wish he had slipped on his bath robe, for he was getting more and more chilly each minute. "Hang it all! Why doesn't he come out?" he asked himself half a dozen times. "I'm not going to stay here all night." But even at that, while calling himself all sorts of a foolish person, Tom remained. "It's too good a joke to pass up!" he decided. "I'll surprise Sid when he comes out. Poetry! Bah! We'll write a love verse for him!" Several minutes passed. Tom moved about, and began to do some exercises with his arms, to bring up his circulation. He was striking out vigorously, feeling in quite a glow, when his elbow, as he drew back his arm, came in sharp contact with the door behind him. Unaware of it, he had been standing in front of some portal while he waited. "Oh, for cats' sake!" thought Tom, in grim despair as the sound boomed out with startling distinctness in that dim and silent corridor. "Now I have gone and done it. I guess I'd better pass up Sid and his poem, and get back to my little bed. I wonder if I can make it before someone sticks out his noddle, and wants to know what I'm doing here?" With this thought in mind he started to glide away, but he was too late. The door he had banged with his elbow suddenly opened, and a voice demanded in peremptory tones: "Well, what is it?" "Great Scott!" gasped Tom. "It's Simond!" for the countenance of the instructor was thrust from the half-opened portal. "Well?" went on the rather grim voice, as Tom hesitated. "You knocked." "It--it was an accident," stammered Tom. "Oh. Then you don't want me?" "No, sir." "Is anything the matter?" "No, Mr. Simond." "Then what are you doing up on this floor? You're Parsons, aren't you?" "Yes, sir." "And you room on the floor below?" "Yes, sir." "Then what are you doing up here at this hour of the night; knocking at my door?" "I--er--it was an accident, you see. I was--I was exercising." "Exercising?" There was a note of incredulity in the voice. "Yes, exercising." "What for?" Cold sarcasm now took the place of surprise. "To keep warm." "Look here, Parsons!" exclaimed the instructor. "You may think this is a joke, but----" "No, sir; it's no joke. I was exercising to keep warm. Arm exercising you know, and my elbow banged your door--I didn't know I was so close." "I see. Well, are you warm now?" "Oh, yes, sir." Indeed Tom was in a veritable rosy glow. "But what was the necessity of getting cold?" went on Mr. Simond, and Tom became aware that others were listening to the talk, for he could hear doors down the hall cautiously opened, and faint snickers of laughter here and there. Tom was in a quandary. He did not want to tell the real object of coming upstairs as he had, for it would only make trouble for Sid. And yet if he kept silent he would be put down for having tried to play some prank on his own account. Still if Sid had "gotten away" with whatever he had attempted, and it seemed so, for no sound came from the neighborhood of the room he had entered--in that case Tom could not bring him into the game. "I guess I've got to take my medicine," thought Tom. "Well?" demanded Mr. Simond in a cold voice. "I--I just came up here for a--for a walk," explained Tom. "I--er--I couldn't sleep, and----" "I see. You thought if you came and waked me up that you _could_ sleep; is that it?" "Oh, not at all, Mr. Simond." He could be funny when he wanted to, thought shivering Tom. "I--er--I was just going back to bed," he explained lamely, for that was true enough. "Very well, then you'd better go _now_," concluded Mr. Simond. "And don't knock on any more doors, or I shall have to look further into the matter. Good-night!" "Good-night!" gasped Tom, surprised to be let off thus easily. "It was all a mistake, I assure you," he added, as he glided away. "Well, don't _repeat_ the mistake," was the grim injunction of the instructor, as he closed his door, and Tom vowed that he would not--at least that night. "I'm a chump!" he told himself as he hurried back to his room. "I might better have let Sid grind out his mushy poetry in peace, and gotten my sleep. Now I may be in for a lecture to-morrow." As he entered the room he saw, grouped in the middle of the apartment, his three chums. The sight of Sid, with Phil and Frank, caused Tom to halt. "Where in thunder have you been?" demanded Phil. "We were just going to get up a searching party for you." "That's right," came from Sid. "What do you mean by chasing out at this hour?" "What do _you_ mean, I guess it is!" exclaimed Tom. "I've been chasing you, Sid." "Chasing me? What rot is that?" "It's all right. I woke up when I heard you moving about in here, followed you out to the corridor. You were going to write a poem, you know." "Say, am I crazy or is he?" demanded Sid, appealing to the others. "Writing poetry?" "Yes; weren't you?" asked Tom, beginning to think he had more of a mystery on his hands than he had at first suspected. "Worse and more of it," murmured Frank. "Do you mean to tell me?" demanded Tom, "that you didn't sneak out of here a while ago, and go to one of the rooms on the next floor?" and he looked defiantly at Sid. "I certainly won't tell, or admit, anything of the kind, because it isn't so," replied Sid. "Admitting that I had, will you kindly explain how _I_ could be here when _you_ came in; in that case?" "That's so," admitted Tom, scratching his head in perplexity. "Unless," he added as an afterthought, "unless you came down the back stairs, when I was chinning with Simond." "Chinning with Simond?" demanded Phil. "Do you mean to say you were caught by him?" "Yes. I banged on his door." "Banged on his door?" "Yes, by accident. You see I was exercising to keep warm." The three paused and looked at each other. Clearly they did not understand. "Look here, Tom," began Frank in a gentle, soothing voice. "How long have you been this way? Did it come on suddenly, or are you subject to these fits? Have you seen a doctor? Don't you think we'd better wire your folks? Maybe if you lie down it will wear off. Isn't it sad, and him so young, too!" and he sighed in mock distress. "Look here, you chump!" cried Tom indignantly. "You think I'm stalling; don't you? But I'm not. Here's how it happened," and he told of the circumstances, and of his suspicions against Sid. "And while I was waiting for him--as I thought--to come out of that room upstairs," he went on, "I got chilly. So I exercised. My elbow banged on Simond's door, and he opened the oak. Then I had to explain." "That's a rich one!" declared Phil. "He must have thought you were crazy!" said Frank. "Exercising at that hour of the night!" exclaimed Sid. "This is too good to keep!" and he laughed outright. "Not so loud," cautioned Phil, "or we'll rouse the place. Anything else, Tom?" "Isn't that enough? But say, Sid, are you sure you weren't out?" "Of course I am. Ask Phil and Frank. They woke me up in bed." "That's right!" chorused the two. "I heard a noise," explained Phil, "and woke up. I was just in time to see you going out of the room, Tom, and----" "That was when I was after Sid," Tom explained. "You mean you thought it was me," put in Sid. "Well, have it that way if you like. But if it wasn't you I chased, who was it?" demanded Tom, after the manner of one propounding a difficult riddle. "That's up to you to find out," spoke the Big Californian. "Are you sure you _did_ see and follow someone, Tom?" "Of course I am. Do you think I'm crazy?" "I don't know," was Frank's simple remark. "There's something wrong," went on Sid, "but we can't get to the bottom of it now. If there was someone in our room we want to know it." "Well, there was," declared Tom, positively. "_I_ know it!" "Anyhow, I saw you going out," resumed Phil. "I wondered what was up, but I thought maybe you felt sick, and was going to the medicine cabinet at the end of the corridor. So I went back to bed, and when you didn't return in ten minutes I roused Sid and Frank." "And you found Sid in bed?" demanded Tom. "Sleeping like a babe--the result of an innocent conscience. Was it not?" asked Sid, with an air of virtue. "Yes, little one," came from Phil, with a bow. "Then we all speculated on what could be the matter with you," added Frank. "And we were about to organize a relief expedition, with six months' supply of rations, and start out," was Sid's contribution. "When in you came prancing as though you had been out for a constitutional," concluded Phil. "Telling us that you had been _exercising_," commented Sid, sarcastically. "Talk about following _me_ in a suspicious manner, I rather think the dancing slipper is on the other foot, my friend." "Well, this gets me!" confessed Tom, blankly. "Then it's the second time you've been gotten at this night," declared Frank. "For Simond had you first." "Oh, he was decent about it," Tom said. "I don't believe anything will come of it. I'm going to get to bed. It's as cold as Greenland here," and he made a dive for his room. "What time is it, anyhow?" asked Sid with a yawn. "Did we take the toothpick out of the alarm clock, I wonder?" The three of them glanced toward the table where the timepiece was wont to tick. It was the custom to wind and set it before going to bed, the last one to retire being charged with the duty of removing the toothpick, which was used to silence the ticking that annoyed the chums when they were studying. "Why--why--it's gone--gone!" gasped Tom, halting on his way to his room. "That's right!" chorused the others. "Tom Parsons, is this your joke?" demanded Sid, sternly. "What do you mean?" "I mean did you take that clock away for a joke, and then, when you got caught, made up that fake story about chasing me?" "I--did--not!" exclaimed Tom in such a manner that they could not help believing him. "Then where is it?" demanded Frank. There was silence for several seconds, while the white-clad figures regarded one another. Then Tom burst out with: "I have it!" "I thought you did," said Sid significantly. "No, you gump! I mean I have the solution. It was that chap who was in here, and whom I took for you, Sid. He has our clock. I'll get it back!" Tom was about to rush out into the corridor, when Frank laid a restraining hand on his shoulder. "Hold on, son," he began mildly. "There's been enough running around for one night. It won't be healthy, for one thing, to do any more, for it is beastly cold. And, for another, there is no use in running our heads into a noose. Simond was decent, you say, Tom, and there's no sense in putting it on him--rubbing it in, so to speak. We'll just lay low until morning and then we'll get our clock. You say you know where it is?" "Well, I saw the fellow that was in here enter some room on the floor above. I couldn't pick it out exactly, but I can come pretty near it." "That'll be all right. Who do you think it was?" "Dutch Housenlager!" declared Tom. "He doesn't room up there," retorted Phil. "Well, he may have slipped in some room up there to throw me off," said Tom. "More likely it was Jerry Jackson," was Frank's opinion. "He was poking fun at the clock yesterday." "As long as he doesn't poke anything more than fun at it, all right," said Phil. "We're the only ones licensed to use toothpicks and battle-axes on it." "Poor old clock," sighed Sid. "It does get abused, but still it is a faithful friend. Remember the time that duffer--what was his name--took out some of the wheels to make some machine he was crazy over? Remember that?" "I should say so!" exclaimed Tom. "But this chap wasn't satisfied with a single wheel--he wanted the whole works. I wonder who it could be?" "I shouldn't wonder but what the Snail had a hand in this," opined Phil. "He's so fond of roaming about nights." "He stays over in the North dormitory now," declared Frank. "Besides, he wouldn't get in here at this hour of the morning--at least I think it must be near morning. The doors are locked after hours, you know. No, it was someone from here all right, who took that clock." "And the nerve of 'em!" exclaimed Phil. "And to think Tom took that lad--whoever he was--for me," put in Sid. "Did he really look like me?" "He sure did." "Maybe it was Bean Perkins," suggested Frank. "No, Bean wouldn't do a trick like that. He couldn't keep quiet enough," declared Tom. "He'd want to give a class yell or sing a song in the middle of it, and that would give it away. Say, but I have a scheme though." "Out with it, and then let's get to bed," yawned Frank. "We won't say anything about this," spoke Tom, "and----" "Not say anything about it!" cried Sid. "Well, I guess we will! Think we're going to let our clock disappear, and keep mum over it? I guess not!" "I didn't mean that," explained Tom. "I meant that we'd not come out boldly, and admit that we didn't know enough to keep our clock from being taken. But to-morrow--at chapel--or whenever we can, we'll just sneak up back of Dutch, the Jersey twins, or whoever else we suspect, and say 'clock' to them. That will make the guilty one start, and we'll have our man." "I see--a sort of detective stunt," remarked Frank. "Sort of," admitted Tom. "How would it do to make a noise like a tick," suggested Phil. "Say, I'm not joking," exclaimed Tom. "Neither am I," asserted Phil. "But let's be real mysterious about it, and we'll get the guilty one so much more easily." "Oh, don't be silly!" snapped Tom, who, truth to tell, was getting a bit short-tempered. "I'm not!" "Yes, you are!" "Say, let's all get back to bed, and fight this out in the morning," suggested Frank, and they took his advice, though it was but a troubled sleep that any of the four got the rest of that night. Talking it over by daylight they decided that Tom's plan might not be so bad. Accordingly, they put it into practice. "Clock!" suddenly exclaimed Sid, as he slid up behind Dutch Housenlager after chapel. "Tick-tock!" "Tag. You're it!" quickly responded Dutch. "What's the signal?" "You're not guilty, I see," spoke Sid, with a sigh. "Of course not. What's the answer?" "Someone took our clock last night." "Oh, that battered chronometer? Say, do you know what I thought?" "Couldn't guess it." "That you were trying to initiate me into a new secret society, and that you were practicing the password--tick-tock!" "Nothing doing. Say, Dutch, if you hear of anyone who has it, tip me off, will you?" "I sure will," and then, to show how much in earnest he was, Dutch tripped Sid up and deposited him on the grass of the campus. Nor was Tom, or his other two chums any more successful. Each time they tried the surprise plan on any suspect they received an answer that told they were on the wrong track. And then, most unexpectedly, the clock came back, as it had done once before. Wallops, the messenger, brought it. "I found it down in the furnace room," he explained. "It was on top of one of the boilers." "Well, for the love of tripe!" cried Tom. "How in the world did it get there?" "Our unknown visitor put it there," declared Frank. "Maybe he thought we were on his track, and he took this method of getting rid of the damaging evidence." And they had to let it go at that--at least for the time being, for all their inquiries came to naught. "Everyone who wants to try for the varsity eight come down to the river this afternoon," was the notice Captain Simpson posted on the bulletin board the next day. He and the coach had had a conference, and it was decided to try and definitely settle on the crew for the first boat. Then the second choice could be made, and some practice races arranged. In order to be absolutely fair, Mr. Lighton and Mr. Pierson shifted about those who had been rowing together. I mean Tom and the seven lads with whom he was more closely associated than with any others--Sid, Phil, Bricktop Molloy, Frank, Holly Cross, Dutch, and Kindlings. Jerry was kept as coxswain in the new boat, but Tom, Phil, Holly and Dutch were sent out in the old one, with Bean Perkins for steersman, while four lads who had not been given much practice were imported into the new shell with Frank, Sid, Kindlings and Bricktop Molloy. "Now, boys, see what you can do!" urged the coach. It was the first time the new shell had been tried, and it was found fully up to expectations. But it was a little differently made from the old one, and this made the lads a bit awkward in it. However, they rowed fairly well, though in a short trial race the old shell came out ahead. "We'll do some more shifting," decided Mr. Lighton, and he and Mr. Pierson tried different combinations, but still separating the eight lads who had rowed together from the start. This was kept up for some days, the lads all, meanwhile, being on training. But when a week had passed, and the old and new boats had see-sawed back and forth, first one winning and then the other, Mr. Lighton shook his head in doubt. "Something is wrong," he said. "We'll never be able to pick a varsity crew of either of them. We need a consistent winner." "That is right," agreed Mr. Pierson. "Why not try the same eight you had at first--the four lads whom I coached this Summer, and their four intimate friends? I fancy they would do better together in the new boat." "We'll try it," assented the coach. The result was an improvement at once. Even with the awkwardness of the new shell as a handicap, Tom and his seven friends at once opened water between their craft and the other one. And it was not surprising when you consider that they had had considerable practice together, and had played baseball and football through several college seasons. "I think that's the varsity crew all right," declared Mr. Pierson, after watching the test. "I agree with you--unless something unforeseen occurs," said Mr. Lighton. "Now we must give some attention to the others in the fours, singles and doubles." Practice in these craft had been going steadily on, and in time the crews that were to try to make Randall the champion were picked, subject, of course, to change, a number of substitutes being arranged for. Word came that the Boxer Hall and Fairview varsity crews in the different shells were doing hard work. They had the advantage of not having to pick new and somewhat green crews. But the spirit of Randall was not affected by this. "Now, boys!" exclaimed Mr. Lighton one afternoon, when the two eights had gone out for a practice race. "I want you to do your best. Row hard! Try to imagine you're in a race. Row hard, everybody!" "There may be a race if those fellows will consent to a brush with us," said Bricktop to Frank, as he looked down the river and saw the Boxer Hall eight approaching. "I wonder if we can chance it--to see which of our boats would win." "I guess so," assented Frank. "Silence in the boat!" cried Coxswain Jackson. "Save your breath to row with!" "Sure he's getting to be a regular fussing martinet!" declared Bricktop, with a smile. "Silence in the boat!" commanded Jerry again, and he meant it. Meanwhile the Boxer Hall eight came sweeping on. Would she give Randall an impromptu race? CHAPTER XXVII A BRUSH WITH BOXER "What do you think about it, boys?" called Mr. Lighton, from the launch where he and Mr. Pierson were sitting to do the coaching as they glided along. "Do you want to try it?" "Sure thing!" answered Tom. "Of course," assented Pete Backus, from the second eight. "All right. Just row along then, and don't make any allusion to a race," advised Mr. Lighton. "If they want to pick up and come in, let them. Only--don't let them win!" he added, significantly. "Even if it is only a friendly brush." "Let them win! I should say not!" declared Frank. "Be ready to pick me up quick now, fellows, when Jerry gives the word to spurt." "Aye, aye, sir!" echoed Bricktop Molloy, from his position behind the stroke oar. "And say, we don't want to let those fellows do us, either," went on Percy Pineford, coxswain of the second eight. "Let's beat the varsity and Boxer Hall, too." "If we can," remarked Harry Chapin, who was at stroke. "We can if you'll pull hard enough and fast enough," retorted the coxswain. "Naturally. That's as easy as _pons asinorum_ to say, but not so easy to do," commented number six--Billie Burden. "Say, if you lads want to have any breath left for rowing you'd better stop talking," commented the coach, and after that there was silence in the varsity as well as in the second eight. On came Boxer Hall, and not a Randall lad but envied their long, powerful stroke, so evenly done, and with such seeming power back of it. But Boxer Hall had been turning out winning crews for several years, and they had had much practice. But, with all that, as Mr. Lighton and Mr. Pierson watched the two crews of Randall, out of whose numbers they hoped would come a varsity winner, the head coach remarked: "Our boys do very well." "Very well indeed," responded the Cornell man. "In fact I like their stroke better than that of Boxer Hall's. It is likely to last longer, and is not so tiring. Our boys feather better, too." "Yes, thanks to your instruction this Summer to Tom Parsons and his three chums. Four good rowers in a boat help to put it in the champion class." If it was the intention of Boxer Hall to indulge in a race with our friends the river champions gave no intention of it at this time. They rowed on slowly, being some distance down the stream. The water was wide at this point, and there was room for several craft abreast, even with the long oars in the outriggers which set well out over the gunwales. "Watch out for a sudden spurt," advised Frank, in a low voice to Jerry, who nodded in his coxswain's seat, and got the tiller ropes in a firm grasp. Boxer Hall was known to be foxy, and if she could creep up on her rival, and, by a sudden increase in the stroke, gain such an advantage that Randall would find it hard to overcome the lead obtained, it would look as though our friends were outclassed. But there were wise boys at Randall, too. The two Randall eights--the old and the new--had separated to allow Boxer Hall to come between them, if it was her desire to have a friendly brush. At first it seemed as though Boxer would decline, but, at the last moment, the course of the boat was changed, and she shot straight for the open water between the other two craft. "Now for it!" murmured Jerry in a low voice. "Be ready, fellows!" Hardly had he spoken when, at a shout from their coxswain, the Boxer rowers suddenly increased their stroke. They had waited until almost on even terms with the other two boats, and evidently hoped to catch our friends unawares. But they reckoned without their host, for Jerry and his fellow coxswain gave the order to increase, and the sixteen lads responded nobly. Only for an instant did Boxer Hall hold her advantage. She did shoot ahead, but in a moment her two rivals were on even terms with her, and there they hung for more than a minute. "Well, it didn't work--did it?" called Jerry over to Pinky Davenport, who had succeeded Dave Ogden as coxswain of the Boxer eight. "What didn't work?" asked Pinky, innocently. "Oh, you didn't jump us," and Jerry laughed, for he saw by the confused look on his rival's face, as well as on the countenances of the others that their little trick--fair enough in its way--had been discovered. But if Randall hoped to have matters all her own way, or even remain on even terms, she was much mistaken. For a time the impromptu brush had all the appearances of a real race, and the three boats seemingly tried as hard to win as though the championship of the river depended on it. Then the second eight began falling behind. The lads made a gallant effort to keep up, but the grind was too much for them. "It's up to us now!" declared Jerry, in a low voice. "I'm going to push you fellows!" and he set the stroke at a heart-breaking pace. His lads stood the "gaff" for a while, and then, noting the distress on the faces of several, Jerry, much against his will, had to lower the rapidity of the stroke. Boxer Hall had held pace with her rival, giving them stroke for stroke, and now as Pinky saw his opponents in distress, he called for a quick spurt. And to the credit of Boxer Hall, be it said that her men responded in excellent style. They kept up the pace until, in a swirl of water, they had passed the varsity Randall eight, leaving that and the second craft behind. And then, to show that they had their nerve with them, the Boxer Hall rowers did not let up for another minute, sending their craft on at racing speed, even after they had won, and Randall was resting on her oars, completely "tuckered out." It was a bad beating for Randall, and the faces of the two coaches as they came up in their launch showed the disappointment they felt. CHAPTER XXVIII FAINT HEARTS "Pretty punk; wasn't it?" "Regular ice wagon as far as we were concerned." "I didn't think they had that spurt in 'em." "And yet we seemed to be rowing pretty well. I guess it takes more than one season to make a winning eight." Silence followed these discouraging observations on the part of the four inseparables as they sat in their room the evening following the beating of the first and second shells by the Boxer Hall crew. There had been a meeting of the coaches with the Randall rowers immediately after coming off the water, and several plans had been talked over, involving a shifting of the crews. But in the end it was decided to wait another day or so. There was no disputing the fact that Randall had expected at least the varsity boat to keep up to, if not beat, their rival. And they had failed. It was a bitter pill to swallow, with the time of the regatta so close at hand. "It sure was rotten," said Tom musingly, as he sat staring vacantly at nothing. No one took the trouble to comment on his last remark. They had about exhausted their stock of bitter reflections and observations. "Something's got to be done," went on Tom. Still no one answered him. The fussy little alarm clock ticked on, as though trying to be cheerful in the midst of all that gloom. It was as though it said: "Cheer--up--I'm--here-- You'll--win--next--year!" "I wonder what we can do?" Tom mused on. Sid shifted uneasily in one of the easy chairs. Phil duplicated in the other. Frank turned to a more comfortable position on the old sofa, thereby bringing forth creaks, groans and vibrations of protest from the ancient piece. Tom was trying to get used to an old steamer chair, that had been picked up, with other relics, at an auction held by a retiring senior the previous June, but as the chair had lost one leg, which had been replaced by part of a Turkish rocker, and as the foot-rest had, in some former day, been broken off and put back upside down, Tom's effort to be at ease was more or less of a failure. "Something has got to be done!" went on the pitcher. Once more the silence. "Say, for the love of tripe!" Tom finally burst out. "Have none of you any tongues?" He sat up so suddenly that the steamer chair, probably rotted by too much salt air on many voyages, collapsed, letting him down with a bump, and raising a cloud of dust from the old rug. "Good!" cried Phil. "See if you can do it again," urged Sid. "Frank had his head turned, and didn't see it all." "Yes, do," begged the Big Californian, chuckling. "Humph!" grunted Tom. "I thought I'd make you find your tongues somehow--you bunch of mourners!" and he limped across the room, to lean against the mantle, surveying the wreck of the chair. "Hurt yourself much?" asked Phil, solicitously. "A heap you fellows'd care," was the retort. "Think you can row?" Sid wanted to know. "What's the good of rowing if Boxer walks away from us like that?" demanded Tom, fiercely. "That's what I've been putting up to you fellows all evening, and you never opened your mouths. We're going to lose, I can see that. What's the good of trying?" He was so bitter--it was so unlike Tom's usually cheery self--that his chums looked at one another in some alarm. As the pitcher went to the bathroom to get some arnica for a slight bruise that had resulted from the chair's collapse, Sid murmured: "I guess Boswell has gotten on his nerves." "How Boswell?" asked Frank. "Ruth," Sid further enlightened him. "Don't you believe it," broke in Phil. "Sis wouldn't have anything to do with Bossy, while Tom was around." "Talking about me?" suspiciously demanded the tall pitcher, entering the room at that moment. "Oh, nothing serious," replied Phil, coolly. "We were just wondering what gave you the grouch." "Grouch! Wouldn't anyone have a grouch if he'd practiced in the shell all Summer, and rowed his heart out, only to be beaten by Boxer--and not in a regular race, either? Wouldn't he?" "You're no worse off than the rest of us," declared Frank, sharply. "We feel it just as badly as you do, Tom." "You don't act so. You've been sitting here as mum as oysters!" came the bitter retort. It was the nearest in a long time Tom had come to a breach with his chums. "What was the good of talking?" asked Sid. "Talking and shooting off a lot of hot air isn't going to make the varsity eight the head of the river; is it?" "No, but you might find some way of doing it if you said something, instead of acting like Sphinxes," snapped Tom. "I wonder if that chair can be fixed?" broke in Phil, anxious to turn the subject, for matters were being strained to the breaking point. "You sure did come down with an awful crash, Tom. Poor old chair! I'm glad it wasn't one of our good ones." "Good ones!" cried Tom, who had bid in the steamer affair at the auction, much against the wishes of his chums. "Say, this has those other ancient arks beaten a mile," and stooping over he began trying to solve the twisted puzzle of the arms, legs and foot-rest that seemed to have gotten into an inextricable tangle. "Oh, I give it up!" he cried, after several unsuccessful efforts. "We'll let one of the janitors play doctor," and he laughed. "That sounds better!" exclaimed Phil. "It would sound better if we had won to-day," went on Tom. "Why in the name of the binomial theorem couldn't we?" "The answer is easy," spoke Frank. "They've had more practice than we have, they pull better, they have more power; three things that they excel us in. What's the result? Power, practice and skill added together equal a win." "But isn't there any way we can get those three things?" demanded Tom fretfully. "Next year, maybe," assented Phil. "We've got to get 'em this year!" cried Tom, smiting his open palm with his clenched fist. "I won't admit we can't get 'em. We've got to beat Boxer Hall and Fairview, and we've got to get in condition in the next two weeks! Do you fellows hear? We've got to double up on our work! We--we----" "Hear! Hear!" broke in the voice of Bricktop Molloy, as he entered the room at that moment. "What's all the row about? Tommy, me lad, you're getting to be a regular orator, so ye are!" CHAPTER XXIX THE REGATTA "Come on in, Bricktop, and help us settle the row," invited Sid. "Row! I should say so!" cried the red-haired lad. "Who's been breakin' up th' furniture?" and he dropped into his broadest brogue. "Tom here," laughed Frank. "He isn't satisfied with the way the eight rowed to-day." "Faith! an' I guess none of us are," replied Bricktop. And then the five students fell to discussing the matter from all viewpoints. Presently Holly Cross dropped in, and then Kindlings, so with nearly the whole varsity crew present the room was well filled. There were opinions _pro_ and _con_, there were periods of doubt, to be succeeded by others of some hope. And the result of it all was that they decided they had underestimated Boxer Hall's prowess, and would have to "perk-up" and do more and harder practice in the time that was left. Communicating this decision to Mr. Lighton the next morning, the lads found that he agreed with them. "Mr. Pierson and I have talked it over," he said, "and we have come to the conclusion that to make a shift in the varsity eight now would be fatal. We must stand or fall by what we have. It is too late now. And, mind you, I am not so sure that even if there was more time that I would make a shift. I'm certain, in my own mind, that we have a championship boat. Now it's up to you lads to confirm my belief in you." "And we will!" cried Tom, a sentiment that was echoed by his chums. Then began at Randall a period of hard and exacting practice, such as had never been known before. The two coaches were fairly overworked, for by this time the first of the football squads was beginning to form. Many of the rowing lads were to play on the gridiron, but they were cautioned only to do light practice until after the regatta, as it would not do to have them overtrained. The weather was exceptionally warm that September, just right for rowing and a little too close for heavy football work, so in one way Randall had an advantage as regards her crews. It was an advantage, though, shared by her rivals, for both Boxer Hall and Fairview had made up their separate minds to be champion of the river. Boxer Hall, to be sure, now held this title, having defeated Fairview in the annual water sports in the Spring. But now with the new triple league formed, the title of "champion" was more or less uncertain. Not until this Fall regatta could it be definitely settled. It had been decided to follow the same rules and customs as obtained between Boxer and Fairview. That is, there were to be a certain number of races--singles, doubles, the four, and the eight-oared shells, and the count was to be as follows: A total of twenty points was decided on. Winning the eight-oared contest would count ten, the single shells would add two points, the double would count as three and the four would secure five. So that it can easily be seen that the winning of the eight-oared race meant much. Of course if one college should come out ahead in the singles, doubles and four-oared races she would have ten points, and should another win the eight, the score would be tied. But the possibility of this was remote. In addition there was to be a tub race, which would not count in the championship, but for which several prizes were offered. But if Randall worked hard, so did her rivals. From the other two colleges came news of cross-country runs for the improvement of the wind of the rowers. The training was reduced to a more scientific basis. It was even rumored that Boxer Hall had imported a well-known physical instructor to assist the coach. And Fairview had summoned a number of old graduates, who had made their marks while at college, to assist in turning out a championship crew or crews. Though the other races were regarded as important, most of the interest centered in the eight. Little was heard but about this shell, which in a way, perhaps, was unfair to the other rowers, who were practicing faithfully. Much was heard about the advantage Boxer Hall and Fairview possessed, in that they had been rowing on the river for years. In a measure this was true, and Randall was under somewhat of a handicap in this respect. Yet, in another way, it was a good thing, for Randall came into the game fresh, without any preconceived notions, and her boys had learned what they knew from the ground up. They were not hampered by college traditions as regards a certain stroke, and Mr. Lighton and Mr. Pierson had developed a logical one--differing somewhat from either Boxer Hall's or Fairview's--a combination of the two, modeled after the famous Cornell stroke. And how Tom and his chums did work, train and practice! Lessons suffered in a way, but the lads were well enough along in college now to know that they could make them up that Winter. And Dr. Churchill, bless his big heart! Dr. Churchill was not too inquiring. On one occasion Prof. Emerson Tines went to the head of the school to complain that he would have to condition a number of his Latin pupils unless their work showed improvement. "And most of them, my dear Dr. Churchill," he said, "are of the boating class. A lot of foolishness--a mere waste of time. It was bad enough with baseball and football, but now that rowing has started, it is worse than ever. I wish those old graduates had never made their gift!" "Tut! Tut! My dear Professor!" remonstrated Dr. Churchill. "Rowing is a form of exercise that develops muscles never brought to the owner's attention in any other way. I have been reading up on the subject since the eleven has taken to the shell, and I find that the ancient Romans, in their galleys, had rowing down to a perfection rarely attained to-day. It is an ancient and honest sport, and I'm sure I hope our nine will win the regatta," and then, good old soul, unaware that he had mixed the football and baseball squads most woefully with the crew, turned to his work on his dictionary, which to-be-famous work had progressed as far as the Cha. to Dem. volume, and bade fair to be completed in about fifty years, but Dr. Churchill did not think of that. The chums were all tired enough this night to sleep, as Sid put it, without being rocked. They had retired early, for there was to be sharp practice the next day. Lessons had been gone over, with as much attention as it was possible to concentrate on them, considering all that was going on, the alarm clock had been relieved of the "toothpick in its appendix," as Tom remarked, and it was cheerfully ticking away. "Queer about that time the clock disappeared, when someone came in our room, and you took him for me; isn't it, Tom?" asked Sid, as he got his shaving apparatus in shape for quick use the next morning. "It sure is. We've never had another visit from the unknown." "And I hope we don't," put in Phil. "Say, did you hear the latest?" asked Frank, as he untied the string of his shoe. "No, is there going to be another shift in the varsity boat?" asked Phil. "No, but a lot of the fellows have been missing little things from their rooms; scarf pins and the like. And the funny part of it is that it's all on the next floor of our dormitory. A regular epidemic, one of the fellows was telling me." "Have we a kleptomaniac among us?" demanded Sid. "Maybe it's one of the new janitors," suggested Tom. "There's one that has a bad eye." "Well, as long as they stay off this floor, we'll be all right," asserted Sid. "Only we'd better keep our valuables locked up." "Anyhow, they can't take the old chairs and sofa," remarked Frank with a chuckle. "They're too heavy." It seemed to be Tom's fate to see the end of the little happening, as it had been his to note the beginning. Late that night he was awakened by a noise in the main apartment. At first he paid no attention to it, and then, as he heard the rustle of papers, he thought of the time he had followed, as he thought, Sid, in the dark, cold corridors. "By Jove!" he exclaimed to himself, as he sat up without making the bed creak. "He's at it again! And this time I'm going to find out who it is!" Softly he crept to the door of his room. He saw the same white-clad figure as before, standing near the window. This time he knew it was not Sid, although the two looked much alike. The only sound was the ticking of the alarm clock. Then, as Tom watched, the figure approached the table once more. The change in the tone of the ticking of the clock told Tom what had happened. "He's got our clock!" thought Tom. "Here is where I catch him red-handed, so to speak." The figure glided from the door into the hallway, and Tom followed, pausing but a moment to make sure that his three chums were in their beds. From their opened doors the sounds of three different styles of breathing assured him of this. Then he glided on. Once more he followed the white-robed figure until it ascended the stairs to the story above, but this time Tom was close behind when the door opened. "Hold on there!" exclaimed Tom, as the portal was about to close, and reaching forward he laid his hand on the shoulder of a student. "I'll trouble you for our clock!" said Tom, sternly. Then he got one of the surprises of his life. With a startled cry the lad he had grabbed turned about, and his widely opened eyes suddenly changed their expression--changed so queerly that Tom knew he had the solution of the mystery. "A sleep-walker!" he gasped, as he recognized Harry Johnson, one of the Juniors who did not enter much into the sporting life of Randall. "He's been doing this in his sleep!" "What--what is it--where--have I? Oh, I've been at it again!" gasped the lad as he was aroused. "I beg your pardon, Parsons. Hope I haven't done anything very bad this time." "Nothing but our clock, old man. Are you in the habit of doing this?" "Not often, though the spell does come on me once in a while. It's a relic of my childhood days. And so I went to your room and took your clock?" "Yes. This is the second time. Do you recall the first?" "Not in the least. And yet I must have done so if you saw me. Probably some night later I went down in the cellar with it and put it on the furnace. Say, I'm mighty sorry." "That's all right. Better lock your door after this." "I will. Come in, and tell me what a fool I made of myself." Tom, who had on a warm bath robe this time, consented, and in a whisper related the details of the first occurrence. Johnson was contrite, and admitted that it must have been he who had taken the clock, though in his waking hours he recalled nothing of it. "It must have been the tick that attracted me," he explained. "Well, I guess I'd better take some treatment. Have a glass of ginger ale?" "Don't care if I do, though it's breaking training." As Johnson got a bottle from a closet he uttered an exclamation of surprise. "Look here!" he called to Tom. "Where did these things come from?" and in the bottom of a little case, where the bottles had been, he pointed to a collection of things. "By Jove!" cried Tom. "I've solved the other mystery! You've been taking this stuff in your sleep!" And so poor Johnson had. There was found all the articles missing from the rooms of various students. Johnson had, in his sleep, entered and taken them, concealing them in a closet, and, in his waking hours, forgetting about them. They were returned the next morning, with suitable apologies, and the matter was quietly dropped, for the students all understood how it could have happened. Johnson consulted a doctor, and was soon cured of his propensity to night wanderings. "Well, I'm glad I solved the mystery, since I started it," remarked Tom the next morning. Day after day passed, and the crews of the eights, as well as the other rowers, fairly lived on the river. The weather was remarkably fine, which was in their favor. Day after day the practice and training were kept up, and the coaches were faithful. A number of the old graduates who had been instrumental in providing the gift, came to Randall, and offered suggestions, some of which, being valuable, were adopted. And then the natural result followed all this hard work. The time of the eight, especially, began to improve. The boys rowed with more snap and vigor. They could stand the "gaff" better, and when Jerry Jackson, sitting crouched up in his coxswain's seat, called for a spurt, there were not so many "bellows to mend" in the shape of panting lads, as there had been. "We're coming on!" cried Mr. Lighton proudly, at the close of an exciting brush between the first and second boats one day, when the varsity had won. "We're coming on!" "If we can only keep it up," breathed Frank, who, being captain of the eight, as well as stroke, felt his responsibility. "Oh, we'll do it, old man," declared Tom, and he succeeded in infusing some of his spirit into his chums. The faint hearts of the weeks before had become strong. "But you boys needn't think you are going to win!" declared Ruth, when the four lads called on the four girls about a week prior to the date set for the regatta. "We have a championship crew in the eight, if nowhere else." "Never!" cried Tom. "We're going to win the eight if we lose everything else; eh, fellows?" "That's what!" his chums chorused. "Anyhow, I'm glad of one thing," remarked Ruth, in a low voice to Tom, "Phil is so interested in this rowing game that he hasn't said a word about my lost brooch. The other day I had on the new pin I bought to take its place, and he stared at it without making a remark. But, oh, Tom! I wonder if we'll ever find it?" "It doesn't look so--not now," replied Tom, mournfully. "Never mind," she consoled him. "We did our best." "And lost out by a narrow squeak," thought Tom to himself, recalling the pawn tickets and other clues that had gone for naught. The police had not been able to get a trace of either Mendez or Blasdell, nor had the missing pawnbroker been found. Finally the great day came. The last practice had been held, the lads, not only of Randall, but at the rival colleges, were "trained to the minute." The coaches had made their last appeals. "Well, fellows, to-morrow tells the tale," said Frank to his seven chums, on the night before regatta-day. They had all met in the gymnasium for a final conference with Mr. Lighton, and had partaken of a light lunch. "I'm as nervous as a cat," declared Sid. "Don't you dare be!" exclaimed the captain of the eight. "But if you must be--be it now, and steady up for to-morrow. Now off to bed, and everybody sleep soundly." And then regatta-day broke--calm, with a bright sun overhead, a hint of Fall coolness in the air that sent a little tingle through the blood--just the day for the races. CHAPTER XXX A CLOSE FINISH "Come on now, fellows, hit her up again! All together and I want every man to sing! Ready now!" and Bean Perkins, the official cheer-leader, the "shouter" of Randall, signalled with his megaphone to his cohorts who were lined up near the boathouse, in and around which the various crews or single-shell men were gathered. "Tear it out now!" commanded Bean, and that glorious old Latin song--"_Aut Vincere, Aut Mori!_"--"Either We Conquer or We Die!" welled out over the river. It was the song that, time and again, had urged Randall on to victory. Would it once more? "When are we going to start?" asked Tom, as he walked back and forth on the float, clad in rowing togs, as were a score of others, for a number of substitutes had been provided. "Don't get nervous now, old man," advised Frank. "The shell will be in the water soon, and then we'll go down to the starting point. They're going to run off all the other races first, you know. We're last. We've got more than hour yet. Better get on a sweater and a blanket, you might be chilly. You fellows do the same thing," he commanded, to his crew. "I wish we were going in first--and get it over with," said Sid. "This waiting----" "Say, cut it out!" cried Frank. "If you fellows want to have a case of nerves go off by yourselves somewhere. I want to watch the other races." "I think our fellows have a good chance in the four," said Dan Woodhouse. "We've got a good chance in everything--do you hear that, me boy?" cried Bricktop, in his rich brogue. "We're going to win everything! Just because you're in the eight you mustn't be selfish." "I'm not, only----" "Here comes our four!" interrupted Frank. "A cheer for 'em, boys!" and the echoes vibrated as the rallying cry went forth. "Come on now, fellows," cried Bean, dancing about, the colors of Randall on his megaphone fluttering in the wind. "All yell-- "We can row you on the water, We can race you on the land. We can wallop you at football And at baseball beat the band! "That's us--Randall!" and the song and cry sent the members of the four-oared crew rejoicing on their way. They were Joe Jackson--Jerry's twin brother--Bert Trendell, Pete Backus and Sam Terry. Early in the season Bean Perkins had been picked for the four, but he had not made good. Anyhow, he declared, he could help Randall more with yelling than any other way, and many agreed with him, for Bean was certainly a "shouter." The river presented a gay scene. It was fairly covered with boats, until it seemed an impossibility that a race could be held. But the course had been marked off, and soon the boats of the officials would patrol the water-pathway and clear it. Owing to the different lengths of the various races, several starting points had been selected, and the races had been timed so that the crowds could get from one to the other to watch the beginning if they desired. Of course the eight-oared race was the longest--three miles in this case, since the course of the river, narrowing as it did at several points, did not offer any longer course at any place available to the colleges. And three eight-oared shells take up considerable room abreast. Launches, rowboats, and a sailboat or two, made up the craft holding the spectators. In addition the banks of the river, for a mile or more, were gay with those who had come to witness the aquatic sports. The finish of all the races was to be at the Randall boathouse. This had been decided by lot, and our friends had been lucky. They were glad, too, since they could offer the hospitality of their new building to their rivals. And, in a way, Fairview and Boxer were glad, as their boathouses were rather ancient, and could accommodate only a comparatively few guests, while Randall's was large and roomy. Fairview and Boxer Hall had their crews or individual rowers nearly all assembled. A few were not yet on hand, and some of the shells had not yet arrived. But all was in readiness for the three-cornered four-oared shell contest. "Say, who's going to win?" challenged Tom of Ruth, for the girls, as you may well suppose, had been provided with choice places by our friends, where they could see all the finishes well. "Who's going to win?" repeated Madge Tyler. "Why, we are, of course! See our colors?" and she flaunted them in Tom's face. He looked at Ruth, and beneath a bow of the ribbon of the hues of Fairview, Tom caught a glimpse of his own college colors--a tiny bow. Ruth saw his glance, smiled and--blushed. "You may win some, but the eight comes to us!" declared Sid. "Oh, aren't we the sure ones, though!" mocked Helen Newton. "Wait until it's all over," advised Mabel Harrison. "They're going to start!" suddenly cried Madge, as the three four-oared shells moved off down the stream. "No, they're only going to the starting point," said Frank. "This is only a mile race, and they decided to row down to it instead of being towed, so as to get a little warm-up practice. I thought it would be a good thing for our crew to row down to the start, but Mr. Lighton says he has provided a launch for us, and the shell will be towed." "I wish it was all over," murmured Tom. "So do I," agreed Ruth, in a low voice. "Come on now, boys! Another song!" demanded Bean Perkins, and the strains welled forth. "Three cheers for Boxer Hall!" came the demand, and it was given with a will. "Three big ones for Fairview!" called an adherent of that co-educational institution. The four-oared crews, selected after much elimination work, were approaching their starting point. They were out of sight of those at the boathouse now, and it would be a little time before they appeared, rowing to the finish line. The band began to play. There was gay laughter and talk, and some nervous walking about by those lads who were to race next. The course had been cleared, though now and then some craft would trespass on it, to be hustled out of the way by the official boats. It seemed an almost interminable time before the shout sounded: "Here they come!" There was a craning forward by all. Many who had fieldglasses used them. Ruth produced a pair. "Who's leading?" begged Tom, in an agony of doubt. "Fairview!" she replied. "No, really?" and he almost grabbed the binoculars from her hands. "That's right," he admitted, grimly. "But our boys are pulling strong." "If they can only win!" breathed Sid. "Keep still!" commanded Phil, whose nerves, as were those of his chums, were at a tension. Cheers began to drift along the shore, coming from the crowds lining the banks. "Randall has pulled up!" cried Sid. "Our boys are rowing strong!" "They've got a ways to go to finish," murmured Tom. "Oh, if they can last it out!" Randall had a good lead now, and it was seen that Fairview was splashing badly. It developed later that two of her four-oared crew were overtrained--they could not stand the heart-breaking strain at the finish. "Come on, you Randall! Come on!" was the cry. "Boxer's creeping up!" "No, Randall's taken a spurt!" Conflicting were the cries. The boats were see-sawing now. They were getting nearer and nearer to the finish line. The crowds leaned forward. Pandemonium broke loose. All three colleges were being cheered. "It's going to be a tie!" yelled Phil, as he pointed to the Boxer and Randall shells, now almost bow and bow. "A dead heat! Fairview is out of it!" "Come on, boys!" implored Tom, stretching out his hands as though to pull their shell forward. There came a momentary hush. Then a great roar broke out. "Boxer! Boxer Hall wins! Wow, look at that spurt!" And, with sinking hearts, our friends watched their rival's shell dart over the line, a winner by a bare quarter of a length--but still a winner. CHAPTER XXXI THE TUB RACE Randall's adherents seemed stunned at first. They had been so sure of winning when the two fours swept up to the finish line, with Randall so close to Boxer, that, when victory was snatched from their very grasp, it seemed hard indeed. No one knew what to do, while the victors rested on their oars, justifiable smiles of triumph on their faces. As for the losers, they hung their heads dejectedly, and that tears of mortification came into their eyes is not to their shame. Then Tom Parsons found himself, and cried out: "Three cheers for Boxer Hall! It was a good win!" "That's right," echoed Sid Henderson. And the cheers were given, none the less hearty because they came from the defeated side. "Clear the course!" came the command from the judges' boat, and then came the formal announcement of Boxer winning. She had five points to her credit now. The Fairview lads, in the bitterness of their hearts, for they realized that it was overtraining, and, in a way, over-confidence that had made them third, rowed up to the float, disembarked and walked away in silence--at least there was silence until Bean Perkins yelled: "Three cheers for Fairview--she knows how to take a licking the same as Randall!" And at once the river echoed the cheers. "Well, you did us that time, Boxer!" went on Bean. "But our time will come--we're going to do you in the eight." "Not if we know it," retorted Pinky Davenport. "Oh, I'm so sorry--for you, Tom," breathed Ruth, as the tall pitcher stood close beside her on the balcony of the boathouse. "Does it bother you much?" "Well, of course I'd like to have seen our four win," he replied, "but it doesn't bother me. It only makes me mad. We'll win that eight if we have to break every oar." "Don't do that, Tom, old man," advised Frank, who heard this last. "Breaking an oar is worse than catching a crab. It will lose us the race sure. Be moderate." "It's hard, after all the work we did," complained Sid. "But look at it," put in Phil. "We beat Fairview, and that's something for a green crew to do." "So we did!" exclaimed Sid, brightening up. "Awfully sweet of you to remind us of it," said Madge, making a little bow. "Oh--er--I didn't mean it that way," stammered Sid. "I didn't think." "We'll forgive you," spoke Mabel, gently. The single races were to have come next, but at the last moment it was discovered that one of the outriggers on the shell to be used by the Boxer Hall contestant was split, so a halt was called until he could get out one of the spare Randall boats. Then he was allowed a half hour to "get acquainted with his craft," this being generously allowed by the other two colleges. "The tub race! Have the tub race now!" came the general cry, and as none of the other competitors wished to fill in the vacant time, and as the tub race would not count in points, it was decided to advance that on the program. Accordingly, a number of washtubs, of good size, which had been provided, were brought forward. There were to be two contestants from each college, making six that would compete for first and second prizes, in the shape of silver cups. Snail Looper and Dutch Housenlager were to represent Randall, Dutch being the only regular rower who dared to brave the laughter of the crowd. "Why shouldn't I?" he demanded, when questioned. "It'll be fun, and it will keep me from thinking of the big race. Besides, I think it will be good exercise, and I'm heavy enough to weight my tub down in the water, and that's a point. It won't turn so easily." "Well, don't strain yourself, that's all," counseled Mr. Lighton. "We don't want any slip-up in the eight-oared race just because you want some fun." "Oh, sure, I'll be careful!" promised Dutch, making a playful grab for Sid, who jumped back, thereby nearly upsetting an elderly gentleman who was sitting near the edge of the balcony to see the sports. "Careful! Careful!" he exclaimed testily. "Look out what you're doing, Dutch!" warned Tom. "He's one of the committee that gave us this rowing outfit. He'll get you down on his bad books if you don't look out." "Just my luck!" cried Dutch, ruefully. "Tub racers this way!" cried the starter. "Lively now!" With but a single paddle to propel them on, the six lads, amid much laughter, took their places in the tubs. They were to paddle to a stake boat, about half way across the river, turn there, and come back. Anyone who has seen a tub race knows how almost impossible it is to prevent the craft from whirling about. It doesn't seem to want to advance in a straight line. This was the case here, and when the lads started off it was only to go swirling madly about in concentric circles. "Go the other way!" was shouted at them. "Yes, reverse--you'll get dizzy!" "Waltz me around again, Dutchy!" called Tom to Housenlager. "You watch!" he shouted back. "I'm going to win!" And it did seem as though he had a good chance. Whether it was his weight, or the way in which he used the paddle, was not manifested, but he certainly forged ahead. He managed to turn the stake-boat first, though Snail Looper was a close second. Boxer Hall was out of it in this race, her two representatives seemingly not able to do much. But the two Fairview lads were pressing Dutch and Snail closely. "Here I come! Here I come!" cried Dutch, as, amid increased laughter, the four lads neared the finishing line close to the float. But he did not see how near one of the Fairview lads was to him. Then one of the latter tubs collided with that of Dutch. He uttered a surprised exclamation, turned to look, and his paddle slipped from his grasp. [Illustration: THEN ONE OF THE LATTER TUBS COLLIDED WITH THAT OF DUTCH.] "Come back here!" yelled he, making a grab for it. Alas for Dutch! He over-balanced himself, or perhaps he was dizzy from the whirling. At any rate overboard he went with a splash. "There! I knew something would happen!" cried Mr. Lighton, in vexed tones, as he saw the accident, and he hurried down to see that Dutch quickly changed to dry rowing togs, for the tub racers had worn their light garments. Meanwhile Snail Looper came steadily on, finishing first, with a Fairview lad second. "First win for Randall!" yelled a Boxer Hall adherent. "You fellows had better stick to tubs!" "Wait!" murmured Tom. "This may put Dutch in just the right trim to pull the race of his life." CHAPTER XXXII BOSWELL'S CHANCE "How about you, Dutch?" asked Tom eagerly, as he hurried up to his dripping chum, while others followed. The lads in rowing costumes did not hesitate to crowd close, while the other spectators, and there were many on the float, rather held back, for Dutch, in the exuberance of his mirth, was shaking himself like a Newfoundland dog, scattering drops all over. "Fine and dandy!" was the answer of the big lad. "I just needed a bath." "Look here!" exclaimed Mr. Lighton, somewhat sternly, "you had better get a good rub-down, and put on some dry togs. Have you any dry ones here?" "No, but----" "He can take mine, I guess I'm not going to get a chance to row," spoke Harry Morton, a Freshman, and he smiled gamely in spite of the disappointment he must have felt, for he had practiced hard, as a substitute. "Good!" exclaimed Mr. Lighton, and he gave Morton a look that meant much. "Hurry now, Housenlager." "Did you see me tumble in?" demanded Dutch, with a cheerful grin. "Yes," assented Tom, somewhat sharply. "Quit your fooling now. We'll be in the race soon." As the lad whose outrigger had delayed the race for single shells was not satisfied with the boat provided for him, another was gotten out. This further delayed matters, and it was decided to run off the doubles in the meanwhile. The singles would follow and then would come the great eight-oared contest, on which so much depended. "Now boys, go in and win!" pleaded Mr. Lighton, to George Carter and Ben Blake, who were to uphold the honor of Randall in the doubles. "Remember about keeping on your course. If you are in your own water you're all right. Once you get off the course, and there's an accident, you'll have to abide by it. And pull hard! Save your breath for the spurt that is sure to come. And look out for Boxer. They're straining every nerve to beat us in every event to-day. They want to prove that it isn't possible to make rowers in a single season, and I want you to prove that it can be done. It's up to me--in a way--but I want you to do your share. Will you?" "We sure will!" cried Blake. "Eh, Carter?" "Surest thing you know," assented the other. "Remember, Blake, you're the bowman," went on the coach. "Mind your steering. That new mechanical contrivance on this boat works very well. It's delicate, though. The least touch of your foot will shift the rudder. And give your orders so Carter can hear you, but don't waste too much breath doing it." "Carter, mind your stroke. You may offset the change of the rudder if you pull too hard or too easy. Now go ahead--and may the Fates be kind to you. Randall needs those three points." The three pair-oar boats moved off to the starting point and the crowd prepared to watch another exciting contest. Dutch had gone into the dressing rooms, accompanied by one of the trainers, who was directed to give him a rub-down. Tom followed, and as he went in he passed Boswell, who was also headed in the same direction. "I guess they don't ever intend the singles to be rowed," remarked the rich lad, with some disgust in his tones. "Here I've been fiddling around just because that chump from Boxer Hall can't get a shell to suit him. Why didn't they look over their outriggers before they came?" "Oh, they'll be ready soon," spoke Tom. Boswell had, as you may have assumed, been picked to uphold the Randall end in the singles. To do him justice he had trained hard and well, and had been faithful. He was not a favorite, chiefly because he boasted so much, and talked so incessantly of his "private trainer," and other "possessions." "I'm going to get a handkerchief for my neck," explained Boswell, as he approached his locker. "The sun's hotter on the back of my neck than I thought it was." Tom passed on, paying no more attention to the single sculler. The tall pitcher was chiefly concerned to see that Dutch did no more "cutting up," and dropped the horseplay with which he was wont to amuse himself at all times. "His monkey business may cost us the race," thought Tom, a bit angrily. But Housenlager managed to contain himself, and was soon in dry rowing togs again. He and Tom lingered in the dressing rooms of the boathouse until someone called for the loser of the tub races to come out. Tom followed slowly, and, as he did so, he passed Boswell, who was restoring some of his garments to the locker, having tied a silk handkerchief about his neck. It was the same gaudy-hued one that had a strip torn from it, and, at the sight, Tom's memory went back to the hut on Crest Island, to Ruth's lost brooch, and to the robbery. "Well, I hope we get off soon," remarked the rich lad. He was stuffing something into the pocket of his trousers. The garments fell from a hook, and dropped to the floor. As they did so something fell from them and rolled over, stopping at Tom's feet. He stooped to pick it up, and to his surprise he saw that it was a gold brooch. His wonder grew as he noticed that it was exactly like the one Ruth had described to him as missing, and similar in pattern to the one he had often seen her wear--an old-fashioned pin, heavy and massive in design. "Thanks," began Boswell, holding out his hand for it. Tom held it back. He glared at Boswell. "Where--where did you get that?" exclaimed Tom. "Well, I don't know that it's any of your affair," was the rather cool reply. "Well, I intend to make it mine! Do you know to whom that pin belongs?" "Yes, to me, and I'll trouble you to hand it over." "Wait!" exclaimed Tom. "Wait, Boswell. That pin isn't yours, and you know it." "Well, I like your nerve! Whose is it?" "Ruth Clinton's!" blurted out Tom. "Ruth Clinton's?" cried Boswell. "She never saw that pin. I--I intended giv--look here, Parsons, what business of yours is this, anyhow? I know you and Miss Clinton are----" "You let her name alone!" cried Tom, fiercely. "As for her never seeing this pin before--look here!" He pressed on the secret spring in the back--a trick Ruth had taught him. A tiny panel of gold flew open, disclosing the girl's photograph beneath it. "There!" cried Tom. "I suppose that got there by magic. Ruth never saw it; eh, Boswell? I don't know what to think of this--of you. You must have heard about the jewel robbery--of the missing Boxer Hall cups. And now you have this pin----" "Stop!" cried Boswell. "If you dare, Parsons, say that I----" "Ready for the singles! Boswell, are you there?" called a voice at the door of the dressing room. "Hurry out--Boxer wins the doubles!" The two lads, almost ready to come to blows, started. This was news indeed. "Randall loses in the doubles!" cried Tom, aghast. "Yes," went on Joe Jackson, who had come to call Boswell. "Carter broke an oar near the finish line, and it was all up then. It's tough luck, for our boat was leading." "Fate seems to be against us!" thought Tom, bitterly. Boswell was staring at him and at the gold brooch, which he still held. "Look here!" blurted out Tom. "I know more than you think I do. I saw you and Mendez in the boat one day. You had a gold brooch then--you were talking about old-fashioned jewelry." "Wait--stop!" burst out Boswell. "I'll talk to you about this. I'll tell you----" "Boswell, they're waiting for you!" interrupted Joe. "The race is called. For the love of tripe win it! Randall sure is in the soup to-day. Win!" "I will!" cried the rich lad. "I can't stop now!" he cried to Tom, as he hurried out. "You keep that pin. I'll explain later. The man I got it from may be around here yet!" "You'd better guess I'll keep this pin!" murmured Tom. "As for an explanation, you'll have some tall talking to do to convince me. I begin to see how things are now!" Boswell ran out. There was a cheer from the float--from the crowds along the river bank. "Come on, Tom!" cried Joe. "You and your crew are next. Oh, for the love of Randall win that race! Boxer Hall has eight points now--the four and the double. But if we win the eight and the single we'll have twelve, and be the champions." "Then we'll win!" cried Tom, desperately, as he clasped Ruth's brooch in his hand and raced out. As he came from the dressing rooms he heard Bean Perkins yelling: "All together now, boys! The 'Conquer or Die' song, and sing it as if you meant it. Randall is nearing the finish!" Blake and Carter, bitter over the unforeseen accident that had robbed them of victory, were getting out of their shell. Boswell and the others, in the singles were being sent off after brief instructions. Tom looked at his rival, and many thoughts came to him. The crowd was now so dense on the float, and on the stairway leading to the balcony, that Tom could not make his way up to tell Ruth the good news--that he had her brooch. He made the effort, but it was next to impossible. "Come on, Tom!" called Frank, behind him. "Mr. Lighton wants the crew of the eight in the dressing room for a last conference. Oh, cats! But the time is getting close." "Don't get nervous, you chump!" exclaimed Dutch. "Look at Kindlings, as cool as an icehouse." Elation, worry, wonder and apprehension were Tom's mingled feelings as he followed his chums and the coach. What Mr. Lighton said he hardly comprehended. But the coach impressed on the lads the necessity for coolness, the need of a spurt at the right time, and then the keeping up of the stroke until the bow of the boat had crossed the finish line. Boswell, rowing with the others to the start, was almost upset in his mind as was Tom. "So, he thinks I stole that pin--all the jewelry, I expect!" he mused. "What can I do? What shall I do? I wonder where in the world Mendez is? If I could only find him----" "Mind where you're going, Randall!" called a sharp voice, and Boswell changed his course, that had threatened to cut into the Fairview shell. Boswell and the others reached the starting line. There they got into position, the last word was given, there was a moment of suspense, and the warning gun was fired. Then came the final signal, and they were off. Three backs bent to the stroke, six oars took the water, there was a swirl of foam and bubbles. Tiny whirlpools formed at the ends of the spoons, and the single race was under way. "Oh, if I can only win--if I can only win!" thought Boswell. And the lads from Boxer Hall and Fairview thought the same thing. It was half way to the finishing mark. Boswell was rowing well, and was maintaining the slight lead he had. Casting a glance over his shoulder to note his course, his eyes swept the crowd on the river bank, near which he was. A face seemed to stand out from among the others. "Mendez! Mendez!" cried Boswell. "Mendez, go to the Randall boathouse at once! I need you there! A whole lot is at stake! There's a hundred dollars in it for you from me! Go, do you hear! The Randall boathouse! Get there as soon as you can! I'll meet you after this race! Do you hear?" and Boswell fairly screamed the words. "Yes, senor, I hear," replied the Mexican. "I go," and he started off on the run, for Boswell's manner was such that it carried conviction with it. And then Boswell set himself to the race again. But he had hesitated just a moment--just a fatal moment--and the next instant, with the lads in them picking up their strokes, the Fairview and Boxer Hall shells passed him. "I'm done for!" murmured Boswell. CHAPTER XXXIII MENDEZ EXPLAINS "Come on, Boswell!" "Row hard!" "You've got to row!" "It's your last chance!" Thus his mates encouraged the Randall lad in the single shell, as the three craft swept on up to the finish line in front of the new boathouse. But it was not to be. Boswell pulled with all his strength. Never had there been seen a better exhibition on Sunny River, but it was too late. His little hesitation when he had called to Mendez--the excited state of his mind, in wondering at Tom's accusation--all contributed to his defeat. The slight delay was fatal. "Oh, row! Row!" implored Bean Perkins. "Give him a song, fellows!" and that grand Latin chorus of the ancients pealed out. But it was not to be. Fairview was leading, with Boxer second and poor Boswell third. And in this order they finished, giving Fairview her first win of the day, and Boxer her first defeat. As for Randall, once more she tasted bitterness. "Three cheers for Boswell!" called someone, and, though he was no favorite, no one could withhold from the measure of praise due him for his plucky effort. Few knew what had contributed to his defeat. Even his rivals, hearing him call to the man on the bank, only thought him shouting to some friend, and thought how foolish he was thus to waste his precious time and energy. But it was none of their business, and so they rowed on to defeat him. "Never mind!" consoled Mr. Lighton. "You rowed the best you could, Boswell, I have no doubt. It was a fair race." "I--I could have won," he panted, and there were some smiles from those who thought it but part of his usual boastfulness. But Boswell paid no attention to them. He was seeking out Tom Parsons, and the Mexican. "Get ready for the eight-oared race now," directed some of the officials. "Randall, is your crew ready?" "All ready," answered Mr. Lighton. "Ready," answered Pinky Davenport, for Boxer Hall. "All ready," assented Roger Barns, for Fairview. Boswell made his way through the press of rowers and spectators, whispered comments following him. But he paid no attention. Into the dressing room he strode, where the crew of the eight were just finishing a little conference with their coxswain, Jerry Jackson. "Parsons, a word with you!" exclaimed Boswell, rather haughtily. "As many as you like--after the race," said Tom, coldly. He still held clenched in his hand the brooch. He made up his mind to get it to Ruth before he went off in the launch that was to take him and his mates to the starting point. He had no pocket in which to put it, he could not row holding it, and he wanted to conceal it from Phil. "No, now!" snapped Boswell. "Something unexpected came up as I was on the course. I think it is due to me to allow me to explain how I came by that----" "Here!" exclaimed Tom, anxious that Phil should not listen. "Make it brief. I can't understand what you have to explain, though." "You'll soon know--someone else will explain, too. He will be here shortly." "Ready for the eight! Ready for the eight!" came the summons from without. "Get together, fellows!" called Captain Frank Simpson. "And for the love of Randall row as you never rowed before." "Don't hang back when I call for the spurt," added the coxswain. "Ready for the eight! Ready for the eight!" again came the summons. "Come on!" ordered Frank once more, looking over to where Tom and Boswell were standing, apart from the others. "Get a move on, Parsons," directed Dutch. "If we win you'll be the first over the line, being in the bow. Come on." Tom had again been made bow oar. "No, wait a minute!" implored Boswell. "I want to say something, Parsons." "Won't after the race do? I can't listen now. Besides I've got to give Ruth----" "It's about her I want to explain. Hang it, man, it won't take a second." "Is Boswell in there?" called someone at the door of the dressing room. "Yes--yes!" eagerly assented the rich lad. "There's a fellow out here wants to see you," went on one of the rubbers. "Some sort of a foreigner. Says you told him to come here and----" "Yes! Yes! Let him in!" cried Boswell. "It's someone I want to see!" There was a little stir about the doorway and a man strolled in. "Senor Boswell," he began, "you have sent for me, and----" "Mendez!" gasped Tom. "Mendez!" echoed Sid, Frank and Phil. "Yes, Mendez," spoke Boswell. "Now, Parsons, I think he'll tell you that I bought that brooch from him. Show him the pin!" "I--er--" began the tall pitcher, and then realizing that concealment from Phil was no longer possible, he held out the trinket. "Ruth's brooch!" cried her brother. "How in the world did you get it? What does it all mean?" "It's a long story," said Tom. "We haven't time for more than a fraction of it. Boswell had the pin. He says----" "I say I bought it of Mendez, and he'll tell you the same thing!" interrupted the rich lad. "Did I not?" and he appealed to the Mexican. "Didn't you bring this to me to-day?" "Senor Boswell is right," assented the foreigner. "I have sold many things to Senor Boswell. He say for me to look for an old-fashioned brooch for him, like one his mother has, and he show me a jewel of the respected Mrs. Boswell, which I have also procure for him. I get this other one from Senor Blasdell, from whom I take over the take-care work on Crest Island." "Blasdell!" cried Tom. "Did he sell you this brooch, Mendez?" "The senor says what is correct." "But where did _he_ get it?" "I don't know." "Look here, Mendez," burst out Tom, "do you know anything about the Farson jewel robbery--about the Boxer Hall cups--about the pawn tickets? Do you?" "On my honor, senor, no!" and the man bowed low. He seemed at ease, and to be speaking the truth. "But why did you leave the island so suddenly?" "Ah, senor, I will tell you. I will confess. In my country we do not--that is, we who are of my class--we do not consider it a crime to smuggle--ah, well, a few cigars. I was guilty of that here. I smuggle some here and I sell them in my little store on what you call--er--the edge, is it not?" "The side," murmured Phil. "Yes, I thank the senor. I sell smuggled cigars on the side. It is not a great crime, I think. But one day word comes to me in the hands of a boy from a friend, that the government of your country is about to squeeze me--am I right?" "I guess you mean 'pinch'--arrest," suggested Sid. "Yes, that is it. I am to be pinched--Oh, what a language! Now I have no desire to be pinched, for what I, personally, do not consider a crime. So I flee--I vamoose. I go, and take all I can with me. Then, later, when it has all been blown up----" "Blown over," suggested Frank. "Blown over, yes, I thank you. When it is all blown over I come back. I have no more smuggled cigars. I am not in danger of being pinched. I come back to open my little store, and be the take-care man on Crest Island. "As for the gold pin, some time after I leave, so that I may not be pinched, I meet in New York the Senor Blasdell. He greet me kindly and say to me do I not want to buy of him a gold pin. I deal in jewelry on the edge--I mean side--and I remember that Senor Boswell have commission me for an old-fashioned pin. I think I have just what he want. I buy it from Senor Blasdell, and bring it to Senor Boswell at his college here. That is all," and he bowed to all. "That's how I got the pin," said Boswell, coldly, looking at Tom. "I hope you are satisfied." "Of course," murmured Tom. "But I don't understand. Where is Blasdell? Where is that rascally pawnbroker? Where is the rest of the jewelry, and the Boxer Hall cups?" "Say, what are you anyhow, Tom--a riddle reader?" demanded Dan Woodhouse. "What is all this Chinese puzzle about, anyhow?" asked Jerry Jackson. "If we're going to row to-day----" "Faith we'd better be gettin' at ut!" cried Bricktop, with a twinkle in his blue eyes. "Where's the Randall eight?" cried the voice of Mr. Lighton. "Why aren't you out here? We're waiting." "We're coming!" exclaimed Tom. "Fellows," he added, turning to the four of the crew who were not in on the secret, "we'll explain later. I'll see you after the race," he called to Boswell. "As you please," was the cool answer. CHAPTER XXXIV THE GREAT RACE "Are you all ready, boys?" inquired Mr. Lighton. "My throat's as dry as a limekiln," said Bricktop. The eight, in their shell, were at the starting point, having gone down in the launch, while the spider-like boat was towed. On either side of them were the Boxer and the Fairview eights, with their crews as eager to get off as were our friends. "Take a slice of lemon," went on the coach, producing one, and a knife from his launch. "Anybody else have one? Hold the pieces in your mouth," he advised. Several of the lads accepted bits of the citrous fruit. "Are your oarlocks all right--and the stretchers?" went on the coach. Everyone tested his own, and no complaint was forthcoming. Mr. Pierson, who had remained faithful to the last, said something in a low voice to Mr. Lighton. "Yes," assented the head coach, adding: "Don't forget to keep your eyes in the boat, whatever you do. Your coxswain will watch the other craft, and tell you when to spurt. This is important--eyes in the boat and no talking. You've got to row!" For the other crews, their coaches and advisers were speaking the last words to the nervous lads. From time to time those in the Boxer Hall or the Fairview eight looked over at their rivals. Randall was to take the middle course, an advantage that had come to them by lot. Tom and his three chums wanted desperately to talk about the dramatic scene enacted in the boathouse just before they had started, but there was no chance. They had hurried away, and in the launch, on the trip down, Mr. Lighton held their attention. Tom had managed to slip up to Ruth, and hand her the brooch just before leaving. That she was surprised is putting it mildly. "Oh, Tom! Where on earth did you get it?" she had cried. "I--I could hug you for this!" and her eyes sparkled. "We'll postpone the hugging until after the race! Just cheer for our boat!" "I will. Oh, Tom, my dear old brooch! Can't you tell me how you got it?" "Not now--later--I haven't time. See you after the race!" and he had run off to join his mates. "How much longer?" asked Frank, as he shifted himself on his sliding seat. "Not much, I guess," replied Mr. Lighton, looking at his watch. "About----" A shot boomed out from the starter's boat. "There goes the warning gun," the coach interrupted himself. "A minute more. Take it easy at the start, boys. It isn't a hundred-yard dash, remember. The hard work will come at the end. Steady all--eyes in the boat--row hard--and--win!" And, with these final words, Mr. Lighton steamed off in his launch, the other coaches also leaving their crews to themselves. The race was to be down stream, and, in order to make an even start, the stern of each shell had been made fast to an anchored boat in the middle of the river. At the signal the retaining ropes were to be loosed, and the race would start. Eager ears waited for the final signal. "Get ready boys!" called Jerry Jackson, his eyes on his watch, which he had fastened before him. "You've got about fifteen seconds more." There were sharp intakings of breath, and the young coxswain, glancing at his crew, noted with satisfaction that the slight tendency toward nervousness, exhibited by some, had disappeared. They were all cool and eager. Crack! came the report of the starting gun. On the instant the retaining cables were loosed, and twenty-four oars seemed to take the water as one. It was a good, clean, even start. To bring the finish opposite the boathouse, it had been necessary to go down the stream some distance, and there were few spectators gathered there. But such as were there gave forth a hearty cheer, and the yells of the three colleges were given in turn, for some loyal-hearted lads had sacrificed their chances to see the finish, that they might cheer the start. "Steady, fellows, steady," counseled Jerry, in a low voice, as he noticed a tendency to hurry. "It isn't time to hit up the pace. They're both keeping even with us," he added. Then began a steady grind. A leaning forward of the bodies, with hands well out over the toes, the dipping of the blades of the oars into the water, and then that tremendous pull of sixteen sturdy arms, shoulders and trunk--the pushing of sixteen muscular legs, the rising off the seats to get all the weight possible on the oar at the point of leverage where it would do the most good. Over and over again was this repeated. Over and over again, with the eyes of seven of the men on the back of the man in front of him timing the movement, and with the eyes of the stroke on the coxswain, to catch the slightest signal. Stroke after stroke--movement after movement, one just like the other--twenty-eight to the minute, Jerry having started them off with that minimum. And what Randall was doing, so was Fairview and Boxer Hall, in the same degree. The first mile was passed, with the net result that all three shells were on even terms, albeit one or the other had forged ahead slightly, not because either one had quickened the pace so much consciously as that they had done so unconsciously, and there was, of course, a difference in the muscular power at times. They were half way over the second mile--half the course had been rowed. Frank Simpson, watching Jerry, saw the little coxswain shoot a quick glance toward the Boxer Hall boat, and then stiffen in his seat. "Hit it up!" cried Jerry, and he gave the signal for a thirty-per-minute stroke. But, even as he did Frank, risking something by taking his eyes off the coxswain, looked across the lane of water. He saw the Fairview boat shoot ahead, while, the next instant the Randall shell, urged onward by the increased stroke, tried to minimize the advantage gained. CHAPTER XXXV THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS "Here they come, boys! Get ready!" yelled Bean Perkins, wildly waving his megaphone. "Here they come!" "Oh wow!" shouted Joe Jackson. "For the love of Cæsar tell us who's ahead." "It's hard to see from here. But I think----" "Oh, who cares what you _think_?" interrupted a lad. "Don't give us any false information." "Get ready boys!" cried Bean again. "The college cheer when they get opposite the old boathouse, and then the 'Conquer or Die' song. We've got to pull 'em on!" All was excitement. A hundred voices mingled in expressions of hopes and fears. The rival college cheers blended into one riotous conglomeration of sound. The three shells were sweeping on to victory--victory for just one! "Oh, Madge!" cried Ruth. "I daren't look. Here, you take the field glasses, and tell me who's ahead." Her own college colors slipped from her dress unheeded, and there was disclosed the tiny knot of Randall's maroon and yellow. "Ruth!" expostulated Mabel, as she pointed to the traitorous hues. "I don't care!" replied Ruth, as her hand went to where her restored brooch was at her throat. "Who's ahead?" demanded Helen Newton, as Madge peered through the glasses. "Fairview!" "What?" "She is! She is! Oh, girls, Fairview is going to win!" "Who--who is second?" demanded Mabel. "Randall!" came the reply. Then there was silence. The girls looked at one another. What they thought, who shall say? On came the three shells. The cheers increased. There was a din of horns and rattles. The band played madly--no one knew what the tune was--and cared less. "Steady all!" cried Jerry, as he noticed a tendency to quicken. "Steady all!" On came the Randall shell. Just a little to her rear was Boxer Hall, struggling desperately and with breaking hearts to offset the disadvantage of overtraining and over-confidence. For that is just what it amounted to. It looked hopeless for them now. As for Fairview, she had maintained the lead she had unexpectedly gained over Randall, and the eager--almost bursting--hearts in the boat hoped that the co-educational college could row it out unto the end. But there was no disguising the fact to themselves that they were rowing against such a rival as they had never before met. For a moment after Jerry had given the word to increase the stroke, his chums thought that he would keep them on that for a hundred yards or so, and then hit up the pace still faster. But he did not. Instead, coolly and calmly, he glanced critically at the Fairview shell, and kept on at the same rate. "Hang it all, why doesn't he give the word to spurt?" thought Frank, as his broad back rose and fell to the measured rhythm. "We can do it!" But Jerry was a wise little coxswain. Not for nothing had he spied out the course, so that he knew every foot of it, and by marks previously noted, he could tell exactly how far they were from the finish mark. Nearer and nearer to it came the eight-oared shells. Boxer Hall was struggling hard to pull up, but for once she had met her match--two, in fact, for it was easy now to see that the race, barring accidents, lay between Randall and Fairview. "And, oh! May we win!" prayed Tom and his chums. And they could not understand why Jerry would not put them at their limit. True, their hearts were pumping at an abnormal rate, their muscles strained as they never had before, and their breath came labored, and went out gaspingly. And then, when Coxswain Jerry, with his eager eyes, saw a certain old gnarled tree on the river bank, and when he had noted that Fairview had added another stroke per minute, then and not until then did he give the word. He had slid down into his seat, feeling the tiller lines as a horseman feels with the reins the mouth of his pet racer. Gently, as if the shell were some delicate machine, did Jerry guide her on the course. Now the time had come! Up he sat, like one electrified. Through the megaphone strapped to his mouth came the words: "Row, boys! Row as you never rowed before! Put all you can to the stroke. I call for thirty-three! Give it to 'em! Give it to 'em!" It seemed as though the Randall shell was suddenly galvanized into action. Reaching forward over their toes, eight sturdy backs bent for the stroke. Then it came. A pull that seemed to lift the frail shell from the water--a pull that strained on the outriggers--a pull that made the stout oars creak and bend! A stroke that sent the water swirling aft in rings, circles, whirlpools and a smother of foam! A stroke that told! "Row! Row!" screamed Jerry. Daring another glance, Frank, at stroke, saw the Fairview boat seemingly at a standstill. But it was not so. It was that Randall had shot up to her. From the shores, from the boathouse, from the other craft, came a riot of sound--shouts, yells, the tooting of horns, the clatter of rattles. There was a veritable flower garden of waving colors. The shrill voices of the girls mingled with the hoarser shouts of the men and boys. Whistles blew, and dogs barked to add to the din. "Row! Row!" Jerry fairly screamed. "Pick it up, boys!" pleaded the Fairview coxswain. He had not thought that his rivals had this spurt in them. "Can't you do it? Can't you get up to them?" begged Pinky Davenport, of his Boxer lads, and there were unashamed tears in his eyes as he made his last appeal. But Boxer was "all in." "Now boys, now!" shouted Jerry. "It's your last chance! A hundred yards more--only three hundred feet! Row! Row! We must win." "Don't let 'em pass us!" came from the Fairview coxswain. "A few strokes--only a few more!" The boats were even! Pandemonium had now broken loose. The band was drowned out by shouts. Ruth found herself hammering Madge on the back, and shouting--she knew not what--in her ear. Madge was crying--she did not know why. As for the Randall lads, they were mere machines. There was no more thought left in them. They saw nothing, but each man in front of him viewed his fore-man's back--Frank could not see the face of Jackson, but he could hear his rasping voice. "Row! Row!" How Frank heaved! How he dug at the giving water at the end of his blade as though he would tear it from the river and fling it aloft in a rainbow arch. And how Bricktop Molloy took up the stroke, his honest Irish face wet with sweat--his red hair plastered down on his forehead. Back and forth he bent. After him came Holly Cross picking up the stroke masterly--then Kindlings--good old Kindlings with something of the fire of his name in his sturdy muscles--then Housenlager--all the desire for horseplay gone from him. Then Sid, who had been shifted back to Number Three almost at the last moment. Then Phil, and then Tom. And how they rowed! Surely the ancient gods--surely even Hercules at his twelve labors--never toiled more Titanically than these eight rowers. No galley slave, chained to the oar, with the vessel on fire above him, with the shrieks of the dying in his ears, the stench of Greek fire in his nostrils, ever rowed more desperately. "Row! Row!" screamed Jerry. "Row! Row!" echoed Roger Barns. The finish line was but a hundred feet away. Slowly, oh, so slowly, did the Randall boat creep up on her rival. Now she was past! Another electric thrill went through Jerry. "Row! Row!" he screamed, and his voice was hoarse. His hands, tense and gripped, were clasped so tightly on the tiller ropes, that afterward they had to loosen them for him. The muscles had gone dead, but he steered with the skill of a veteran. It grew black before Tom's eyes. He felt that his lungs were bursting. Frank knew that if he dipped the oar in the water again he would not have strength to pull it out. But, somehow he did! And then with one last spurt, a spurt that seemed to wrench the very roots of their hearts, a pull that seemed to tear their very muscles loose, the lads in the Randall shell sent their boat over the finish line a winner--a winner by half a length--a winner! They were the eight-oared victors! And, as they realized this--as it came to them--their eyes that saw not lighted up--their faces, seamed and lined with the contracted muscles, broke into smiles, and then Tom toppled over on his oar, and Frank fell weakly back on Molloy. "Easy there, me lad, easy," panted Bricktop. "It's all over. You collapsed at the right minute! Oh, wow, but I'm thirsty!" Jerry Jackson was struggling with the tiller lines wound about his nerveless hands. Ready chums loosed them, and helped him from the shell onto a boat, the crew having recovered sufficiently to put their broad blades out on the water to steady the shell. And then, following the hush that came after the hysterical outburst which greeted the winners, came floating over the heads of the great throng: "_Aut Vincere! Aut Mori!_" But Randall had conquered, though she had nearly died. * * * * * Somehow the crew heard the cheers for themselves, for their coach and for the plucky little coxswain. Somehow they managed to cheer Fairview and Boxer Hall, and then they were hurried into the dressing rooms. "I knew you could do it! I knew you could do it!" cried Mr. Lighton, capering about like a boy. "I knew we could make a rowing crew in one season with the material we had." "Faith, an' ye did, me lad!" declared Bricktop, while Housenlager feebly punched Tom in the ribs, a bit of horseplay that our hero was too tired to resent. "Someone to see Mr. Parsons!" called Wallops, the college messenger, who was helping out at the boathouse. He peered into the anteroom of the dressing apartments. "I can't see anyone now," declared Tom. "Who is it?" "He says his name is Farson, and----" "The jeweler!" cried Tom. "Show him in!" and he came from under a shower and grabbed up some garments. "There must be something doing!" he added to Sid and Phil, who had heard the words. Somewhat bewildered by the athletic throng about him, the jeweler entered. "Where are you, Mr. Parsons?" he asked. "Here!" cried Tom. "What is it?" "Everything! I have just received word from the police that they have arrested that pawnbroker. He has all the Boxer Hall cups, and most of the other jewelry. Nearly everything is recovered. All but that old-fashioned brooch you told me about. That he says he never had." "And he's right," added Tom. "I recovered that. But who took the things?" "Blasdell. The island caretaker took them out of my box when the boat landed on the island, and disposed of them. Then he hid the pawn tickets in the shack, taking away the brooch he had previously hidden there. "Blasdell has been arrested too. He has made a full confession. He and the pawnbroker have been in with a bad set, and were planning other crimes. But I will soon have nearly everything back. I thought you might be glad to know, so I came here as soon as I heard. I had to wait until after the race, though." "We are glad to hear the news," spoke Frank. "So Mendez is not in it after all." "No, the confessions of the others completely clear him. I must go tell the Boxer Hall boys the good news." "And it is almost as good news to us as to them," said Tom, as he went in to finish dressing. The regatta was over. Randall, in spite of heavy odds and in spite of losing all but one race, was proclaimed champion of the Tonoka Lake League. "But we'll do you next year!" prophesied Pinky Davenport. "I think the loss of our cups was a hoodoo to us." "Maybe," admitted Tom. "But next year is--well, next year, and we're not greenies any more." "I guess you never were," admitted his rival. "And now let's go see the girls, and tell them how sorry we are that we beat them," proposed Sid. If the girls felt badly they did not show it much. "What I can't understand," said Phil, a little later, when he and his chums, and his sister and her chums were talking it all over at a little supper in Haddonfield, "what I can't understand is how Boswell knew Ruth had lost her pin, and wanted to give her another." "He didn't know it--stupid!" exclaimed Ruth, with a blush. "Only Tom knew it." "But Boswell was going to give you a pin." "Oh, can't a fellow give a girl a pin without knowing that she has lost one or you making a fuss over it?" asked Sid. "But--but----" faltered Phil. "He heard that I was fond of old-fashioned jewelry," explained Ruth, blushing, "and I suppose, instead of--er--well--say candy, he hunted up an old-style pin. He had bought one for his mother from Mendez, and wanted one for me. It was lucky that Blasdell did not pawn my pin with the other stuff. Instead he sold it to Mendez, who, in turn, sold it to Mr. Boswell, and Tom--well, Tom did the rest." "And you were without grandmother's pin all that while, and never let on!" cried Phil. "Oh, you're a sly one, Sis!" "And the colored handkerchiefs, and Boswell were useless as clues," went on Sid. "They were just false alarms. But I wonder why Mendez was so anxious to see Boswell that day we went on our little picnic?" "Mendez explained that," said Tom. "He had had some intimation that his selling of smuggled cigars was likely to be dangerous, and, as Boswell had bought some he wanted to talk about it, and get his advice. That was all. It seems that when Boswell and the Mexican were together on the island one day Mendez cut his finger and Boswell tore off a strip of the silk handkerchief. Boswell told me that." "And I guess that explains everything," remarked Phil. "I want some more ice-cream. We've broken training now, you know." And so the merry little party feasted and laughed and softly sang their college songs until the girls protested that they must get back, or Miss Philock--well, various opinions were expressed about that lady. "Stop that infernal clock!" grunted Tom, a little later, as he lay half asleep on the old sofa in the common room. "Stop it yourself," murmured Phil, sprawled in one easy chair, while Frank occupied another. Sid had declared himself done up after the race, and had gone to bed. From his room he murmured in a sleepy voice: "Sounds like Jerry calling--'Stroke! Stroke! Stroke!' doesn't it?" "Cut it out!" said Phil. "I don't want to see an oar for six months again." "It will be pigskin punts from now on," spoke Tom, as he returned from jabbing a toothpick into the clock's interior, and turned over to doze again. "And then good old Winter!" exclaimed Frank. "I say, fellows, what's the matter with getting up some iceboat races," and he galvanized into uprightness. "Talk about it to-morrow," sleepily murmured Sid, but the suggestion bore fruit, as you may learn by reading the next volume of this series, to be called "Rivals of the Ice; A Story of Winter Sports at College." It will tell how, after a strenuous football season, the lads formed an ice league, for skating, hockey playing, and ice-yacht racing. Outside the college there was singing and the building of bonfires to celebrate the victory of the crew. But in their room, four of the eight-oared victors dozed dreamily on, living over again in fancy that strenuously-fought-out race which they had so labored over. And there, for a time, we will leave them. THE END THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES BY LESTER CHADWICK _12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Jacket in Colors_ _=Price per volume, $1.00, postpaid=_ [Illustration] _Mr. Chadwick has played on the diamond and on the gridiron himself._ 1. THE RIVAL PITCHERS _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons, a "hayseed," makes good on the scrub team of Randall College. 2. A QUARTERBACK'S PLUCK _A Story of College Football_ A football story, told in Mr. Chadwick's best style, that is bound to grip the reader from the start. 3. BATTING TO WIN _A Story of College Baseball_ Tom Parsons and his friends Phil and Sid are the leading players on Randall College team. There is a great game. 4. THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN _A Story of College Football_ After having to reorganize their team at the last moment, Randall makes a touchdown that won a big game. 5. FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL. _A Story of College Athletics_ The winning of the hurdle race and long-distance run is extremely exciting. 6. THE EIGHT-OARED VICTORS _A Story of College Water Sports_ Tom, Phil and Sid prove as good at aquatic sports as they are on track, gridiron and diamond. _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York SEA STORIES FOR BOYS BY JOHN GABRIEL ROWE _Large 12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Colored jacket_ _=Price per volume, $1.00 Net=_ [Illustration] _Every boy who knows the lure of exploring and who loves to rig up huts and caves and tree-houses to fortify himself against imaginary enemies will enjoy these books, for they give a vivid chronicle of the doings and inventions of a group of boys who are shipwrecked and have to make themselves snug and safe in tropical islands where the dangers are too real for play._ 1. CRUSOE ISLAND Dick, Alf and Fred find themselves stranded on an unknown island with the old seaman Josh, their ship destroyed by fire, their friends lost. 2. THE ISLAND TREASURE With much ingenuity these boys fit themselves into the wild life of the island they are cast upon in storm. 3. THE MYSTERY OF THE DERELICT Their ship and companions perished in tempest at sea, the boys are adrift in a small open boat when they spy a ship. Such a strange vessel!--no hand guiding it, no soul on board,--a derelict. 4. THE LIGHTSHIP PIRATES Modern Pirates, with the ferocity of beasts, attack a lightship crew;--recounting the adventures that befall the survivors of that crew--and--"RETRIBUTION." 5. THE SECRET OF THE GOLDEN IDOL Telling of a mutiny, and how two youngsters were unwillingly involved in one of the weirdest of treasure hunts,--and--"THE GOLDEN FETISH." _Send For Our Free Illustrated Catalogue_ CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, Publishers New York * * * * * Transcriber's note: --Printer, punctuation and spelling inaccuracies were silently corrected. --Archaic and variable spelling has been preserved. --Variations in hyphenation and compound words have been preserved. 
8550	----	T. HAVILAND HICKS SENIOR BY J. RAYMOND ELDERDICE TO MASTER LLOYD ELDERDICE CONTENTS I. HICKS--WILD WEST BAD MAN II. "LEAVE IT TO HICKS" III. HICKS' PRODIGIOUS PRODIGY IV. QUOTING SCOOP SAWYER'S LETTER V. HICKS MAKES A DECISION VI. HICKS MAKES A SPEECH VII. HICKS STARTS ANOTHER MYSTERY VIII. COACH CORRIDAN SURPRISES THE ELEVEN IX. THEOPHILUS' MISSIONARY WORK X. THOR'S AWAKENING XI. "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL" XII. THEOPHILUS BETRAYS HICKS XIII. HICKS--CLASS KID--YALE '96 XIV. THE GREATER GOAL XV. HICKS HAS A "HUNCH" XVI. THANKS TO CAESAR NAPOLEON XVII. HICKS MAKES A RASH PROPHECY XVIII. T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.'S HEADWORK XIX. BANNISTER GIVES HICKS A SURPRISE PARTY XX. "VALE, ALMA MATER!" T. HAVILAND HICKS, SENIOR CHAPTER I HICKS--WILD WEST BAD MAN "Oh, a bold, bad man was Chuckwalla Bill-- An' he lived in a shanty on Tom-cat Hill; Ten notches on the six-gun he toted on his hip-- For he'd sent ten buckos on the One-way Trip!" Big Butch Brewster, captain and full-back of the Bannister College football squad, his behemoth bulk swathed in heavy blankets and crowded into a narrow bunk, shifted his vast tonnage restlessly. He was dreaming of the wild and woolly West, and like a six-reel Western drama thrown on the screen in a moving-picture show, he visioned in his slumbers a vivid and spectacular panorama. The first lurid scene was the Deserted Limited held up at a tank station in the great Mojave Desert by a lone, masked bandit who winged the dreaming Butch in the shoulder, the latter being an express guard who resisted. After the desperado, Two-Gun Steve, had forced the engineer to run the train back to a siding, he had ordered Butch to vamoose. Quite naturally, then, the collegian next found himself staggering across the arid expanse, until at last, half dead from a burning thirst, seeking vainly for a water-hole, the vast stretch of sandy, sagebrush-studded wastes shimmered into a gorgeous ocean of sparkling blue waters. Then, as he collapsed on the scorching-hot sand, helpless, the cool water so near, suddenly the scene shifted. In quick and vivid succession, Butch Brewster beheld a burning stockade besieged by howling Indians, and a frontier town shot up by recklessly riding cowboys on a jamboree. Then he became a tenderfoot, badgered by yelling, shooting roisterers, and later a sheriff, bravely leading his posse to a sensational battle with that same Two-Gun Steve and his gang, entrenched in a rock-bound mountain defile. Finally, he stood with hands above his head in company with other passengers of the Sagebrush Stagecoach, while a huge, red-shirted Westerner with a fierce black mustache and a six-shooter in each hand belching bullets at Butch's dancing feet, roared out huskily: "Oh--I'm a ring-tailed roarer (_bang-bang_)! I'm a rip-snortin', high-falutin', loop-the-loopin' _bad_ man (_bang-bang_)! I'm wild an' woolly, an' full o' fleas, an' hard to curry below the knees--I'm a roarin' wild-cat, an' it's my night to howl (_bang-bang_)! Yip-yip-yip-_yeee_!" Big Butch, opening his eyes and starting up, gazed about him in sheer surprise; for an instant, in that state of bewilderment that comes with sudden awakening, he almost believed himself in a Western ranch bunkhouse, and that some happy cowboy outside roared a grotesque ballad. He gazed at the interior of a rough shack built of pine boards, with bunks constructed in tiers on both sides. There were figures in them--Western cowboys, perhaps. Then it seemed, somehow, that the voice drifting from the outside was strangely familiar. Back at Bannister College, where he remembered he had gone in the dim and dusty past, he had often heard that same fog-horn voice, roaring songs of a less blood-curdling character, and accompanied by that same banjo twanging, which tortured the campus, and bothered would-be studious youths! "I'm not in a moving-picture show," Butch informed himself, as he donned khaki trousers, football sweater, and heavy shoes. "I'm not on a Western ranch, either. I'm in the sleep-shack of Camp Bannister, the football training-camp of the Bannister College squad! Those fellows in the bunks are not cowboys, Indians, and bandits--they are my teammates! I did dream stuff that would shame a Wild West scenario, but I understand it all now--my dreams were influenced by T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.!" At that dramatic moment, to substantiate his statement, the raucous voice, accompanied by resounding chords strummed on a banjo, sounded again. The vocal and instrumental chaos was frequently punctured by revolver reports, as the torturesome Caruso outside roared: "Oh, Chuckwalla Bill thought life was sweet-- Till he met up with Sure-shot Pete; A hotter shootin' match Last Chance never saw-- But Sure-shot Pete was some quicker on the draw!" The pachydermic Butch, fully dressed--and awake, raging in his wrath like an active volcano, glanced at his watch, and discovered that it was exactly five A.M.! Intensely pacified by this knowledge, he lumbered toward the bunkhouse door and flung it open, determined to crush the pestersome youth who thus unfeelingly disturbed the quietude of Camp Bannister at such an unearthly hour! However, his grim purpose was temporarily thwarted--before him spread a beautiful panorama, a vast canvas painted in rich hues and colors, that indescribably charming masterpiece of nature, entitled dawn. Butch, gazing from the bunkhouse doorway toward the pebbly shore of the placid lake stretching out for two miles before him, beheld Old Sol, blood-red, peeping above the wooded hills on the far-off, opposite strand of Lake Conowingo; the luminous orb laid a flaming pathway across the shimmering waters, and golden bars of light, like gleaming fingers outstretched, fell athwart the tall pines that towered on the high bluff back of the camp. The glorious sunshine, succeeding a flood of rosy color, inundated the scene; it bathed in a gorgeous radiance the early autumn woods, it illumined the bunkhouse, and another rude shanty known to the squad as the grub-shack, it poured down on old Hinky-Dink, the ancient negro cookee, setting the breakfast tables just outside the canvas cook-tent. "Deed, cross mah heart, Mistah Butch," grinned old Hinky-Dink, seeing, as a motion picture director would express it, "Wrath registered on the countenance" of Butch Brewster, "Ah done tole dat young Hicks dat a bird what cain't sing an' will sing mus' be made _not_ to sing! Ah done info'med him dat yo'-all was layin' fo' him, cause he done bus' up yo' sleep!" A jay bird, a flashing bit of vivid blue, shot from a tall pine, jeering shrilly at Butch; out on the lake, a trout leaped above the water for an infinitesimal second, its shining scales gleaming in the sunshine. From the cook-tent, where old Hinky-Dink grumbled at the frying pan, the appetizing odor of frying fish assailed the football captain, softening his wrath. High above the shanties, on a tall flagpole made from a straight young pine, floated a big gold and green banner, its bright colors gleaming in the sunshine; it bore the words: CAMP BANNISTER TRAINING CAMP THE FOOTBALL SQUAD BANNISTER COLLEGE Head Coach Corridan, smashing the precedent that had made former Gold and Green squads have their training camp at Bannister College, had brought the Varsity and second-string stars to this camp on the shore of Lake Conowingo, in the Pennsylvania mountains. For two weeks, one of which had passed, they were to train at Camp Bannister, until college officially opened; swimming, hunting, cross-country runs, and a healthful outdoor existence would give the athletes superb condition, and daily scrimmages on the level field back of the bluff rounded out an eleven that promised to be the strongest in Bannister history. As big, good-natured Butch Brewster stood in the bunkhouse doorway, his wrath at the pestiferous Hicks forgotten, in his rapture at the glorious dawn, he saw something that showed why his dreams had been of the wild West! The expression of indignation, however, yielded to one of humorous affection, as he gazed toward the shore. "I can't be angry with Hicks!" breathed Butch, beholding a spectacle more impressive than dawn. "So, the irrepressible wretch has Coach Corridan's revolvers, used in starting our training sprints, and a lot of blank cartridges! He is giving an imitation of a Western bad man. No wonder I dreamed of Indians, cowboys, and hold-ups; I'll have revenge on the heartless villain, routing me out at five!" He saw a massive rock, rising thirty feet in air, its sheer walls scaled only by a rope-ladder the collegians had rigged up on one side. Atop of "Lookout There!" as the campers humorously designated the rock, roosted a youth who possessed the colossal structure of a splinter, and whose cherubic countenance was decorated with a Cheshire cat grin. Quite unaware that his riotous efforts had brought out the wrathful Butch Brewster, the youthful narrator of Chuckwalla Bill's stormy career continued his excessively noisy séance. His costume was strictly in character with his song. He wore a sombrero, picked up on his Exposition trip the past vacation, a lurid red outing-shirt, and he had wrapped a blanket around each locomotive limb to imitate a cowboy's chaps. Two revolvers suspended from a loosened belt, _à la_ wild West, and as Butch stared, the embryo Western bad man twanged a banjo noisily, and roared the concluding stanza of his desperado hero's history: "Said Chuckwalla Bill, 'Oh, boys, plant me With my boots on--on the wide prair-eee'-- Where the coyotes howl, they planted Bill-- An' so far as _I_ know, he's sleepin' there still!" "Here they come," grinned Butch, hearing a tumult in the bunkhouse, and a confused Babel of voices. "Hicks has awakened the camp. Now watch the fellows wreak summary vengeance on his toothpick frame!" From the sleep-shack, aroused at that weird hour by the clamor of the irrepressible youth, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., tumbled others of the squad, in varying stages of _déshabille_; big Beef McNaughton, right half-back, Roddy Perkins, the Titian-haired right-end, Pudge Langdon, a ponderous tackle, and Monty Merriweather, a clean-cut, aggressive candidate for left end. From within, other wrathy youths howled vociferous protests at their tormentor: "Stop that noise; put your muzzle on again, Hicks!"--"Where's the fire? Say, Hicks, muffle your exhaust!"--"Say, Coach, must we endure this day and night?" The bunkhouse fairly erupted angry collegians, boiling out like bees swarming from a disturbed hive; Hefty Hollingsworth, the Herculean center-rush. Biff Pemberton, left half-back, Bunch Bingham, Tug Cardiff, and Buster Brown, three huge last-year substitutes; second-string players, Don Carterson, Cherub Challoner, Skeet Wigglesworth, and Scoop Sawyer. A dozen others, from sheer laziness, hugged their bunks devotedly, despite the terrific turmoil outside. "It's a disgrace, a _howling_ shame!" exploded Beef, his elephantine frame swathed in blankets to conceal a lack of vestiture, "Last night, until midnight, that graceless wretch roosted on 'Lookout There' and because the glorious moonlight made him sentimental and slushy, he twanged his banjo and warbled such mushy stuff as 'My Love is young and fair. My Love has golden hair!' When does he expect us to sleep?" "He doesn't!" explained Monty Merriweather, with succinct lucidity, grinning at his comrades. "Say, fellows, you know how Hicks dreads a cold shower-bath; well, some of you rage at him from the other side of the rock, while _I_ climb up the rope-ladder and close with him! Then some of you prehistoric pachyderms ascend, and we'll chuck that pestersome insect into the cold, cold lake--" "Done!" chuckled Butch Brewster, delightedly. So, while he, Beef McNaughton, Hefty Hollingsworth, and others beguiled the jeering Hicks, expressing in dynamic, red-hot sentences their exact opinions of his perfidy, the athletic Monty imitated a mountain-scaling Italian soldier. He climbed stealthily up the swaying rope-ladder; nearer and nearer to the unsuspecting youth he crept, while the cherubic Hicks, to tantalize the group below, again burst forth: "_Whoop-eee_! I'm a bold, _bad_ man (_bang-bang_)! I got ten notches on my ole six-gun--I'm a _killer_. I wings a man before breakfast every day! I got a private burying-ground, where I plants my victims (_bang-bang_)! Yip-yip-yip-_yee_! Oh, I'm a--_Ouch_, Monty--leggo me--Oh, I'll be good--why didn't I pull that rope-ladder up here? Don't bust my banjo--don't let Butch get me--" Monty Merriweather, reaching the flat top of the rock, had courageously flung himself, without regard for the Bad Man's desperate record, on the startled Hicks, whose first thought was for his beloved banjo. While he held the blithesome tormentor helpless, Butch, Beef, and Roddy Perkins climbed the rope-ladder, and the grinning youth was soon in their clutches, while the collegians below, like a Roman, mob aroused by the oratory of Mr. Mark Antony, howled for revenge: "Bust the old banjo over his head, Butch!"--"Sing to him, Beef--that's an _awful_ revenge on Hicks!"--"Tie him to the rock--make him miss his breakfast!" "Hicks," growled Butch, eyeing his sunny comrade ominously, "you ought to be tarred and feathered, and shot at sunrise! When Bannister opens, you will be a Senior, and you'll disgrace '19's dignity! This is a sample of what we have endured at college for three years, and the worst is yet to come! You have committed the awful atrocity of awakening Camp Bannister at five A. M. with your ridiculous imitation, of a Western desperado. To dampen your ardor, we will chuck you into the cold lake--just as you are!" "Help! Assistance! Aid! Succor!" shouted the happy-go-lucky Hicks, as the behemoth Butch and Beef seized him, swinging him aloft with ludicrous ease, "Police! Fire! Murder! Take care of my banjo, Monty. Tell all the fellows at old Bannister I died game, and plant Hair-Trigger Bill with his boots on! _Oooo_, Beef, Butch, _have a heart_, that water is _cold_!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., relieved of banjo and revolvers, but his shadow-like structure still clad in shoes, trousers, with imitation "chaps" and flamboyant red shirt, with his classic head still adorned by the sombrero, was swung back and forth by the two bulky football stars--once--twice-- "_Three_--Let him go!" shouted Butch Brewster, and like a falling meteor, the splinter-like youth, who had already fallen from grace, shot from the rock, head-first, disappearing with a spectacular splash in the icy waters of Lake Conowingo. Knowing Hicks to be as much at home in the water as a fish in an aquarium, the hilarious squad on shore prepared to jeer his reappearance above the water; however, their program was interrupted by old Hinky-Dink, who stood in the cook-tent doorway, belaboring a dishpan lustily with a soup-ladle, and shouting: "Breakfus' am served; fus' an' las' call fo' breakfus; all dem what am late don't git no breakfus!" "Breakfast!" exclaimed Monty Merriweather, who, with Roddy, Butch, and Beef, remained on the rock, despite the summons of the Cookee. "Hurry up, Hicks, I'm ravenous. Say, Butch, suppose all that Western regalia makes him water-logged; he's a terribly long while down there! Didn't he look like the hero in a moving-picture feature? We've given him the water-cure, but he will do that same stunt over again. That sunny-souled Hicks is simply Incorrigible!" A second later, the grinning, cheery countenance of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., shot above the water, and simultaneously with his appearance, just as though he had been chanting below the surface, for the entertainment of the finny denizens of Lake Conowingo, the irrepressible youth roared: "A hotter shootin' match Last Chance never saw-- But Sure-Shot Pete was some quicker on the draw!" CHAPTER II "LEAVE IT TO HICKS" Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, known to toil-tortured Gold and Green football squads from time immemorial as "the Slave-Driver," Captain Butch Brewster, and serious Deacon Radford, the star Bannister quarter-back, foregathered around a table in the Camp Bannister grub-shack. It was ten-thirty of the morning whose dawn T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had blithesomely hailed with an impromptu musicale and saengerfest on "Lookout There!" rock, and the football triumvirate were in togs. The squad, over in the bunkhouse, noisily donned gridiron armor for the morning practice, and the pestiferous Hicks was maintaining a mysterious silence, somewhere. This football trio, on whom rested the responsibility of rounding out a winning Bannister eleven, vastly resembled a coterie of German generals, back of the trenches, studying a war-map. Before them was spread what seemed to be a large checker-board. It was a miniature gridiron, with the chalk-marks painted in white; there were thumb-tacks stuck here and there, some with flat tops painted green and gold, others, representing the enemy, were solid red. The former had names printed on them, Butch, Roddy, Beef, and so on. By sticking these on the board, the three directors of Bannister's football destiny could work out new plays, and originate possible winning lineups. "We've just got to win the State Championship this season, Coach!" declared Butch, banging the table emphatically, as he stated a self-evident fact. "It's my last year for Old Bannister, and so with Beef and Pudge. I'll give every ounce of strength I possess In every game, to make that pennant float over Bannister Field!" "Bannister _will_ win it!" vowed the behemoth Beef, his good-natured countenance grim, and his jaw set. "Not for five years has a Gold and Green team won the Championship--not since the year before Butch and I were Freshmen! We've got a splendid bunch of material to build a team with, and--" "Our biggest problem is this," spoke Coach Corridan, as with a phenomenal display of strength he took Beef McNaughton between thumb and forefinger and placed him on the field. "We must strengthen both line and backfield, for we lost by graduation Babe McCabe, Heavy Hughes, and Jack Merritt. Now, to replace that lost power--" Just then, from directly beneath the open window by which they had gathered, like the midnight serenade of a romantic lover, sounded the well-known foghorn voice of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as to the plunkety-plunk of a banjo accompaniment, he warbled melodiously: "Gone are the days--I used to spend with Car-o-li-nah! She had the sunshine in her laughter (_plunkety-plunk_) Just like that state they named her after--" "_Hicks_!" announced Butch, stealthily approaching the window, and beckoning his companions. "Easy--look at him, Deke, there he is, Hicks, the irrepressible! We might as well attempt to stab a rhinocerous to death with a humming-bird's feather, as to try and reform _him_!" Arrayed like a lily of the field, a model of sartorial splendor, Hicks occupied a chair beneath the window, tilted back gracefully against the side of the grub-shack. He had decked his splinter-structure with a dazzling Palm Beach suit, and a glorious pink silk shirt, off-set by a lurid scarf. A Panama hat decorated his head, white Oxfords and flamboyant hosiery adorned his feet, while the inevitable Cheshire cat grin beautified his cherubic countenance. A latest "best seller" was propped on his knees, and as he perused its thrilling pages, he carelessly strummed his beloved banjo, and in stentorian tones chanted a sentimental ballad: "Gone are the days--the golden days I'm dreaming of, I think I hear her softly calling (plunkety-plunk) 'Will you be back? Will you be back? (plunk-plunk) Back to the Car-o-li-nah you love?'"(plunkety-plunk), For three golden campus years T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had gayly pursued the even tenor (or _basso_, since he possessed a foghorn, subterranean voice) of his Bannister career. He absolutely refused to take life seriously, and he was forever arousing the wrath--mostly pretended, for no one could be really angry with the genial youth--of his comrades, by twanging his banjo and roaring out rollicking ballads at all hours. He was never so happy as when entertaining a crowd of happy students in his cozy quarters, or escorting a Hicks' Personally Conducted expedition downtown for a Beef-Steak Bust, at his expense, at Jerry's, the rendezvous of hungry collegians. However, despite his butterfly existence, Hicks, possessed of a scintillating mind, always set the scholastic pace for 1919, by means of occasional study-sprints, as he characteristically called them. But when it came to helping his beloved Dad realize a long-cherished ambition to behold his only son and heir shatter Hicks, Sr.'s, celebrated athletic records, it was a different story. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., ever since he committed the farcical _faux pas_ of running the wrong way with the pigskin in the Freshman-Sophomore football contest of his first year, had been a super-colossal athletic joke at old Bannister. His record to date, beside that reverse touchdown that won for the Sophomores, consisted of scoring a home-run with the bases congested, on a strike-out; of smashing hurdles and cross-bars on the track; endangering his heedless career with the shot and hammer; and making a ridiculous farce of every event he entered, to the vast hilarity of the students, who, with the exception of Butch Brewster, had no idea his ridiculous efforts were in earnest. In the high-jump, however, Hicks had given considerable promise, which to date the grasshopper collegian had failed to keep. Hicks, the lovable, impulsive, and irrepressible, with his invariable sunny disposition, his generous nature, and his democratic, loyal comradeship for everybody, was loved by old Bannister. The students forgave him his pestersome ways, his frequent torturing of them with banjo-twanging and rollicking ballads. His classmates idolized him, Juniors and Sophomores were his true friends, and entering Freshmen always regarded this happy-go-lucky youth as a demigod of the campus. Big Butch Brewster, who was forever futilely lecturing the heedless Hicks, thrust his head from the grub-shack window, fought down a grin, and sternly arraigned his graceless comrade: "Hicks, you frivolous, campus-cluttering, infinitesimal atom of nothing, you labor under the insane delusion that college life is a continuous vaudeville show. You absolutely refuse to take your Bannister years seriously, you banjo-thumping, pillow-punishing, campus-torturing nonentity. You will never grasp the splendid opportunities within your reach! You have no ambition but to strum that banjo, roar ridiculous songs, fuss up like a tailor's dummy, and pester your comrades, or drag them down to Jerry's for the eats! You won't be earnest, you Human Cipher, Before you entered Bannister, you formed your ideas and ideals of campus life from colored posters, moving-pictures, magazine stories, and stage dramas like 'Brown of Harvard'; you have surely lived up, or down, to those ideals, you--" "Them's harsh words, Butch!" joyously responded the grinning Hicks, unchastened, for he knew good Butch Brewster would not, for a fortune, have him forsake his care-free nature. "Thou loyal comrade of my happy campus years, what wouldst thou of me?--have me don sack-cloth and ashes, strike 'The Funeral March' on my golden lyre, and cry out in anguish, _'ai! ai_! 'Nay, nay, a couple of nays; college years are all too brief; hence I shall, by my own original process, extract from them all the sunshine and happiness possible, and by my wonderful musical and vocal powers, bring joy to my colleagues, who--_Ouch_, Butch--look out for that nail, you inhuman elephant--" Big Butch, at that juncture of Hicks' monologue, had effectively terminated it by leaning from the window, grasping his unsuspecting comrade by the scruff of the neck, and dragging him over the window-ledge, into the grub-shack, and the presence of Coach Corridan and Deacon Radford. Strenuous objection was registered, both by the futilely struggling Hicks, and a nail projecting from the sill, which caught in the Palm Beach trousers and ripped a long rent in them; fortunately, Hicks' anatomy escaped a similar fate. "A ripping good move, eh-what?" chuckled Hicks, twisting like a contortionist, to view the damage done his vestiture, "Hello, what have we here?--the German field-map, by the Van Dyke beard of the Prophet! I bring the Kaiser's order, ham and eggs, and a cup of coffee. No, that's a mistake. General Hen Von Kluck, lead a brigade of submarines up yon hill to thunder the Russian fort! Von Hindering-Bug, send a flock of aeroplanes and Zeppelins to the Allied trenches, the enemy is shooting Russian caviare at--" "Hicks," said Head Coach Corridan, smiling at Butch Brewster's indignation, "you are such a wonder at solving perplexing problems by your marvelous 'inspirations,' suppose you turn the scintillating searchlight of your colossal intellect upon the question that Bannister must solve, to produce a championship eleven!" It was T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, inveterate habit, whenever a baffling situation, or what the French call an "_impasse_" presented itself, to state with the utmost confidence, "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" On most occasions, when he made this remark, accompanied by a swaggering braggadocio that never failed to make good Butch Brewster wrathful, the happy-go-lucky youth possessed not the slightest idea of how the problem was to be solved. He just uttered his rash promise, and then trusted to his needed inspiration to illuminate a way out! And, as the Bannister campus well knew, Hicks had solved more than one torturing question by an inspiration that flashed on his intellect, when all hope of a satisfactory solution seemed dead. For example, in his Sophomore year, when the Freshman leader, James Roderick Perkins, that same Titian-haired Roddy who was now a bulwark at right end, became charged with a Napoleonic ambition, and organized a Freshman Equal Rights campaign, paralyzing Bannister football by refusing to allow Freshmen to try for athletic teams, unless their demands were granted. Hicks, when his inspiration finally smote him, smashed the Votes-for-Freshmen crusade, and quelled Roddy, Futilely racking his brain for a counter-attack, having blithely told the troubled campus, "Just leave it to Hicks," he had ceased to worry, and then the inspiration had come, By The Big Brotherhood of Bannister giving the upper-classmen full government over Freshmen, a scheme successfully carried through, the peril had been thwarted. "I got a letter from Dad yesterday," began Hicks, somewhat irrelevantly, considering the Coach's remarks, "and he said--" "'--Inclosed find the check you wrote for,'" quoth Deacon Radford, humorously. "'If you keep up this pace, I shall have to turn my steel mills to producing war munitions, to pay your college bills.' Say, Hicks, seriously, listen to our problem, and suggest what Coach Corridan should do." While Hicks' athletic powers were known to equal those of the paralyzed oldest inhabitant of a Civil War Veterans' Home, the sunny youth knew football thoroughly; often he originated plays that the team worked out with success, and his suggestions were always weighed carefully by the football directors. So, after he had adjusted his lurid scarf at the correct angle, and gazed ruefully at his torn habiliments, the sunshiny Senior seated himself at the table, before the "war-map," and gave heed to the Coach. [Illustration A: 'Here's the problem, Hicks'] "Here's the problem, Hicks," said the Slave-Driver, indicating the Bannister eleven, represented by the gold and green topped thumb-tacks. "From the line we lost Babe, a tackle, Heavy, a guard, and Jack Merritt, a star end. Now, Monty Merriweather will hold down Jack's place O. K.--I can shift Beef from right half to guard, and put Butch at right-half, while Bunch Bingham can take care of Babe's old berth at tackle. But I have no one to shoot in at full-back, when I shift Butch; you see, Hicks, my plan is to build an eleven that can execute old-time, line-smashing football, and up-to-date open play as well; I want fast ends and halves, with a snappy quarter, and I have them; also, the backfield is heavy enough for line-bucking, if I get my beefy full-back. I must have a big, heavy, fast player, a giant who simply can't be stopped when he hits the line. With Butch and Biff at halves, Deke at quarter. Roddy and Monty ends, and my heavy line--why, a ponderous, irresistible Hercules at full-back will--" "Say!" grinned the irrepressible Hicks, as Coach Corridan warmed up to his vision, "you don't want _much_, Coach! Why don't you ask Ted Coy, the famous ex-Yale full-back, to give up his business and play the position for you? Maybe you can persuade Charlie Brickley, a _fair_ sort of dropkicker, to quit coaching Hopkins, and kick a few goals for old Bannister! I get you, Coach--you want a fellow about the size of the _Lusitania,_ made of structural steel, a Brobdingnagian Colossus who will guarantee to advance the ball fifteen yards per rush, or money refunded! "Why, Coach, while you are wanting things, just wish for a chap who will play the entire game himself, taking the ball down the field, while the rest of the team are pushed along in rolling-chairs, while imbibing pink tea. Get a prodigy who will instill such terror into our rivals that instead of playing the schedule, Bannister will simply arrange with other teams to mark themselves down defeated, and then agree what the scores shall be." "I knew it!" growled Butch Brewster, glowering at the jocular youth. "We should never have consulted him on this problem, for it is not one within his power to solve, even though he performed the miracle of talking seriously about it Now--" "Now--" echoed Hicks, with pretended seriousness, "Coach, you just hand me the blue-prints and specifications of said Gargantuan Hercules, and I'll try to corrall just such a phenomenon as you desire. Never hesitate to consult me on such important matters, for I am ever-ready to cast aside my own multifarious duties, when my Alma Mater needs my mental assistance, or--" "Hicks, are you _crazy_?" fleered Deacon Radford, moved to excitement, despite his great faith in the versatile youth. "Full-backs like that do not grow on trees; the only one I ever read of was _Ole Skjarsen_, in George Fitch's 'Siwash College Stories,' and he was purely fictitious. We know you have accomplished some great things by your 'inspirations,' but as for this--" "Just leave it to Hicks" quoth the irrepressible youth, swaggering toward the door with an affected nonchalant self-confidence that aroused Butch to wrath, and vastly amused his companions. "I'll admit a human juggernaut like Coach Corridan dreams of will be hard to round up, but, I'll have an inspiration soon. Don't worry about your old eleven, your problem will be solved, and you will have a team that can play fifty-seven varieties of football. _Raw revolver_, my comrades." When the graceless T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had sauntered gracefully out of the grub-shack, big Butch Brewster, almost exploding with suppressed wrath, stared at Slave-Driver Corridan and staid Deacon Radford a full minute; then he grinned, "That--Hicks!" he murmured, struggling against a desire to laugh. "What a ridiculous prophecy! 'Just leave it to Hicks!' Well, that means the problem goes unsolved, for though I confess he _is_ brilliant, and his so-called 'inspirations' have helped old Bannister; when it comes to rushing out and lassoing a smashing. Herculean full-back--_bah_!" Ten minutes later, when Coach Corridan and the Gold and Green squad climbed the bluff to the field back of Camp Bannister, for morning signal drill, their last memory was of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., arrayed in radiant vestiture, his chair tilted against the bunkhouse--the chords of the banjo, and his foghorn voice drifting to them on the warm September air: "Oh, father and mother pay all the bills (_plunk-plunk_) And we have all the fun (_plunkety-plunk_) With the money that we spend in college life!" Two hours afterward, as a tired, perspiring squad scrambled down the bluff, and made for the cool waters of Lake Conowingo, a mysterious silence, like a mighty wave, literally surged toward them. Camp Bannister seemed deserted, the sun was still shining, the birds sang as cheerily as ever, but instinctively the collegians felt an indescribable loneliness, a sense of tremendous loss. "_Hicks_!" shouted Butch Brewster, loudly, his voice shattering the stillness. "Hicks--ahoy! I say, Hicks--" Old Hinky-Dink, a letter in his hand, hobbled from the cook-tent toward them; like a sinister harbinger of evil he advanced, grinning deprecatingly at the squad: "Mistah Hicks am gone!" he announced importantly. "He done gib me fo' bits to row him ober to de village, to cotch de noon 'spress fo' Philadelphy! Heah am a letter what he lef'--" Big Butch Brewster, to whom the _billet-doux_ was addressed in T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, familiar scrawl, tore open the envelope, and while the squad listened, he read aloud the message left by that sunny-souled youth; "DEAR BUTCH: "Coach Corridan will have to use the alarm clock from now on! I'm called away on business. See that my stuff gets to Bannister O.K. Stow it in the room next to yours. I'll be back at college some time in the next century. Give my _adieux_ to Coach Corridan and the squad. "Yours truthfully, "T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR. "P.S.: Tell Coach Corridan he should worry--_not_! I'm hot on the trail of a fullback that will make Ted Coy at his coyest look like the paralyzed inmate of an old man's home. Just leave it to Hicks!" CHAPTER III HICKS' PRODIGIOUS PRODIGY "Has anybody here seen our Hicks? _H-i-c-k-s_! Has anybody here seen our Hicks? If you've seen him, answer, 'Yes!' He's tall and slim, and he wears a grin, And his banjo-thumping is a sin. Has _anybody_ here seen our Hicks-- Hicks--and his old banjo?" Captain Butch Brewster, big Beef McNaughton, the Phillyloo Bird--that flamingo-like Senior--and little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous boner whom Bannister College called the "Human Encyclopedia," roosted on the sacred Senior Fence, between the Gymnasium and the Administration Building. A gloomy silence, like a somber mantle, enshrouded the four members of '19, as they listened to a rollicking parody on, "Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly?" chanted by some Juniors in Nordyke, with T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as the object of solicitude. Nor did the melancholy youths respond to the queries hurled down at them from the dormitories' windows: "Say, Butch Brewster, where is that crazy Hicks?" "Beef, ain't our Hicks a-comin' back here no more?" "Hello, Phillyloo, any word from our Hicks yet?" "Ahoy there, Theophilus, where is Hicks, the Missing?" The seven-thirty study-hour bell was ringing, its mellow chimes sounding from the Administration Building tower. From the windows of the dormitories gleams of light shot athwart the darkness. Over in Creighton Hall, the abode of Freshmen, a silence reigned, but in Smithson, where the Sophomores roomed, Nordyke, home of the Juniors, and Bannister, haunt of the solemn Seniors, pandemonium obtained. In these dorm. rooms and corridors that night, just as in the class-rooms, or on the campus, and Bannister Field that day, there was but one topic. Whenever two students met, came the query inevitable: "Where is Hicks? Isn't Hicks coming back this year?" The Freshmen, bewildered, quite naturally, at the furore made over one missing student, asked, "Who is Hicks?" Seeking information from upper-classmen they received innumerable tales, in the nature of Iliad and Odyssey, concerning T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; they heard of his campus exploits, such as his originating The Big Brotherhood of Bannister, and they laughed, at recitals of his athletic fiascos. They were told of his inevitably sunny nature, his loyal comradeship, his generous disposition, and as a result, the Freshmen, too, became intensely interested in the all-important campus problem: "Where is T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.?" Little Theophilus Opperdyke, whose big-rimmed spectacles, high forehead, and bushy hair gave him an intensely owlish appearance, sighed tremendously, stared solemnly at his class-mates, and became the author of a most astounding statement: "I--I can't study," quavered the "boner," he whose tender devotion to his books was a campus tradition, and whose loyalty to his firm friend, the blithesome Hicks, was as that of Damon to Pythias, "I just _can't_ care about my studies, without Hicks here! Somehow, it--it doesn't seem like old times, on the campus." "I should say not!" ejaculated the Phillyloo Bird, sepulchrally, his string-bean length draped with extreme decorative effect on the Senior Fence, "Life at old Bannister without T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is about as interesting as 'The Annual Report of the Department of Agriculture!' Prexy thought he started the college on its Marathon three days ago, but Bannister will not be officially opened until Hicks stands by his window some study-hour, twangs that old banjo, and shatters the campus quietude with a ballad roared in his fog-horn voice!" Big Butch Brewster, enshrouded in melancholy, instinctively gazed up at the windows of the room T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. had reserved on the third floor of Bannister Hall, the Senior dorm., as if he fully expected to behold the missing youth materialize. There, in lonely grandeur, waited the sunny-souled Senior's vast aggregation of trunks, crates, and packing boxes, together with Hicks' baggage brought down from Camp Bannister. The bothersome banjo had disappeared at the same time the youthful Caruso imitated the Arabs, folding his figurative tent, and stealing away. "It's a strange paradox," boomed Butch Brewster, finding that no Hicks appeared at the window, "but for three years Bannister has stormed at Hicks for bothering us during study-hour, or at midnight, with his saengerfest, and now I'd give anything to see him up there, and to hear that banjo, and his songs! It is just as if the sun doesn't shine on the campus, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is away!" Bannister College had been running for three days "on one cylinder," as the Phillyloo Bird quaintly phrased it, on account of the gladsome Hicks' mysterious absence. Not a word had the Head Coach, Captain Brewster, the football squad, or any of the collegians received from the blithesome youth, since the _billet-doux_ he left with old Hinky-Dink at Camp Bannister. Old students, returning to the campus for another golden year, invaded Hicks' room in Bannister, ready to enjoy the cozy den of that jolly Senior, but they encountered silence and desolation. No one had the slightest knowledge of where the cheery Hicks could be; they missed his singing and banjo strumming, his pestersome ways, his cheerful good nature, his cozy quarters always open house to all, and his Hicks' Personally Conducted tours downtown to Jerry's for those celebrated Beefsteak Busts. A telegram to Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., in Pittsburgh, sent by the worried Butch Brewster, had brought this concise response: No knowledge of Thomas' whereabouts. He should be at Bannister. "Queer," reflected Beef McNaughton, shifting his bulk on the protesting fence. "We know Hicks will be back, for all his luggage is stowed away in his room, and we are sure he is giving us all this mystery just for a joke--he dearly loves to arrange a sensational and dramatic climax--but we just can't get used to his not being on the campus. When Theophilus Opperdyke can't study, it's high time the S.O.S. signal was sent to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr." "That is not the worst of it," growled Captain Butch Brewster, his arm across little Theophilus' shoulders. "The football squad misses Hicks, Beef. For the past two seasons he has sat at the training-table, his invariable good-humor, his Cheshire cat grin, and his sunny ways have kept the fellows in fine mental trim so they haven't worried over the game. But now, just as soon as he left Camp Bannister, the barometer of their spirits went down to zero and every meal at training-table is a funeral. Coach Corridan can't inject any pep into the scrimmages, and he says if Hicks doesn't return soon, Bannister's chances of the Championship are gone." "As Theophilus says," responded the gloomy Beef, "we just can't get used to his not being here. We miss his good-nature, his sunny smile, the jolly crowds in his cozy quarters--why, the campus is talking of nothing but Hicks--and I don't know what Bannister will do after Hicks graduates--shut down, I suppose!" "Well, you know," grinned the Phillyloo Bird, his cadaverous structure humped over like a turkey on the roost, "our Hicks hath sallied forth on the trail of a full-back, a Hercules who will smash the other elevens to infinitesimal smithereens! He told the squad to just leave it to Hicks, so don't be surprised if he is making flying trips to Yale, Harvard, and Princeton, striving to corral some embryo Ted Coy. Remember how Hicks often fulfills his rash prophecies!" "A Herculean full-back--_Bah_!" fleered Butch, for all the campus knew of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, extremely rash vow to unearth a "phenom." "The truth of it is, fellows. Hicks has failed to locate such a wonder as Coach Corridac outlined, for there ain't no such animal! He doesn't like to come back to Bannister without having made good his promise, without that Gargantuan giant he vowed to round up for the Gold and Green." Just then, as if to substantiate Butch's jeering statement, a youth wearing the uniform and cap of The Western Union Telegraph Company and advancing across the campus at that terrific speed always exhibited by messenger-boys, appeared in the offing. Periscoping the four Seniors on the fence, he navigated his course accordingly and pulling a yellow envelope from his cap, he queried, in charmingly chaste English: "Say, kin youse tell me where to find a feller name o' Brewster, wot's cap'n o' de football bunch?" "Right here, Little Nemo," advised the Phillyloo Bird, solemnly. "Hast thou any messages from New York for me? John D. Rockefeller promised to wire me whether or not to purchase war-stocks." The Phillyloo Bird, at this stage of his monologue, was interrupted by a yell that would have caused a full-blooded Choctaw Indian to turn pale. This came from good Butch Brewster, who, having signed for the message, and imagined all manner of catastrophes, from world-wars, earthquakes, pestilence and loss of wealth, down to bad news from Hicks, after the fashion of those receiving telegrams but seldom, had scanned the yellow slip. Never before, or afterward, not even when the luckless Butch fell in love, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., assisted Cupid, did the pachydermic Butch act so insanely as on this occasion. "Whoop-_eee! Yee-ow! Wow-wow-wow_!" howled the supposedly solemn Senior, tumbling from the Senior fence and rolling on the campus like a decapitated rooster. "Hip-hip-_hooray_! Ring the bell, Beef, get the fellows out, have the Band ready, Oh, where is Coach Corridan? Read it, Beef, Theophilus, Phillyloo. Oh, Hicks is _coming_ and he's got--" It is possible that little Theophilus, who firmly believed that big Butch Brewster had gone emotionally insane, would have fled for help, but at that juncture members of the Gold and Green football squad, with Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, appeared, marching funereally toward the Gym., where a signal quiz was booked for seven forty-five. Beholding the paralyzing spectacle of their captain apparently in paroxysms on the grass, Hefty Hollingsworth, Biff Pemberton, Monty Merriweather and Pudge Langdon hurled themselves on his tonnage, while Roddy Perkins sat on his head, and wrested the telegram from his grasp, "Call up Matteawan," shouted Roddy, unfolding the slip, "Butch is getting barmy in the dome, he--Oh, Coach, fellows--_great joy_! Just heed." James Roderick Perkins, as excited as a Senator about to make his first speech, read aloud the telegram, on which the heedless Hicks had triple rates: "BUTCH: "Coming 8.30 P. M. express today. Discharge entire eleven--got whole team in one. Knock out partitions between five rooms. Make space for Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy! Leave it to Hicks! "T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR." "_Hicks is coming_!" shrieked the Phillyloo Bird, soaring down from the Senior Fence like a condor. "He will be here in less than an hour; he sent this wire just before his train left Philadelphia. Money is no object, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., wants to mystify old Bannister." "'Discharge entire eleven,'" quoth Butch Brewster, having somewhat subdued his frenzy. "'Got whole team in one--knock out partitions between _five_ rooms--make space for Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy!' Now, what in the world has that lunatical Hicks done? Who can Thor be?" Tug Cardiff, Buster Brown, Bunch Bingham, Scoop Sawyer, little Skeet Wigglesworth, Don Carterson, and Cherub Challoner, not having given their brawn to the subduing of Butch, now kindly donated their brain, in all manner of weird suggestions. According to their various surmises, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had lured the Strong Man away from Barnum and Bailey's Circus, had in some way reincarnated the mythical Norse god, Thor, had hired some Greco-Roman wrestler, or by other devices too numerous and ridiculous to mention, had produced a full-back according to Coach Corridan's blue-prints and specifications. Big Beef McNaughton, seized with an inspiration that supplied locomotive-power to his huge frame, lumbered into the Gym., and soon appeared with monster megaphones, used in "rooting" for Gold and Green teams, which he handed out to his comrades. Then the riotous squad, at his suggestion, sprinted for the Quad., that inner quadrangle or court around which the four class dormitories, forming the sides of a square, were built; anyone desiring an audience could be sure of it here, since the collegians in all four dorms. could rush to the Quadrangle side and look down from the windows. In the Quadrangle, under the brilliant arc-lights, the exuberant youths paused, "One--two--three--let 'er go!" boomed Beef, and the football squad, in _basso profundo_, aided by the Phillyloo Bird's uncertain tenor, and Theophilus' quavery treble, roared in a tremendous vocal explosion that shook the dormitories: "Hicks is coming! Hicks is coming! Everybody out on the campus! Get ready to welcome our T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.! Hicks is bringing Bannister's full-back--a _Prodigious Prodigy_!" Windows rattled up, heads were thrust out, a fusillade of questions bombarded the squad in the Quadrangle below; from the three upper-class dormitories erupted hordes of howling, shouting youths, and soon the Quad. was filled with a singing, yelling, madly happy crowd. The Bannister Band, that famous campus musical organization, following a time-honored habit of playing on every possible occasion, gladsomely tuned up and soon the noise was deafening, while study-hour, as prescribed by the Faculty, was forgotten. "Everybody on the campus, at once!" Butch Brewster, Master-of-Ceremonies, boomed through his megaphone, having aroused excitement to the highest pitch by reading Hicks' telegram. "Old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus will soon heave into sight. Let the Band blare, make a _big noise_. Let's show Hicks how glad we are to have him back to old Bannister." It is historically certain that Mr. Napoleon Bonaparte returning from Jena and Austerlitz, Mr. Julius Caesar, home at Rome from his Conquests, or Mr. Alexander the Great (Conqueror, not National League pitcher) never received such a welcome as did T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., from his Bannister comrades that night. To the excited students, massed on the campus before the Gym. awaiting his arrival, every second seemed a century; everybody talked at once until the hubbub rivaled that of a Woman's Suffrage Convention. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., was actually returning to old Bannister; and he was bringing "The Prodigious Prodigy," whatever that was, with him. Knowing the cheery Senior's intense love of doing the dramatic and his great ambition to startle his Alma Mater with some sensational stunt, they could hardly wait for old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus to roll up the driveway, "Here he comes!" shrieked, little Skeet Wigglesworth, an excitable Senior, who had climbed a tree to keep watch. "Here comes our Hicks!" "Honk--Honk!" To the incessant blaring of a raucous horn, old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus moved up the driveway. The genial Irish Jehu, who for over twenty years had transported Bannister collegians and alumni to and from College Hill in a ramshackle hack drawn by Lord Nelson, an antiquated, somnambulistic horse, had yielded to modern invention at last. Lord Nelson having become defunct during vacation, Old Dan, with a collection taken up by several alumni at Commencement, had bought a battered Ford, and constructed therewith a jitney-bus. This conveyance was fully as rattle-trap in appearance as the traditional hack had been, but the returning collegians hailed it with glee. "All hail Hicks!" howled Butch Brewster, beside himself with joy, "Altogether--the Bannister yell for--_Hicks_!" With half the collegians giving the yell, a number shouting indiscriminately, the Bannister Band blaring furiously, "Behold, The Conquering Hero Comes," with the youths a yelling, howling, shrieking, dancing mass, old Dan Flannagan, adding his quota of noises with the Claxon, brought his bus to a stop. This was a hilarious spectacle in itself, for on its sides the Bannister students had painted: HENRY FORD'S "PIECE-OF-A-SHIP," _THE DOVE_! ALL RIDING IN THIS JIT DO SO AT THEIR OWN RISK! TEN CENTS FOR A JOY-RIDE TO COLLEGE HILL! YES, IT'S A _FORD_! WHAT DO YOU CARE? GET ABOARD! On the roof of "The Dove," or "The Crab," as the collegians called it when it skidded sideways, perched precariously that well-known, beloved youth, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. He clutched his pestersome banjo and was vigorously strumming the strings and apparently howling a ballad, lost in the unearthly turmoil. As the jitney-bus stopped, the grinning Hicks arose, and from his lofty, position made a profound bow. "Speech! Speech! Speech!" A mighty shout arose, and Hicks raised his hand for silence, which was immediately delivered to him. "Fellows, one and all," he shouted, a mist before his eyes, for his impulsive soul was touched by the ovation, "I--I am _glad_ to be back! Say--I--I--well, I'm glad to be back--that's all!" At this masterly oration, which, despite its brevity, contained volumes of feeling, the Bannister students went wild--for a longer period than any political convention ever cheered a nominated candidate, they cheered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "Roar--roar--roar--_roar_!" in deafening sound-waves, the noise swept across the campus; never had football idol, baseball hero, or any athletic demigod, in all Bannister's history, been accorded such a tremendous ovation. "Fellows," called T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., climbing down from his precarious perch, "stand back; I have brought to Bannister the 'Prodigious Prodigy.' I have rounded up a full-back who will beat Ballard all by himself. Behold the new Gold and Green football eleven, 'Thor'!" From the grinning Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus, like a Russian bear charging from its den, lumbered a being whose enormous bulk fairly astounded the speechless youths; Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Tug Cardiff, Bunch Bingham, Buster Brown, and Pudge Langdon were popularly regarded as the last word in behemoths, but this "Thor" dwarfed them, towered above them like a Colossus over Lilliputians. He was a youth, and yet a veritable Hercules. Over six feet he stood, with a massive head, covered with tousled white hair, a powerful neck, broad shoulders, a vast chest. To a judge of athletes, he would tip the scales at a hundred and ninety pounds, all solid muscle, for that superb physique held not an ounce of superfluous flesh. "Hicks," said Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, gazing at the mountain of muscle, "if _size_ means anything, you have brought old Bannister an entire football squad! What splendid material to train for the Big Games, why--he will be irresistible!" CHAPTER IV QUOTING SCOOP SAWYER'S LETTER "I didn't raise my _Ford_ to be a _jitney_-- To run the streets, and stay out late at night! Who dares to put a jitney sign, upon it-- And send my _peace-ship_ out for fares to fight?" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., standing by his open window at 3 P. M. one afternoon a week after his sensational return to Bannister College, with the "Prodigious Prodigy" in tow, indulged in the soul-satisfying pastime of twanging his banjo, and roaring, in his subterranean voice, a parody on "I Didn't Raise My Boy to be a Soldier." It was actually the first Caruso-like outburst of the pestersome youth that year, but his saengerfest brought vociferous howls of protest from campus and dormitories: "_Bow-wow-wow_! The Grand Opery season is starting!" "Sing some records for a talking-machine company, Hicks!" "Kill that tom-cat! Listen to the back-fence musicale!" "Say, Hicks--we'll take your word for that noise!" On the Gym. steps, loafing a few moments before jogging out to Bannister Field for a strenuous scrimmage under the personal supervision of Slave-Driver Corridan, the Gold and Green football squad had gathered. It was from these stalwart gridiron gladiators that the caustic criticism of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, vocal atrocities emanated, and the imitation of a mournful hound by "Ichabod," the skyscraping Senior, was indeed phenomenal. Added to the howls, whistles, jeers, and shouts of the squad, were like condemnations from other collegians, sky-larking on the campus, or in the dorms. "At that," grinned Captain Butch Brewster happily, "it surely makes me feel jubilant to hear Hicks' foghorn voice shattering the echoes, with his banjo strumming disturbing the peace--for which offense it shall soon be arrested. We can truly say that old Bannister is now officially opened for another year, for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., has performed his annual rite--" "Right--!" scoffed big Pudge Langdon, indignantly, as he gazed up at the happy-go-lucky youth, at the window of his room on the third-floor, campus side, of Bannister Hall, "Hicks ought to be tarred and feathered; there is _nothing right_ in the way he has acted since his return to college! He struts around like Herman, the Master-Magician, and all the fellows fully expect to see him produce white rabbits from his cap, or make varicolored flags out of his handkerchief." "We ought to toss him in a blanket," stormed Beef McNaughton, in ludicrous rage. "Ever since he mystified Bannister by going out and corralling a Hercules who is an entire eleven in himself, Hicks has maintained that sphinx-like silence as to how he achieved the feat, and he swaggers around, enshrouded in _mystery_! All we know is that 'Thor' is John Thorwald, of Norwegian descent. If we ask _him_ for information, that wretch Hicks has him trained to say, 'Ask the little fellow, Hicks!'" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in truth, had acted in a most reprehensible manner since that memorable night when he brought "Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy," to the campus. Not that he ceased to be the same sunny-souled, popular and friendly youth. The collegians, happy at finding his room open-house again, flocked to his cozy quarters, Freshmen _fell_ under the spell of his generous nature, his Beef-Steak Busts, down at Jerry's were nightly occurrences, and he was the same Hicks as of old. But, after the dramatic manner in which Hicks had mysteriously made good the rash vow uttered at Camp Bannister and had brought to Coach Corridan a blond-haired giant who seemed destined to perform prodigies at full-back, the sunny Senior had evidently labored under the delusion that he was "Kellar, The Great Magician." Instead of relieving the tortured curiosity of the students, wild to know how and where Hicks had unearthed this physical Hercules, who in every way filled the details of Head Coach Corridan's "blue-prints," T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., enjoying to the full this novel method of torturing his comrades, made a baffling mystery of the affair, much to the indignation of his friends. _"Just leave it to Hicks,"_ he would say, when the Bannister youths cajoled, implored, threatened, or argued. "Thor is eligible to play four years of football at old Bannister. I call him Thor, after the great Norse god, Thor; he is of Norwegian descent. That is all of the Billion-Dollar Mystery I can disclose; ten thousand dollars offered for the correct solution." "Here comes Scoop Sawyer," said Monty Merriweather, as that Senior, waving his arms in air, catapulted from Bannister Hall, and strode toward the squad on the Gym. steps; his appearance registered wrath, in photo-play parlance, and on reaching his comrades he immediately acquainted them with its cause. "Listen to that Hicks!" he exploded, gesticulating with a sheaf of papers. "Hicks, the mocking-bird! He is mocking _us_--with his 'Billion-Dollar Mystery!' Say--here I am writing to Jack Merritt; he played football four years for old Bannister; he was captain of the Gold and Green eleven; last Commencement he graduated, and the last thing he said to me was, 'Scoop, old pal, write to me next fall, tell me everything about the football season; keep me posted as to new material!' _Everything_--keep him posted as to new material--_Bah_! If I write that Hicks has brought a fellow he calls 'Thor,' who spreads the regulars over the field, Jack will want to know the details, and--that villainous Hicks won't divulge his dread secret!" At this moment, Scoop Sawyer, so-called because he was ambitious to be a newspaper reporter, after graduation, and for his humorous articles in the _Bannister Weekly_, had his intense wrath soothed by that which has "power to soothe the savage breast"; T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., displaying a wonderful originality by composing, then chanting, his parody, concluded the chorus roaring lustily, to a rollicking banjo accompaniment: "If street car companies gave seats to all patrons The strap-hangers in jitneys would not ride. There'd be no jits. today If Ford owners would say, I didn't raise my Ford to be a--jitney!" "That is too much!" raged Captain Butch Brewster, facing his excited colleagues. "Come on, fellows, we'll invade Hicks' room, read him Scoop's letter to Jack Merritt, and _make_ him solve the Mystery! We're done with diplomacy; now, we'll deliver the ultimatum; when the squad returns from scrimmage, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., will tell us all about Thor, or be tossed in a blanket! Are you with me?" "We are _ahead_ of you!" howled Roddy Perkins, leading a wild charge for the entrance to Bannister Hall. Following him up the two flights of stairs with thunderous tread came Butch, Beef, Monty, Biff, Hefty, Pudge, Tug, Ichabod, Bunch, Buster, Bus Norton, and several second-team players, Cherub, Chub Chalmers, Don, Skeet, and Scoop Sawyer with his letter. With a terrific, blood-chilling clatter, and hideous howls, the Hicks-quelling Expedition roared down the third corridor of Bannister, and surged into the room of that tantalizing T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.! "Safety first!" shrieked that cheery collegian, stowing his banjo in the closet and making a strenuous but futile effort to dive head-first beneath the bed, being forcibly restrained by Beef, who clung to his left ankle. "Say, to what am I indebted for the honor of this call? Why, when I got back to Bannister, you fellows gushed, 'Oh, we're _so_ glad you're back, Hicks, old top; we missed even your saengerfests,' and when I start one--" "Hicks," pronounced Butch Brewster grimly, holding the genial offender by the scruff of the neck, "you tantalizing, aggravating, irritating, lunatical, conscienceless degenerate! You assassin of Father Time, you disturber of the peace, _heed_! Scoop Sawyer is writing to Jack Merritt, to tell about the football team, and Bannister's chances of the Championship; he wants to tell Jack all about this Thor! Now, you have acted like Herman-Kellar-Thurston long enough, and hear our final word. Read Scoop's letter, and if when you finish its perusal you fail to give us full information, and answer all questions about Thor--" "The football team will toss you in a blanket until you do!" finished Monty Merriweather, "We intended to wait until after the scrimmage, but Butch evidently believes we should end your bothersome mystery as once, and--" "'Curiosity killed the cat!'" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; then seeing the avenues and boulevards of escape were closed, but fighting for time, "let me peruse said missive indited by our literarily overbalanced Scoop. I am reluctant to dispel the clouds of mystery, but--" Scoop Sawyer thrust the typewritten pages of the letter--composed on the battered old typewriter in the editorial sanctum of the _Bannister Weekly_--into Hicks' grasp and with a grin, that blithesome youth read: Bannister College, Sept, 27. DEAR OLD JACK: There is so _much_ to tell you, old pal, that I scarcely know where to start, but you want to know about the football eleven, so I'll write about T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his 'Billion-Dollar Mystery,' as he calls it; about Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy. You well know what a scatter-brained wretch Hicks is, and how he dearly loves to plot dramatic climaxes--to mystify old Bannister. Just now Hicks has the campus as wrathful as it is possible to be with that lovable youth; he has originated a great mystery, and achieved a seemingly impossible feat, and instead of explaining it, he swaggers around like a Hindoo mystic enshrouded in mystery and the fellows are wild enough to tar and feather the incorrigible villain! To get off to a sprint-start, up in Camp Bannister, before college opened, when the squad was in training camp, Butch Brewster says that Coach Corridan one day, before Hicks, expressed a fervid ambition to find a huge, irresistible fullback-- Here the chronicle must hang fire, while T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinning at the wrath his mysterious behavior aroused, peruses those sections of Scoop Sawyer's epistle telling of two scenes already described; first, the one in the Camp Bannister grub-shack, where Head Coach Corridan blue-printed the Gargantuan athlete he desired, and the blithesome Hicks confidently requested that the Herculean task be left to him; second, the scene of intense excitement on the campus the night that the missing Hicks returned personally conducting that mountain of muscle, the blond-haired Thor. Having grinned at these descriptions, the pestiferous Hicks scanned a picturesque description by Scoop of the events that transpired between that memorable night and the present invasion of the sunny Senior's room by the indignant squad. --Naturally, Jack, old Bannister was intensely curious to know who this "Thor" could be, and how Hicks unearthed such a giant. But, instead of swaggering a trifle, as he inevitably does, and saying, 'Oh, I told you just to leave it to Hicks!' then telling all about it, after accomplishing what everyone believed a ridiculously impossible quest, he maintains that provokingly mysterious silence, and John Thorwald (we know his name, anyway) stolidly refers us to Hicks. So where Thor originated or how under the sun Hicks got on his trail, after making his rash vow to corral a mighty fullback, is a deep, dark mystery. Now for Thor himself. Words cannot describe that Prodigious Prodigy; he must be seen to be believed! We do know that he is John Thorwald, and of distinctly Norwegian descent, so that calling him after the mythic Norse god is extremely appropriate. And he is reminiscent of the great Thor, with his vast strength and prowess. Thanks to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, love of mystery, and of tantalizing old Bannister, we know nothing of Thorwald's past, but we are sure he has lived and toiled among _men_, to possess that powerful build. I can't describe him, old man, without resorting to exaggeration, for ordinary words and phrases are utterly inadequate with Thor! Conjure up a vision of Gulliver among the Lilliputians and you can picture him towering over us. He is a Viking of old, with his fair features and blond hair. Probably twenty-five years old, he has a powerful frame and prodigious strength, he dwarfs such behemoths as Butch and Beef, and makes such insignificant mortals as little Theophilus and myself seem like insects! Thor is so _big_, Jack, that when he gets in a room, he crowds everyone into the corridor, and fills it alone. No wonder Hicks telegraphed to knock out the partitions between five rooms to make space for Thor! When he stands on the campus he blots out several sections of scenery, and the college disappears, giving the impression he has swallowed it. Thor is a slow-minded being, but possessed of a grim determination. To get an idea into his mind requires a blackboard and Chautauqua lecturer, but once he masters it, he never lets go; so it will be with football signals, once let him grasp a play, he will never be confused. He is simply a huge, stolid giant. He has a bulldog purpose to get an education, and nothing else matters. As for college spirit, the glad comradeship of the campus, he has no time for it; he pays no attention to the fellows at all, only to Hicks. His devotion to that wretch is pathetic! He follows Hicks around like a huge mastiff after a terrier, or an ocean leviathan towed by a tug-boat; he seems absolutely helpless without T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and so we have a daily Hicks' personally conducted tour of Thor to interest us. Briefly, Jack, John Thorwald is a slow-moving, slow-minded, grimly bulldog giant, who has come to Bannister to study, and as for any other phase of campus existence, he has never awakened to it! Now for the football story: Well, the day after Hicks' sensational arrival, which I described, Coach Corridan, Captain Butch Brewster, Beef, Buster, Pudge, Monty, and Roddy with yours truly, went to Thor's room in Creighton just before football practice. We found that Colossus, who had matriculated as a Freshman, aided by Hicks, patiently masticating mental food as served by Ovid. Coach Corridan said, 'Come on, Thorwald, over to the Gym.; we'll fix you out with togs, if we can get two suits big enough to make one for your bulk! Ever play the game?' 'I play some,' rumbled Thor stolidly, never raising his eyes from his Latin. 'Don't bother me, I want to _study._ I have not time for such foolishness. I am here to study, to get an education!' 'But,' urged the coach earnestly, 'you _must_ play football for your Alma Mater, for old Bannister. Why, you--you _must_, that's all!' Thor gazed at Hicks questioningly--I forgot to add that insect's name--and asked, 'Is it so, Hicks? I _got_ to play for the college?' And when Hicks grinned, '_Sure_, Thor, it must be did. Bannister expects you to smear the other teams over the landscape,' that blond Norwegian Viking said, 'Well, then, I play.' All Bannister turned out to behold the "Prodigious Prodigy" on the football field. Somewhere--Hicks won't divulge where--Thor has learned the rudiments of the game. With that bulldog tenacity of his, he has learned them well. Hence he was ready for the scrubs, and in the practice game it was a veritable slaughter of the innocents. The 'Varsity could not stop Thor. Remember 'Ole' Skjarsen, the big Swede of George Fitch's 'Siwash College' tales? Thor, after the ten minutes required to teach him a play, would take the ball and just wade through the regulars for big gains. The only way to stop him was for the entire eleven to cling affectionately to his bulk, and then he transported them several yards. He is a phenom, a veritable Prodigious Prodigy, and maybe old Bannister isn't _wild_ with enthusiasm. His development will be slow but sure, and by the time the big games for the championship come, he will be a whole team in himself. Right now he goes through daily scrimmage as solemnly as if performing a sacred rite. He doesn't thrill with college spirit, but as for football-- Leaving Hicks to read the rest of Scoop Sawyer's long missive, terminating with indignant condemnation of the sunny youth's love of mystery, the terrific enthusiasm roused at old Bannister by the daily appearance on Bannister Field of Thor, and his irresistible marches through the 'Varsity, must be chronicled and explained. Not for five seasons, not since the year before Hicks, Pudge, Butch, Beef and the others of 1919 were Freshmen, had the Gold and Green corraled that greatest glory, The State Intercollegiate Football Championship! In Captain Butch's Sophomore year, he had flung his bulk into the fray, training, sacrificing, fighting like a Trojan, only to see the pennant lost by a scant three inches, as Jack Merritt's forty-yard drop-kick for the goal that would have won the Championship struck the cross-bar and bounded back into the field. And the past season-old Bannister could still vision that tragic scene of the biggest game. The students could picture Captain Brewster, with the Bannister eleven a few yards from Ballard's goal-line, and the touchdown that would give the Gold and Green that supreme glory. One minute to play; Deacon Radford had given Butch the pigskin, and like a berserker, he fought entirely through the scrimmage. But a kick on the head had blinded him, in the _mêlée_--free of tacklers, with the goal-line, victory, and the Championship so near, he staggered, reeled blindly, crashed into an upright, and toppled backward, senseless on the field, while the Referee's whistle announced the end of the game, and glory to Ballard. Even then, after the first terrible shock of the loss, of the cruel blow fate dealt the Gold and Green two successive seasons, the slogan was: "_Next year_--Bannister will win the Championship--_next year_!" It was now "next year!" Losing only Jack Merritt, Babe McCabe and Heavy Hughes from the line-up, and having Monty Merrlweather and Bunch Bingham, fully as good, Coach Corridan's Gold and Green eleven, before the season started, seemed a better fighting machine than even the one of the year before. But when the irrepressible T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in some mysterious fashion making good his rash vow to produce a smashing full-back that can't be stopped, towed that stolid, blond Colossus, Thor, to old Bannister, enthusiasm broke all limits! Mass-meetings were held every night. Speeches by Coaches, Captain, players, Faculty, and students, aroused the campus to the highest pitch; every day, the entire student-body, with The Bannister Band, turned out on Bannister Field to cheer the eleven, and to watch the Prodigious Prodigy perform valorous deeds, like the god Thor. "Bannister College--State Championship!" was the cry, and with the giant Thor to present an irresistible catapulting that could not be stopped, the Gold and Green exultantly awaited the big games with Hamilton and Ballard. And yet, the stolid, unemotional, unawakened Thor, on whom every hope of the Championship was based, whom all Bannister came out to watch every day, practiced as he studied, doggedly, silently. It was evident to all that he hated the grind, that he wanted to quit, that his heart was not in the game, but for some cause, he drove his Herculean body ahead, and could not be stopped! "Now, you abandoned wretch," said Butch Brewster grimly, as the happy-go-lucky Hicks finished Scoop's letter, and glanced about him wildly seeking a way of escape, "in one minute you will tell us all about John Thorwald, alias 'Thor,' or be tossed sky-high in a blanket by the football squad, and please believe me, you'll break all altitude records!" "Spare me, you banditti!" pleaded Hicks, reluctant to cease torturing Bannister with his Billion-Dollar Mystery, yet equally unwilling to aviate from a blanket heaved by the husky athletes. "Why seek ye to question the ways of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.? You have your Prodigious Prodigy--your smashing full-back is distributing the 'Varsity over the scenery with charming nonchalance that promises dire catastrophe for other teams, once he makes the regulars, so--" At that dramatic moment, just as Butch Brewster glanced at Hicks' alarm-clock, to start the minute of grace, a startling interruption saved the gladsome youth from having to make a decision. A heavy, creaking tread shook the corridor, and the squad beheld, looming up in the doorway, Thor. He was not in football togs, and as he started to speak his fair face as stolid and expressionless as that of a sphinx, Captain Butch Brewster stepped toward him. "Thor!" he exclaimed, seizing the blond Colossus by the arm, "You aren't ready for the scrimmage; hustle over to the Gym. and get on your suit." But John Thorwald, as passive of feature as though he announced something of the most infinitesimal importance, and were not hurling a bomb-shell whose explosion, was to shake old Bannister terrifically, spoke in a matter-of-fact manner: "I shall not play football--any more." "_What_!" Every collegian in Hicks' room, including that dazed producer of the Prodigious Prodigy, chorused the exclamation; to them it was as stunning a shock as the nation would suffer if its President calmly announced, "I'm tired of being President of the United States. I shall not report for work tomorrow." Bannister College, ever since the night that Thor arrived on the campus, had talked or thought of nothing but how this huge, blond-haired Hercules would bring the Championship to the Gold and Green; his prodigies on the gridiron, his ever-increasing prowess, had aroused enthusiasm to fever heat, and now-- "I was told wrong," said Thor, shifting his vast tonnage awkwardly from one foot to the other, and evidently bewildered at the consternation caused by what he believed a trifling announcement, "I understood that I _had_ to play football, that the Faculty required it of me, and the students let me think so. I have just learned from Doctor Alford that such is not true, that I do not have to play unless I choose, hence, I quit. I came to college to study, to gain an education. I have toiled long and hard for the opportunity, and now I have it, I shall not waste my time on such foolishness." Then, utterly unconscious that he had spoken sentences which would create a mighty sensation at old Bannister, that might doom the Gold and Green to defeat, lose his Alma Mater the Championship, and bring on himself the cruel ostracism and bitter censure of his fellows, John Thorwald lumbered down the corridor. A moment of tense silence followed and then Captain Butch Brewster groaned. "It's all over, it's all over, fellows!" he said brokenly, "Bannister loses the Championship! We know it is impossible to move Thor on the football field, and now that he has said 'No!' to playing football, dynamite can not move him from his decision." Then, crushed and disconsolate, the football squad filed silently from the room, to break the glad news to Coach Corridan, and to spread the joyous tidings to old Bannister. When they had gone, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., staring at the figurative black cloud that lowered over his Alma Mater, strove to find its silver lining, and at last he partially succeeded. "Anyway," said Hicks, with a lugubrious effort to grin, "Thor's announcement shocked the squad so much that I was not forced to explain my Billion-Dollar Mystery!" CHAPTER V HICKS MAKES A DECISION "In the famous words of Mr. Somebody-Or-Other," quoth T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., "something has _got_ to be did, and immediately to once!" Big Butch Brewster nodded assent. So did Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, Beef McNaughton, Team Manager Socks Fitzpatrick, Monty Merriweather, Dad Pendleton, President of the Athletic Association, and Deacon Radford, quarter-back, also Shad Fishpaw, who, being Freshman Class-Chairman, maintained a discreet silence. Instead of the usual sky-larking, care-free crowd that infested the cozy quarters of the happy-go-lucky Hicks, every collegian present, except the ever-cheerful youth, seemed to have lost his best friend and his last dollar at one fell swoop! "Oh, yes, something has got to be did!" fleered Beef McNaughton, the davenport creaking under the combined tonnage of himself and Butch Brewster, "But who will do it? Where's all that Oh-just-leave-it-to-Hicks stuff you have pulled for the past three years, you pestiferous insect? _Bah_! You did a lot; you dragged a Prodigious Prodigy to old Bannister, enshrouded him in darkest mystery, and now, when he pushed the 'Varsity off the field and promised to corral the Championship, single-handed, he puts his foot down, and says, '_No_--I will not play football!' Get busy, Little Mr. Fix-It." "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" accommodated that blithesome Senior, with a cheeriness he was far from feeling. "You all do know why Thor won't play football; it is not like last season, when Deke Radford, a star quarter-back, refused either to play, or to explain his refusal. Let me get an inspiration, and then Thor will once again gently but firmly thrust entire football elevens down the field before him!" As evidence of how intensely serious was the situation, let it be chronicled that, for the first time in his scatter-brained campus career, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., did not dare strum his banjo and roar out ballads to torture his long-suffering colleagues. Popular and beloved as he was, the gladsome youth hesitated to shatter the quietude of the campus with his saengerfest, knowing as he did what a terrible blow Thor's utterly astounding announcement had been to the college. It was nine o'clock, one night two weeks after the day when John Thorwald, better known as Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, so mysteriously produced by Hicks, had stolidly paralyzed old Bannister by unemotionally stating his decision to play no more football. Since then, to quote the Phillyloo Bird, "Bannister has staggered around the ring like a prizefighter with the Referee counting off ten seconds and trying to fight again before he takes the count." In truth, the students had made a fatal mistake in building all their hopes of victory on that blond giant, Thor; seeing his wonderful prowess, and beholding how, in the first week of the season, the Norwegian Colossus had ripped to shreds the Varsity line which even the heavy Ballard eleven of the year before could not batter, it was but natural that the enthusiastic youths should think of the Championship chances in terms of _Thor_. For one week, enthusiasm and excitement soared higher and higher, and then, to use a phrase of fiction, everything fell with a dull, sickening thud! In vain did Coach Corridan, the staff of Assistant Coaches, Captain Butch Brewster, and others strive to resuscitate football spirit; nightly mass-meetings were held, and enough perfervid oratory hurled to move a Russian fortress, but to no avail. It was useless to argue that, without Thor, Bannister had an eleven better than that of last year, which so nearly missed the Championship. The campus had seen the massive Thor's prodigies; they knew he could not be stopped, and to attempt to arouse the college to concert pitch over the eleven, with that mountain of muscle blotting out vast sections of scenery, but not in football togs, was not possible. "One thing is sure," spoke Dad Pendleton seriously, gazing gloomily from the window, "unless we get Thor in the line-up for the Big Games, our last hope of the Championship is dead and interred! And I feel sorry for the big fellow, for already the boys like him just about as much as a German loves an Englishman; yet, arguments, threats, pleadings, and logic have absolutely no effect on him. He has said 'No,' and that ends it!" "He doesn't understand things, fellows," defended T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with surprising earnestness. "Remember how bewildered he seemed at our appeal to his college spirit, and his love for his Alma Mater. We might as well have talked Choctaw to him!" Butch Brewster, Socks Fitzpatrick, Dad Pendleton, Beef McNaughton, Deacon Radford, Monty Merriweather, and Shad Fishpaw well remembered that night after Thor's tragic decision, when they--part of a Committee formed of the best athletes from all teams, and the most representative collegians of old Bannister, had invaded Thor's room in Creighton Hall, to wrestle with the recalcitrant Hercules. Even as Hicks spoke, they visioned it again. A cold, cheerless room, bare of carpet or pictures, with just the study-table, bed, and two chairs. At the study-table, his huge bulk sprawling on, and overflowing, a frail chair, they had found the massive John Thorwald laboriously reading aloud the Latin he had translated, literally by the sweat of his brow. The blond Colossus, impatient at the interruption, had shaken his powerful frame angrily, and with no regard for campus tradition, had addressed the upperclassmen in a growl: "Well, what do you want? Hurry up, I've got to study." And then, to state it briefly, they had worked with (and on) the stolid Thorwald for two hours. They explained how his decision to play no more football would practically kill old Bannister's hopes of the Championship, would assassinate football spirit on the campus, and cause the youths to condemn Thor, and to ostracise him. Waxing eloquent, Butch Brewster had delivered a wonderful speech, pleading with John Thorwald to play the game. He tried to show that obviously uninterested mammoth that, like the Hercules he so resembled, he stood at the parting of the ways. "You are on the threshold of your college career, old man!" he thundered impressively, though he might as well have tried to shoot holes in a battleship with a pop-gun, "What you do now will make or break you. Do you want the fellows as friends or as enemies; do you want comradeship, or loneliness and ostracism? You have it in your power to do two _big_ things, to win the Championship for your Alma Mater, and to win to yourself the entire student-body, as friends; will you do that, and build a firm foundation for your college years, or betray your Alma Mater, and gain the enmity of old Bannister!" Followed more fervid periods, with such phrases as, "For your Alma Mater," "Because of your college spirit," "For dear old Bannister," and "For the Gold and Green!" predominating; all of which terms, to the stolid, unimaginative Thorwald being fully as intelligible as Hindustani. They appealed to him not to betray his Alma Mater; they implored him, for his love of old Bannister; they besought him, because of his college spirit; and all the time, for all that the Prodigious Prodigy understood, they might as well have remained silent. "I will tell you something," spoke Thor, at last, with an air of impatient resignation, "and don't bother me again, please! I have come to Bannister College to get an education, and I have the right to do so, without being pestered. I pay my bills, and I am entitled to all the knowledge I can purchase. I look from my window, and I see boys, whose fathers are toiling, sacrificing, to send them here. Instead of studying, to show their gratitude, they loaf around the campus, or in their rooms, twanging banjos and guitars, singing silly songs, and sky-larking. I don't know what all this rot is you are talking of; 'college spirit,' 'my Alma Mater,' and so on. I do not want to play football; I do not like the game; I need the time for my study, so I will not play. Both my father and myself have labored and sacrificed to send me to college. The past five years, with one great ambition to go to college and learn, I have toiled like a galley-slave. "And now, when opportunity is mine, do you ask me to _play_? You want me to loaf around, wasting precious time better spent in my studies. What do I care whether the boys like me, or hate me? Bah! I can take any two of you, and knock your heads together! Their friendship or enmity won't move me. I shall study, learn. I will not waste time in senseless foolishness, and I _won't_ play football again." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. was silent as he stood by the window of his room, gazing down at the campus where the collegians were gathering before marching to the Auditorium for the nightly mass-meeting that would vainly strive to arouse a fighting spirit in the football "rooters." That blithesome, heedless, happy-go-lucky youth was capable of far more serious thought than old Bannister knew; and more, he possessed the rare ability to read character; in the case of Thor, he saw vastly deeper than his indignant comrades, who beheld only the surface of the affair. They knew only that John Thorwald, a veritable Colossus, had exhibited football prowess that practically promised the State Championship to old Bannister, and then--he had quit the game. They understood only that Thor refused to play simply because he did not want to, and as to why their appeals to his college spirit and his love for his Alma Mater were unheeded they were puzzled. But the gladsome Hicks, always serious beneath his cheerful exterior, when old Bannister's interests were at stake, or when a collegian's career might be blighted, when the tragedy could be averted, fully understood. Of course, as originator of the Billion-Dollar Mystery, and producer of the Prodigious Prodigy, he knew more about the strange John Thorwald than did his mystified comrades. He knew that Thor, as he named him, was just a vast hulk of humanity, stolid, unimaginative of mind, slow-thinking, a dull, unresponsive mass, as yet unstirred by that strange, subtle, mighty thing called college spirit. He realized that Thor had never had a chance to understand the real meaning of campus life, to grasp the glad fellowship of the students, to thrill with a great love for his Alma Mater. All that must come in time. The blond giant had toiled all his life, had labored among men where everything was practical and grim. Small wonder, then, that he failed utterly to see why the youths "loafed on the campus, or in their rooms, twanging banjos and guitars, singing silly songs, and skylarking." "I must save him," murmured Hicks softly, for the others in his room were talking of Thor. "Oh, imagine that powerful body, imbued with a vast love for old Bannister, think of Thor, thrilling with college spirit. Why, Yale's and Harvard's elevens combined could not stop his rushes, then. I must save him from himself, from the condemnation of the fellows, who just don't understand. I must, some way, awaken him to a complete understanding of college life in its entirety, but how? He is so different from Roddy Perkins, or Deke Radford." It seemed that the lovable Hicks was destined to save, every year of his campus career, some entering collegian who incurred the wrath, deserved or otherwise, of the students. In his Freshman first term, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., indignant at the way little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous, nervous "grind," had been alarmed at the idea of being hazed, had by a sensational escape from a room locked, guarded, and filled with Sophomores, gained immunity for himself and the boner for all time, thus winning the loyal, pathetic devotion of the Human Encyclopedia. As a Sophomore, by crushing James Roderick Perkins' Napoleonic ambition to upset tradition, and make Freshmen equal with upperclassmen, Hicks had turned that aggressive youth's tremendous energy in the right channels, and made him a power for good on the campus. And, a Junior, he had saved good Deacon Radford. When that serious youth, a famous prep. quarter, entered old Bannister, the students were wild at the thought of having him to run the Gold and Green team, but to their dismay, he refused either to report for practice or to explain his decision. Hicks, promising blithely, as usual, to solve the mystery and get Deke to play, discovered that the youth's mother, called "Mother Peg" by the collegians, was head-waitress downtown at Jerry's and that she made her son promise not to own the relationship, and that while she worked to get him through college, Deacon would not play football. The inspired Hicks had gotten Mother Peg to start College Inn, and board Freshmen unable to get rooms in the dormitories, and Deacon had played wonderful football. For this achievement, the original youth failed to get glory, for he sacrificed it, and swore all concerned to secrecy. "But Roddy and Deke were different," reflected Hicks, pondering seriously. "Both had been to Prep. School, and they understood college life and campus spirit. It was Roddy's tremendous ambition that had to be curbed, and Deke was the victim of circumstances. But Thorwald--it is just a problem of how to awaken in him an understanding of college spirit. The fellows don't understand him, and--" A sudden thought, one of his inspirations, assailed the blithesome Hicks. Why not make the fellows understand Thor? Surely, if he explained the "Billion-Dollar Mystery," as he humorously called it, and told why Thorwald, as yet, had no conception of college life, in its true meaning, they would not feel bitter against him; perhaps, instead, though regretful at his decision not to play the game, they would all strive to awaken the stolid Colossus, to stir his soul to an understanding of campus tradition and existence. But that would mean--"I surely hate to lose my Billion-Dollar Mystery!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., remembering the intense indignation of his comrades at his Herman-Kellar-Thurston atmosphere of mystery, "It is more fun than, my 'Sheerluck Holmes' detective pose or my saengerfests. Still, for old Bannister, and for Thor." It would seem only a trifle for the heedless Hicks to give up his mystery, and tell Bannister all about Thor; yet, had the Hercules reconsidered, and played football, the torturesome youth would have bewildered his colleagues as long as possible, or until they made him divulge the truth. He dearly loved to torment his comrades, and this had been such an opportunity for him to promise nonchalantly to produce a Herculean full-back, then, to return to the campus with the Prodigious Prodigy in tow, and for him to perform wonders on Bannister Field, naturally aroused the interest of the youths, and he had enjoyed hugely their puzzlement, but now-- "Say, fellows," he interrupted an excited conversation of a would-be Committee of Ways and Means to make Thor play football, "I have an announcement to make." "Don't pester us, Hicks!" warned Captain Butch Brewster, grimly. "We love you like a brother, but we'll crush you if you start any foolishness, and--" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with the study-table between himself and his comrades, assumed the attitude of a Chautauqua lecturer, one hand resting on the table and the other thrust into the breast of his coat, and dramatically announced: "In the Auditorium--at the regular mass-meeting tonight--T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., will give the correct explanation of Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, and will solve the Billion-Dollar Mystery!" CHAPTER VI HICKS MAKES A SPEECH The announcement of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had practically the same effect on Head Coach Corridan and the cheery Senior's comrades as a German gas-bomb would have on the inmates of an Allied trench. For several seconds they stared at the blithesome youth, in a manner scarcely to be called aimless, since their looks were aimed with deadly accuracy at him, but in general, with the exception of Hicks, those in the room resembled vastly some of the celebrated Madame Tussaud's wax-works in London. "Oh," breathed Monty Merriweather, with the appearance of dawning intelligence, "that's so, Coach, Hicks never has disclosed the details of his achievement; we were about to extort a confession from him, when Thor broke up the league with his announcement, and since then, Bannister has been too worried over Thorwald to trifle with Hicks!" "That's a good idea!" exclaimed Coach Corridan, who had been remarkably silent, for him, pondering the football crisis, "Hicks can make his explanation at the regular mass-meeting tonight, in the Auditorium. I'll post an announcement of his purpose, and you fellows spread the news among the students, stating that Hicks will tell how he rounded up Thor. Some have shirked these meetings since Thorwald quit the game, and this will bring them out, so maybe we can arouse the fighting spirit again!" So well did Butch, Beef, Socks, Monty, Dad, Deacon, and Shad tell the news, that when the bell in the Administration Hall tower rang at ten o'clock it was ascertained by score-keepers that every youth at Bannister, Freshmen included, except that Hercules, Thor, had assembled in the Auditorium. That stolid behemoth, who regarded the football mass-meeting as foolishness, was reported as boning in his cheerless room, fulfilling the mission for which he came to college, namely, to get his money's worth of knowledge, which he evidently regarded as some commodity for which Bannister served merely as a market. Big Butch Brewster, on the stage of the Auditorium, the big assembly-hall of the college, along with Coach Corridan, several of the Gold and Green eleven, two members of the Faculty, several Assistant Coaches, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., stepped forward and stilled the tumult of the excited youths with upraised hand. "We have with us tonight," he spoke, after the fashion of introducing after-dinner speakers, "Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., the celebrated Magician and Mystifier, who will present for your approval his world-famous Billion-Dollar Mystery, and give the correct solution to Thor, the problem no one has been able to solve. I take great pleasure in introducing to you this evening, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr." The collegians, firmly believing it was another of the pestiferous Hicks' jokes, and wholly unaware of the deep purpose of the sunny-souled, irrepressible youth's speech, went into paroxysms of glee, as the shadow-like Hicks stepped forward. For several minutes, the hall echoed with jeers, shouts, groans, whistles, and sarcastic comments: "Hire a hall, Hicks; tell it to Sweeney!"--"Bryan better look out. Hicks, the _Chau-talker;_"--"Spill the speech, old man; spread the oratory!"--"Oh, where are my smelling-salts? I know I shall faint!"--"You'd better play a banjo-accompaniment to it, Hicks!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., for once in his campus career, fervidly wished he had not been such a happy-go-lucky, care-free collegian, for now, when he was serious, his comrades refused to believe him to be in such a state. However, quiet was obtained at last, thanks to the fact that the youths possessed all the curiosity of the proverbial cat who died thereby, and the sunny Senior plunged earnestly into his famous speech, that was destined, at old Bannister, to rank with that of Demosthenes "On The Crown," or any of W. J, Bryan's masterpieces. "Fellows," began Hicks, without preface, "I know I've built myself the reputation of being a scatterbrained, heedless nonentity, and it's too late to change now. But tonight, please believe me to be thoroughly in earnest. Bannister faces more than one crisis, more than one tragedy. It is true that the football eleven is crippled by the defection of Thor, that we fellows have somewhat unreasonably allowed his quitting the game to shake our spirit, but there is more at stake than football victories, than even the State Intercollegiate Football Championship! The future of a student, of a present Freshman, his hopes of becoming a loyal, solid, representative college man, a tremendous power for good, at old Bannister, hang in the balance at this moment! I speak of John Thorwald. You students have it in your power to make or break him, to ruin his college years and make him a recluse, a misanthrope, or to gradually bring him to a full realization of what college life and campus tradition really mean." "I have made a great mystery of Thor, just for a lark, but the enmity and condemnation of the campus for him because he quit football suddenly, shows me that the time for skylarking is past. For his sake, I must plead. He is not to blame, altogether, for quitting. Myself, and you fellows, gave him the impression that it was a Faculty requirement for him to play football, for we feared he would not play, otherwise; when he learned that it was not a Faculty rule, he simply quit." Here T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., seeing that at last he had convinced the collegians of his earnestness, though they seemed fairly paralyzed at the phenomenon, paused, and produced a bundle of papers before resuming. "Now, I'll try to explain the 'mystery' as briefly and as clearly as possible. Up at Camp Bannister, before college opened, Coach Corridan, as you know, outlined to Butch, Deke, and myself, his dream of a Herculean, irresistible full-back; I said, 'Just leave It to Hicks!' and they believed that I, as usual, just made that remark to torment them. But such was not the case. When I joined them, I remarked that I had a letter from my Dad; Deke made some humorous remarks, and I forgot to read it aloud, as I intended. Then, after Coach Corridan blue-printed his giant full-back, I kept silent as to Dad's letter, for reasons you'll understand. But, after all, there was no mystery about my leaving Camp Bannister, after making a seemingly rash vow, and returning to college with a 'Prodigious Prodigy' who filled specifications, In fact, before I left Camp Bannister, at the moment I made my rash promise--I had Thor already lined up!" "I shall now read a dipping or two, and a letter or two from my Dad. The clippings came in Dad's letter to me at Camp Bannister, the letter I intended to read to Coach Corridan, Deke, and Butch, but which I decided to keep silent about, after the Coach told of the full-back he wanted, for I knew I had him already! First, a clipping from the _San Francisco Examiner_, of August 25: MAROONED SAILOR RESCUED--TEN YEARS ON SOUTH SEA ISLAND! SOLE SURVIVOR OF ILL-FATED CRUISE OF THE ZEPHYR "The trading-schooner _Southern Cross_, Captain Martin Bascomb, skipper, put into San Francisco yesterday with a cargo of copra from the South Sea Islands. On board was John Thorwald, Sr., who for the past ten years has been marooned on an uninhabited coral isle of the Southern Pacific, together with 'Long Tom' Watts, who, however, died several months ago. Thorwald's story reads like a thrilling bit of fiction. He was first mate of the ill-fated yacht _Zephyr_, which cleared from San Francisco ten years ago with Henry B. Kingsley, the Oil-King, and a pleasure party, for a cruise under the southern star. A terrific tornado wrecked the yacht, and only Thorwald and 'Long Tom' escaped, being cast upon the coral island, where for ten years they existed, unable to attract the attention of the few craft that passed, as the isle was out of the regular lanes. Only when Captain Martin Bascomb, in the trading-schooner _Southern Cross_, touched at the island, hoping to find natives with whom to trade supplies for copra, were they found, and 'Long Tom' had been dead some months." "Despite the harrowing experiences of his exile, Thorwald, a vast hulk of a stolid, unimaginative Norwegian, who reminds one of the Norse god, 'Thor,' intends to ship as first mate on the New York-Christiania Steamship Line. It is said that Thorwald has a son, at this time about twenty-five years of age, somewhere In this country, whom he will seek, and--" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., at this juncture, terminated the newspaper story, and finding that his explanation held his comrades spellbound, he produced a letter, and drew out the message, after stating the youths could read the entire news-story of John Thorwald, Sr., later. "This is the letter I received from my Dad," he explained to the intensely interested Bannister youths, who were giving a concentrated attention that members of the Faculty would have rejoiced to receive from them. "Up at Camp Bannister--I was just about to read it to Coach Corridan, Butch, and Deke Radford, when Deke chaffed me, and then the Coach outlined the mammoth full-back he desired, so I kept quiet. I'll now read it to you: "Pittsburgh, Pa., Sept, 17. "DEAR SON THOMAS: "Read the inclosed clipping from the _San Francisco Examiner_ of August 25, and then pay close attention to the following facts: At the time of this news-story I was in 'Frisco on business, as you will recall, and for reasons to be outlined, when I read of the _Southern Cross_ finding the marooned John Thorwald, and bringing him to that city, I was particularly interested, so much so that I at once looked up the one-time first mate of the ill-starred _Zephyr_ and brought him to Pittsburgh in my private car. My reason was this; in my employ, in the International Steel Combine's mill, was John Thorwald's son, John Thorwald, Jr. "To state facts as briefly as possible, almost a year ago, as I took some friends through the steel rolling mill, I chanced to step directly beneath a traveling crane, lowering a steel beam; seeing my peril, I was about to step aside when I caught my foot and fell. Just then a veritable giant, black and grimy, leaped forward, and with a prodigious display of strength, placed his powerful back under the descending weight, staving it off until I rolled over to safety! "Well, of course, I had the fellow report to my office, and instinctively feeling that I wanted to show my gratitude, without being patronizing, he responded to my question as to what I could do to reward him, by asking simply that I get him some job that would allow him to attend night school. He stated that, owing to the fact that he worked alternate weeks at night shift he was unable to do so. Questioning him further, I learned the following facts: "He was John Thorwald, Jr., only son of John Thorwald, Sr., a Norwegian; his mother was also a Norwegian, but he is a natural born American. Realizing the opportunities for an educated young man in our land, Thorwald's parents determined that he should gain knowledge, and until he was fifteen years old, he attended school in San Francisco. When he was fifteen, his father signed as first mate on the yacht _Zephyr_, going with the oil-king, Henry B. Kingsley, on a pleasure cruise in the Southern Pacific; Thorwald, Sr.'s, story you read in the paper. Soon after the news of the _Zephyr's_ wreck, with all on board lost, as was then supposed, Thorwald's mother died. Her dying words (so young Thorwald told me, and I was moved by his simple, straightforward tale) were an appeal to her boy. She made him promise, for her sake, to study, study, study to gain knowledge, and to rise in the world! Thorwald promised. Then, believing both his parents dead, the young Norwegian, a youth of fifteen without money, had to shift for himself. "Thomas, Jack London could weave his adventures into a gripping masterpiece. Starting in as cabin-boy on a freighter to Alaska, young Thorwald, in the past ten years, has simply crowded his life with adventure, thrill, and experience, though thrills mean nothing to him. He was in the Klondike gold-fields, in the salmon canneries, a prospector, a lumber-jack in the Canadian Northwest, a cowboy, a sailor, a worker in the Panama Canal Zone, on the Big Ditch, and too many other things to remember. Finally, he drifted to Pittsburgh, where his prodigious strength served him in the steel-mills, and, let me add, served _me_, as I stated. "And ever, no matter where he wandered, or what was his toil, whenever possible, Thorwald studied. His promise to his mother was always his goal, and in the cities he studied, or in the wilds he read all the books he could find. The past year, finding he had a good-pay job in Pittsburgh, he settled to determined effort, and by sheer resolution, by his wonderful power to grasp facts and ideas for good once he gets them, he made great progress in night school, until he was shifted, a week before he saved my life, to work that required him to toil nightly, alternate weeks. So, for a year, Thor has had every possible advantage, some, unknown to him, I paid for myself; I got him clerical work, with shorter hours, he went to night school, and I employed the very best tutor obtainable, letting Thorwald pay him, as he thought, though his payments wouldn't keep the tutor in neckties. The gratitude of the blond giant is pathetic, and suspecting that I paid the tutor something, he insisted on paying all he could, which I allowed, of course. "Well, in August, a year after Thorwald rescued me from serious injury, perhaps death, I was in 'Frisco, and read of Thorwald, Sr.'s rescue and return. Overjoyed, I took the father to Pittsburgh, to the son. I witnessed their meeting, with the father practically risen from the dead, and all those stolid, unimaginative Norwegians did was to shake hands gravely! Young Thorwald told of his mother's last words, and of his promise, of his having studied all the years, and of his late progress, so that he was ready to enter college. His father, happy, insisted that he enter this September, and he would pay for his son's college course, to make up for the years the youth struggled for himself--Kingsley's heirs, I believe, gave Thorwald, Sr., five thousand dollars on his return. So, though grateful to me for the aid I offered, they would receive no financial assistance, for they want to work it out themselves, and help the youth make good his promise to his dying mother. "Much as I love old Bannister, my Alma Mater, I would not have tried to send Thorwald there, had I not deemed it a good place for him. However, since it is a liberal, not a technical, education he wants, it is all right; and that prodigious strength will serve the Gold and Green on the football field. Now, Thomas, I want you to meet him in Philadelphia, and take him to Bannister, look out for him, get him started O. K., and do all you can for him. Get him to play football, if you can, but don't condemn if he refuses. Remember, his life has been grim and unimaginative; he has toiled and studied, it is probable he will not understand college life at first." "That's all I need to read of Dad's letter, fellows," concluded T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "After I got it, and Coach Corridan, Butch, and Beef heard my seemingly rash vow to round up a giant full-back, I made a mystery of it; I loafed in Philadelphia and Atlantic City until I met Thor, and brought him here. You have all the data regarding Thor, 'The Billion-Dollar Mystery.'" The students, almost as one, drew a deep breath. They had been enthralled by the story, and their feeling toward Thor had undergone a vast change. Stirred by hearing of his promise to his dying mother, thrilled at the way the stolid, determined Norwegian had ceaselessly studied to make something of himself for the sake of his mother's sacred memory, the Bannister youths now thought of football, of the Championship, as insignificant, beside the goal of Thorwald, Jr. The blond Colossus, whom an hour ago all Bannister reviled and condemned for not playing the game, who was a campus outcast, was now a hero; thanks to the erstwhile heedless Hicks, whose intense earnestness in itself was a revelation to the amazed collegians, Thor stood before them in a different light, and the impulsive, whole-souled, generous youths were now anxious to make amends. _"Thor! Thor! Thor!"_ was the thunderous cry, and the Bannister yell for the Prodigious Prodigy shattered the echoes. Then T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., ecstatically joyous, again stilled the tumult, and spoke in behalf of John Thorwald. "We all understand Thor now, fellows," he said, beaming on his comrades. "We want him to play football, and we'll keep after him to play, but we won't condemn him if he refuses. At present, Thor is simply a stolid, unimaginative, dull mass of muscle. As you can realize, his nature, his life so far have not tended to make him appreciate the gayer, lighter side of college life, or to grasp the traditions of the campus. To him, college is a market; he pays his money and he takes the knowledge handed out. We can not blame him for not understanding college existence in its entirety, or that the gaining of knowledge is a small part of the representative collegian's purpose. "Now, boys, here's our job, and let's tackle it together: To awaken in Thor a great love for old Bannister, to cause college spirit to stir his practical soul. Let every fellow be his friend, let no one speak against him, because of football. We must work slowly, carefully, gradually making him grasp college traditions, and once he awakens to the real meaning of campus life, what a power he will be in the college and on the athletic field! Maybe he will not play football this season, but let us help him to awaken!" With wild shouts, the aroused collegians poured from the Auditorium, an excited, turbulent mass of youthful humanity, a tide that swept T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., on the shoulders of several, out on the campus. Massed beneath the window of John Thorwald's room, in Creighton Hall, the Bannister students, now fully understanding that stolid Hercules, and stirred to admiration of him by T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, great speech, cheered the somewhat mystified Thor again and again; in vast sound waves, the shouts rolled up to his open window: "Rah! Rah! Rah-rah-rah! _Thor! Thor! Thor_!" Captain Brewster, through a big megaphone, roared; "Fellows--What's the matter with _Thor_?" And in a terrific outburst which, as the Phillyloo Bird afterward said, "Like to of busted Bannister's works!" the enthusiastic collegians responded: "_He's_--all--right!" Then Butch, apparently in quest of information, persisted: "_Who's_ all right?" To which the three hundred or more youths, all seemingly equipped with lungs of leather, kindly answered: "Thor! Thor! Thor!" Still, though the Phillyloo Bird declared that this vocal explosion caused the seismographs as Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, and in Salt Lake City, Utah, to register an earthquake somewhere, it had on the blond Freshman a strange effect. The vast mountain of muscle lumbered heavily across the room, gazed down at the howling crowd of collegians without emotion, then slammed down the window, and returned to study. "_Good night_" called Hicks. "The show is over! Let him have another yell, boys, to show we aren't insulted; then we'll disband!" Considering Thorwald's cool reception of their overtures, which some youth remarked, "Were as noisy as that of a Grand Opera Orchestra," it was quite surprising to the students, in the morning, when what occurred an hour after their serenade was revealed to them. As the story was told by those who witnessed the scene, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch, Beef, Monty, Pudge, Roddy, Biff, Hefty, Tug, Buster, and Coach Corridan after the commotion subsided, retired to the sunny Hicks' quarters, where the football situation was discussed, along with ways and means to awaken Thor, when that colossal Freshman himself loomed up in the doorway. As they afterward learned, several excited Freshmen had dared to invade Thor's den, even while he studied, and give him a more or less correct account of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s masterly oration in his defense. Out of their garbled descriptions, big John Thorwald grasped one salient point, and straightway he started for Hicks' room, leaving the indignant Freshmen to tell their story to the atmosphere. "Hicks," said Thor, not bothering with the "Mr." required of all Freshmen, as his vast bulk crowded the doorway, "is it true that Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., wants me to play football? He has been very kind to me, and has helped me, and so have you, here at college. After a year of study, I should have had to stop night-school, but for him--instead, I got another year, and prepared for Bannister. I did not know that _he_ desired me to play, but if he does, I feel under obligation to show my great gratitude, both for myself and for my father." A moment of silence, for the glorious news could not be grasped in a second; those in the room, knowing Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr.'s, brilliant athletic record at old Bannister, and understanding his great love for his Alma Mater, knew that Hicks, Sr., had sent Thor to Bannister to play football for the Gold and Green, though, as he had written his son, he would not have done so had he honestly believed that another college would suit the ambitious Goliath better. "Does he?" stammered the dazed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., while the others echoed the words feebly, "Yes, I should say he _does_!" For a second, the ponderous young Colossus hesitated, and then, as calmly as though announcing he would add Greek to his list of studies, and wholly unaware that his words were to bring joy to old Bannister, he spoke stolidly. "Then I shall play football." CHAPTER VII HICKS STARTS ANOTHER MYSTERY. "Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! Drink and the Devil had done for the rest-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!" T HAVILAND HICKS, JR., his chair tilted at a perilous angle, and his feet thrust gracefully atop of the study-table, in his cozy room, one Friday afternoon two weeks after John Thorwald's return to the football squad, was fathoms deep in Stevenson's "Treasure Island." As he perused the thrilling pages, the irrepressible youth twanged a banjo accompaniment, and roared with gusto the piratical chantey of Long John Silver's buccaneer crew; Hicks, however, despite his saengerfest, was completely lost in the enthralling narrative, so that he seemed to hear the parrot shrieking, "Pieces of eight! Pieces of eight!" and the wild refrain: "Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!" He was reading that breathlessly exciting part where the cabin-boy of the _Hispaniola_, and Israel Hands have their terrible fight to the death, with the dodging over the dead man rolling in the scuppers, the climbing up the mast, and the dirk pinning the boy's shoulder, before Hands is shot and goes to join his mate on the bottom; just at the most absorbing page, as he twanged his beloved banjo louder, and roared the chantey, there sounded, "Tramp--tramp--tramp!" in the corridor, the heavy tread of many feet sounded, coming nearer. Instinctively realizing that the pachydermic parade was headed for _his_ room, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., rushed to the closet, murmuring, "Safety first!" as usual, and stowed away his banjo. He was just in the nick of time, for a second later there crowded into his room Captain Butch, Pudge, Beef, Hefty, Biff, Monty, Roddy, Bunch, Tug, Buster, Coach Corridas, and Thor, the latter duo bringing up the rear. "Hicks, you unjailed public nuisance!" said Butch Brewster, affectionately. "We, whom you behold, are going for to enter into that room across the corridor from your boudoir, and hold a football signal quiz and confab. We should request that you permit a thunderous silence to originate in your cozy retreat, for the period of at least a hour! A word to the _wise_ is sufficient, so I have spoken several, that even you may comprehend my meaning." "I gather you, fluently!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., taking up "Treasure Island" and his graceful pose once more. "Leave me to peruse the thrilling pages of this classic blood-and-thunder book, and I'll cause a beautiful serenity to obtain hither." "See that you do, you pestiferous insect!" threatened Beef McNaughton, ominously. "Come on, fellows, Hicks can't escape our vengeance, if he bursts into what he fatuously believes is song. Just let him act hippicanarious, and--" When the Gold and Green eleven, half of which, to judge by size, was Thor, had gone with Coach Corridan into the room across from that of the blithesome Hicks, the sunny-souled Senior tried to resume his perusal of "Treasure Island," but somehow the spell had been broken by the invasion of his cozy quarters. So, after vainly essaying to take up the thread of the story again, Hicks arose and stood by the window, gazing across the campus to Bannister Field, deserted, since the football team rested for the game of the morrow. As he stood there, the gladsome Hicks reflected seriously. He thought of "Thor," and decided sorrowfully that the problem of awakening that stolid Colossus to a full understanding of campus life was as unsolved as ever. "But I _won't_ give it up!" declared Hicks, determinedly. "I have always been good at math, and I won't let this problem baffle me." Since the night, two weeks back, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had made his memorable speech, explaining to his fellow-students the "Billon-Dollar Mystery," and arousing in them a vast admiration for the slow-minded, plodding John Thorwald, every collegian had done his best to befriend the big Freshman. Upperclassmen helped him with his studies. Despite his almost rude refusal to meet any advances, the collegians always had a cheery greeting for him, and his class-mates, in fear and trembling, invaded his den at times, to show him they were his friends. Yet, despite these whole-hearted efforts, only two of old Bannister did the silent Thor seem to desire as comrades: the festive Hicks, for reasons known, and--remarkable to chronicle--little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous, studious "Human Encyclopedia." "Colossus and Lilliputian!" the Phillyloo Bird quaintly observed once when this strangely assorted duo appeared on the campus. "Say, fellows--some time Thor will accidentally sit on Theophilus, and we'll have another mystery, the disappearance of our boner!" The generous Hicks, longing for Thor's awakening to come, was not in the least jealous of his loyal little friend, Theophilus. In fact, he was sincerely delighted that the unemotional Hercules desired the comradeship of the grind, and he urged the Human Encyclopedia to strive constantly to arouse in Thor a realization of college existence, and a true knowledge of its meaning. At least one thing, Theophilus reported, had been achieved by Hicks' defense of Thorwald, and the subsequent attitude of the collegians-- the colossal Freshman was puzzled, quite naturally. When over three hundred youths criticized, condemned, and berated him one night, and the next, even before he reconsidered his decision about football, came under his window and cheered him, no wonder the young Norwegian was bewildered. On the football field, with his dogged determination, his bulldog way of hanging on to things until he mastered them, big Thor progressed slowly, and surely; the past Saturday, against the heavy Alton eleven, the blond Freshman had been sent in for the second half, and, to quote an overjoyed student, he had "busted things all up!" It seemed simply impossible to stop that terrible rush of his huge body. Time after time he plowed through the line for yards, and old Bannister, visioning Thor distributing Hamilton and Ballard over the field, in the big games, literally hugged itself. And yet, despite Thorwald's invincible prowess, despite the vast joy of old Bannister at the chances of the Championship, some intangible shadow hovered over the campus. It brooded over the training-table, the shower-rooms after scrimmage, on Bannister Field during practice; as yet, no one had dared to give it form, by voicing his thought, but though no youth dared admit it, something was wrong, there was a defective cog in the machinery of that marvelous machine, the Gold and Green eleven. "'Oh, just leave it to Hicks," quoth that sunny youth, at length, turning from the window; "I'll solve the problem, or what is more probable, Theophilus may stir that sodden hulk of humanity, after awhile. I won't worry about it, for that gets me nothing, and it will all come out O.K., I'm positive!" At this moment, just as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., picked up "Treasure Island" again, he heard drifting across the corridor from the room opposite, in Butch Brewster's familiar voice: "--Yes, I'll win three more Bs'--one each in football, baseball and track; next spring, I'll annex my last B at old Bannister, fellows--" His _last_ B--The words struck the blithesome Hicks with sledge-hammer force. Big Butch Brewster was talking of his last B, when he, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had never won his first; with a feeling almost of alarm, the sunny youth realized that this was his final year at old Bannister, his last chance to win his athletic letter, and to make happy his beloved Dad, by helping him to realize part of his life's ambition--to behold his son shattering Hicks, Sr.'s, wonderful record. His final chance, and outside of his hopes of winning the track award in the high-jump, Hicks saw no way to win his B. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., as has been chronicled, the beloved Dad of the cheery Senior, a Pittsburgh millionaire Steel King, was a graduate of old Bannister, Class of '92. While wearing the Gold and Green, he had made an all-round athletic record never before, or afterward, rivaled on the campus. At football, basketball, track, and baseball, he was a scintillating star, annexing enough letters to start an alphabet, had they been different ones. Quite naturally, when the Doctor, speaking anent the then infantile Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., said, "Mr. Hicks, it's a boy!"--the one-time Bannister athlete straightway began to dream of the day when his only son and heir should follow in his Dad's footsteps, shattering the records made at Bannister, and at Yale, by Hicks, _père_. However, to quote a sporting phrase, the son of the Steel King "upset the dope!" At the start of his Senior year, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. had not annexed a single athletic honor, nor did the signs point to any records being in peril of getting shattered by his prowess; as Hicks himself phrased it, "Dame Nature was _some stingy_ when she handed out the Hercules stuff to me!" The happy-go-lucky youth, when he matriculated as a Freshman at Bannister College, was builded on the general lines of a toothpick, and had he elected to follow a pugilistic career, a division somewhat lighter than the tissue paperweight class would have had to be devised to accommodate the splinter-student. A generous, sunny-souled, intensely democratic collegian, despite his father's wealth, the festive Hicks, with his room always open-house to all; his firm friendship for star athlete or humble boner, his never-failing sunny nature, together with his famous Hicks Personally Conducted Expeditions downtown to the Beef-Steak Busts he had originated, in his three years at old Bannister, had made himself the most popular and beloved youth on the campus, but, he had not won his B! And he had tried. With a full realization, of his Dad's ambition, his life-dream to behold his son a great athlete, the blithesome Hicks had tried, but with hilariously futile results. Nature had endowed him, as he told his loyal comrade, Butch Brewster, with "the Herculean build of a Jersey mosquito," and his athletic powers neared zero infinity. In his Freshman year, he inaugurated his athletic career by running the wrong way in the Sophomore-Freshman football game, scoring a touchdown that won for the enemy, and naturally, after that performance, every athletic effort was greeted with jeers by the students. "I _have_ tried!" said Hicks, producing two letters from the study-table, "But not like I should have tried. I could never have played on the eleven, or on the nine, but I have a chance in the high-jump. I know I've been indolent and care-free, and I ought to have trained harder. Well, I just must win my track B this spring, but as to keeping the rash promise I made to Butch as a Freshman--not a chance!" It had been at the close of his Freshman year, after Hicks, in the Interclass Track Meet, had smashed hurdles, broken high-jumping cross-bars, finished last in several events, and jeopardized his life with the shot and hammer, that he made the rash vow to which he now had reference. Butch, believing his sunny friend had entered all the events just to entertain the crowd, in his fun-loving way, was teasing him about his ridiculous fiascos, when Hicks had told him the story--how his Dad wanted him to try and be a famous athlete; he showed Butch a letter, received before the meet, asking his son to try every event, and to keep on training, so as to win his B before he graduated. Butch, great-hearted, was surprised and moved by the revelation that the gladsome youth, even as he was jeered by his friendly comrades, who thought he performed for sport, was striving to have his Dad's dream come true; he had sympathized with his classmate, and then his scatter-brained colleague had aroused his indignation by vowing, with a swaggering confidence: "'Oh, just leave it to Hicks!' Remember this, Butch, before I graduate from old Bannister, I shall have won my B in three branches of sport!" Butch had snorted incredulously. To win the football or the baseball B, the gold letter for the former, and the green one for the latter sport, an athlete had to play in three-fourths of the season's games, on the "'Varsity"; to gain the white track letter, one had to win a first place in some event, in a regularly scheduled track meet with another team. And now, Butch's skepticism seemed confirmed, for at the start of his last year at college, Hicks had not annexed a single B, though he bade fair to corral one in the spring in the high-jump. "Heigh-ho!" chuckled Hicks, at length. "Here I am threatening to get gloomy again! Well I'll sure train hard to win my track letter, and that seems all I can do! I'd like to win my three B's, and jeer at Butch, next June, but--_it can't be did_! I shall now twang my trusty banjo, and drive dull care away." Quite forgetful of the football conclave across the corridor, and of Butch Brewster's request for quiet, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. dragged out his beloved banjo, caressed its strings lovingly, and roared: "Fifteen men sat on the dead man's chest-- Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! Drink and the--" "_Hicks_!" Big Butch Brewster crashed across the corridor, both doors being open. "Is this how you maintain a quiet? I'm going to call Thor over and make him sit down on you! Why, you--" "Have mercy!" plead the grinning Hicks. "Honest, Butch, I didn't go to bust up the league--I--I heard you talk about your B's, and I got to thinking that _I_ have but little time to make my Dad happy; see, here's proof--read these letters I was perusing--" Puzzled, Butch scanned the first one, dated back in the May of their Freshman year; Hicks had received it before the class track meet, and, as chronicled, he had heard from his sunny comrade later, how it impelled the splinter youth to try every event, while Bannister believed him to enter them for fun. The letter was post-marked "Pittsburgh, Pa.," and it read: DEAR SON THOMAS: Your last term's report gratified me immensely, and I am proud of your class record, and scholastic achievements. Pitch in, and lead your class, and make your Dad happy. But there is something else of which I want to write, Thomas. As you must know, it has always been a cause of keen regret to me that you have never seemed to care for athletics of any sort; you appear to be too indolent and ease-loving to sacrifice, or to endure the hardships of training. I suppose it is because of my athletic record both at Bannister and at old Yale that I am so eager to see you become a star; in fact, it is my life's most cherished ambition to have you become as famous as your Dad. However, I realize that my fond dream can never come true. Nature has not made you naturally strong and athletic, and what athletic success you may gain, must come from long and hard training and practice. If you can only win your college letter, your B, Thomas, while at Bannister, I shall be fully content. I said nothing when you failed even to try for the teams at your Preparatory School, but I did hope that at Bannister, under good coaches and trainers, you would at least endeavor to win your letter. I must admit that I am disappointed, for you have not even made an earnest effort to find your event. Often, by trying everything, especially in a track meet, a fellow finds his event, and later stars in it. I really believe that if you would start in now to develop yourself by regular, systematic gymnasium work, and if you would only try, in a year or so you could make a Bannister team. Theodore Roosevelt, you know, was a puny, weakly boy, but he built himself up, and became an athlete. If you want to please me, start now and find your event. Attempt all the sports, all the various track and field events, and always build yourself up by exercise in the Gym. And you owe it to your Alma Mater, my son! Even if, after conscientious effort, you fail to win your B, to know that you have given your college and teams what help you could, will please your Dad. Remember, the fellow who toils on the scrubs is the true hero. If you become good enough to give the first eleven, the first nine, the first five, or the first track squad a hard rub and a fast practice, you are serving Bannister. I don't ask you to do this, Thomas, I only say that it will make me happy just to know you are striving. If you never get beyond the scrubs, just to hear you are serving the Gold and Green, giving your best, in that humble unhonored way, will please me. And if, before you graduate, you _can_ win your B, I shall be so glad! Don't get discouraged, it may take until your Senior year, but once you start, _stick_. Your loving DAD. "Read this one, too, Butch," requested Hicks, hurriedly, as a hail of, "Oh, you Hicks, come here!" sounded down the corridor, from Skeet Wigglesworth's abode. "I'll be back as soon as Skeet finishes his foolishness. Don't wait for me, though, if I am delayed, for you want to be talking football." Left alone, big Butch Brewster, who of all the collegians that had known and loved the sunny Hicks, some now graduated, understood that his athletic efforts, jeered good-naturedly by the students, were made because of a great desire to win his B and make happy his Dad, read the second letter, dated a few days before: DEAR SON THOMAS: You are starting the last lap, son, your Senior year, and your final chance to win your B! Don't forget how happy it will make your Dad if you win your letter just once! Of course, you cannot gain it in football, for nature gave you no chance, nor in baseball; but in track work it is up to you. Train hard, Thomas, and try to win a first place; just win your track B, and I'll rest content! Your college record gives me great pleasure. You stand at the top in your studies, and you are vastly popular, while the Faculty speak highly of you. Let your B come as a climax to your career, and I'll be so proud of you. Don't forget, you are the "Class Kid" of Yale, '96, and those sons of old Eli want you to win the letter. As to football, you cannot win your gold B by playing three-fourths of a season's games, but you might get in a big game, even win it, if you'll get confidence enough to tell Coach Corridan about yourself. Don't mind the jeers of your comrades--they just don't know how you've tried to please your Dad; you owe it to your Alma Mater to tell, and, take my word as a football star, you have the goods! Your peculiar prowess has won many a contest, and old Bannister needs it this season, I hear-- There was more, but big Butch scarcely saw it, bewildered as the behemoth Senior was; what new mystery had Hicks set afoot? What did Hicks, Sr., mean by writing, "You might get in a big game, even win it, if you'll get confidence enough to tell Coach Corridan about yourself? You owe it to your Alma Mater to tell, and take my word, as a football star, you have the goods--" Why, everyone knew that T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., possessed no more football ability than a Jersey mosquito, and yet-- "Another Hicks mystery," groaned Butch, holding the two letters thoughtfully. "And father and son are in it, But if Hicks don't get his B, it will be a shame. _Say, I know--_" A few moments later, good-hearted Butch Brewster, in the behalf of his sunny comrade, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was making to the Gold and Green eleven and Coach Corridan, as eloquent a speech as that blithesome youth, two weeks before, had made in defense of the condemned and ostracized Thor! He read them the two letters of Hicks' beloved Dad, and told how the cheery collegian wanted to win his B for his father's sake; graphically, he related Hicks, Sr.'s, great ambition, and how Hicks, Jr., for three years had vainly tried to make good at some athletic sport, and to win his letter. Big Butch, warming to his theme, spoke of how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., letting the students believe that he entered every event in the track meet of his Freshman year just for fun, had been trying to find his event, and train for it; he explained that the festive youth, ever sunny-natured, under the good-humored jeers of his comrades, who did not know his real purpose, really yearned to win his B. "You fellows, and you, Coach," he thundered, "all know how Hicks, unable to make the 'Varsity, has always done humble service for old Bannister, cheerfully, gladly; how he keeps the athletes in good spirits at the training-table, and is always on hand after scrimmage to rub them out. He is chock-full of college spirit, and is intensely loyal to his Alma Mater. Why, look how he rounded up Thor--he ought to have his B for that!" Thanks to Butch's speech, the Gold and Green football stars, most of whom were Hicks' closest friends, saw the scatter-brained, happy-go-lucky youth in a new light; his eloquent defense of John Thorwald had shown old Bannister that he could be serious, but the knowledge that T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., even as he made a ridiculous farce in athletics, was ambitious to win his B, just to make his Dad happy, stunned them. For three years, the sunny Hicks' appearance on old Bannister Field, to try for a team, had meant a small-sized riot of jeers and good-natured ridicule at his expense; but Hicks had always grinned _à la_ Cheshire cat,--and no one but good Butch Brewster, all the time, had known how in earnest the lovable collegian was. "Now," concluded Butch, "Hicks _may_ win a B in track work, if he gets a first place in the high-jump, and if so, O.K., but if he does not--" "You mean--" Monty Merriweather--understood, "if he fails, then the Athletic Association ought to--" "Present him with a B!" said Butch, earnestly, "as a deserved reward for his faithful loyalty and service to old Bannister's athletic teams. Don't let him graduate without gaining his letter, and making his Dad realize a part of his ambition--a two-thirds vote of the Athletic Association can award him his letter, and when all the students know the truth about his ridiculous fiasco on Bannister Field, and realize the serious purpose beneath them all, they--" "_We'll give him his B_!" shouted Beef, loudly, "If he fails in track work next spring, we'll vote him his letter, anyway!" Out in the corridor, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., returning from Skeet Wigglesworth's room and entering his own cozy quarters, could not help hearing the conversation, as the doors of both his den and the room across the corridor were open. A great love for his comrades came to his impulsive heart, and a mist before his eyes, as he heard how they wanted to vote him his B in case he failed to win it in track work; he thrilled at Butch's speech, but-- [Illustration B: 'Fellows,...I--I thank you from the bottom of my heart'] "Fellows," he startled them by appearing in the doorway, "I--I thank you from the bottom of my heart. I couldn't help hearing, you know--I _do_ appreciate your generous thoughts, but--I can't and won't accept my B unless I win it according to the rule of the Athletic Association." A silence, and then Butch Brewster, gripping his comrade's hand understandingly, held out to him the two letters. "Forgive me, old man," he breathed, "for reading them aloud, but I wanted the fellows to know, to appreciate you! And say, Hicks, what does your Dad mean by saying that you are the _'Class Kid'_ of Yale, '96, and that those sons of old Eli want you to win your letter? And what does he mean by saying that you may get in a _big game_--may _win_ it--that you have the goods in football, but lack the confidence to announce it to Coach Corridan? Also that old Bannister needs just the peculiar brand you possess?" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his sunny, Cheshire cat grin illuminating his cherubic countenance, beamed on the eleven and Coach Corridan a moment. "Oh, that's a _mystery_," he said, cheerfully. "If I _do_ gain the courage and confidence, I'll explain, but unless I do--it remains a--_mystery_!" CHAPTER VIII COACH CORRIDAN SURPRISES THE ELEVEN "ALL MEMBERS OF THE FIRST ELEVEN ARE URGENTLY REQUESTED TO BE PRESENT IN THE ROOM OF T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR.--AT EIGHT P. M. TONIGHT; YOU WILL BE DETAINED ONLY A FEW MINUTES, BUT LET EVERY PLAYER COME, AS A MATTER OF EXTREME IMPORTANCE WILL BE PRESENTED. PATRICK HENRY COERIDAN, HEAD-COACH." "Now, what do you suppose is up Coach Corridan's sleeve?" demanded T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., cheerfully. "Has Ballard learned our signals, or some Bannister student sold them to a rival team, as per the usual football story? Though the notice doth not herald it, I am to be present, for my room is to be used, and the Coach gave me a special invitation to cut the Gordian knot with my keen intellect." The sunny Hicks, with Butch, Beef, Tug, and Monty, had just come from "Delmonico's Annex," the college dining-hall, after supper; they had paused before the Bulletin Board at the Gymnasium entrance, where all college notices were posted, and the Coach's urgent request had caught their gaze. The announcement had caused quite a stir on the campus. The Bannister youths stood in excited groups talking of it, and in the dormitories it superseded all thought of study; however, there seemed little chance that any but the "'Varsity" and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who was always consulted in football problems, would know what took place in this meeting. "There is only one way to find out, Hicks," responded big Butch Brewster, his arm across his blithesome comrade's shoulders, "and that is, attend the meeting! You can wager that every member of the eleven will be there, except Thor--he regards it as 'foolishness,' I suppose, and he won't spare that precious time from his studies." At five minutes past eight, Butch's prophecy was fulfilled, for every member of the eleven _was_ in Hicks' cozy room, except Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, whose presence would have caused a mild sensation. It was an extremely quiet and orderly gathering, for Coach Corridan, who had the floor, was so grave that he impressed the would-be sky-larking youths. Having their undivided attention, he proceeded to make a speech that, to all intents and purposes, had much the same effect on the team and Hicks as a Zeppelin's bombs on London: "Boys," he spoke, in forceful sentences, driving straight to the point, "I am going to take the eleven, and Hicks, whose suggestions are always timely, into my confidence, in the hope that we, working together, may carry out an idea of mine for the awakening of Thor to a realization of things! I ask you not to let what I shall tell you be known to the student-body, but you fellows play with Thor every day, and you will understand the crisis, and appreciate _why_ it is done, if I decide it necessary to drop John Thorwald from the football squad." "Drop Thor from the squad!" gasped T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., staggered, and then pandemonium broke loose among the players. Drop the Prodigious Prodigy from the squad, why, what _could_ the Slave-Driver be thinking of? Why, look how Thorwald, on the scrubs, tore through the heavy 'Varsity line for big gains. He was simply unstoppable; and yet, almost on the eve of the big game that old Bannister depended on Thor to win by his splendid prowess, he might be dropped from the squad! Excited exclamations sounded from Captain Butch Brewster, Beef, and the others of the Gold and Green eleven: "Why not give the big games to Ballard and Ham, Coach?" "Say, shoot Theophilus Opperdyke in at full-back!" "Good-by, championship! No hopes now, fellows!" "If Thor doesn't play in the Big Games--good night!" A greater sensation could not have been caused even had kindly white-haired Prexy announced his intention of challenging Jess Willard for the World's Heavy-Weight Championship. Dropping that human battering-ram, Thor, from the football, squad was something utterly undreamed-of. Coach Corridan raised his hand for silence, and the youths subsided. "Hear me carefully, boys," he urged, "I know that old Bannister has come to regard John Thorwald as invincible, to use his vast bulk as a foundation on which to build hopes of the Championship, which is a bad policy, for no team can be a _one-man_ team and win. I realize that as a football player, Thor hasn't an equal in the State today, and if he had the right spirit, he would have few in the country. It would be ridiculous to decry his prowess, for he is a physical phenomenon. But you remember T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, splendid defense of Thor, a week or so ago? Hicks gave you a full and clear explanation of the big fellow, and showed you _why_ he does not know what college spirit is, what loyalty and love for one's Alma Mater mean! His masterly speech changed your attitude toward Thor, and even before he decided to play football, for Mr. Hicks' sake, you admired him, because of his indomitable purpose, his promise to his dying mother. Now _I_ am telling you why he may be dropped from the squad, because I want you fellows to give Thor a square deal, to remember what Hicks told you of him, and to keep on striving to awaken him to the true meaning of campus years, to make him realize that college life is more than a mere buying of knowledge. I want to keep him on the squad, if humanly possible, and I shall outline my plot later. "Tomorrow we play Latham College. It is the last game before the big games for The State Intercollegiate Football Championship. Saturday after this, we play Hamilton, and the following week Ballard, the Champions! The eleven I send in against those teams must be a solid unit, _one_ in spirit and purpose--every member of the Gold and Green team must be welded with his team-mates, and they must forget everything but that their Alma Mater must win the Championship! With no thought of self-glory, no other purpose in playing than a love for old Bannister, every fellow must go into those games to fight for his Alma Mater! Now, as for Thor, I need not tell you that he is not in sympathy with our ambition; he simply does not understand campus tradition and spirit. He is as yet not possessed of an Alma Mater; he plays football only because of gratitude to Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., and he hates to lose the time from his studies for the practice. The football squad knows that his presence is a veritable wet blanket on enthusiasm and the team's fighting spirit." It was true. That intangible shadow of something wrong, brooding over training-table, shower-room, and Bannister Field, that self-evident truth which almost every collegian had for days confessed to himself yet hesitated to voice, had been given definite form by Coach Corridan talking to the eleven. The good that Thorwald might do for the team by his superb prowess and massive bulk was more than offset and nullified by his attitude. To the blond Colossus, daily practice was unutterable mental torture. His mind was on his studies, to which his bulldog purpose shackled him; he begrudged the time spent on Bannister Field; he was stolid, silent, aloof. He scarcely ever spoke, except when addressed. He reported for practice at the last second, went through the scrimmage like a great, dumb, driven ox, doing as he was ordered; and when the squad was dismissed he hurried to his room. He was among the squad, but not of them; he neither understood nor cared about their love for old Bannister, their vast desire to win for their Alma Mater; he played football because he was grateful to Hicks, Sr., for helping him to get started toward his goal, but as Coach Corridan now told the 'Varsity, he killed the squad's enthusiasm, "All of this cannot fail to damage the _esprit de corps_, the _morale_, of the eleven," declared Coach Corridan, having outlined Thor's attitude. "I know that every member of the squad, if Thor played the game because of college spirit, for love of old Bannister, would rejoice at his prowess. But as it is they are justly resentful that he is not in the spirit of the game. What we may gain by his playing, we lose because the others cannot do their best with his example to hurt their fighting spirit. I do not want, nor will I have on my eleven, any player who plays for other reasons than a love for his Alma Mater, be he a Hogan, Brickley, Thorpe, or Mahan. I have waited, hoping Thorwald would be awakened, as Hicks explained, but now I must act. Tomorrow's game with Latham must see Thor awakened, or I must, for the sake of the eleven, drop him from the squad for the rest of the season. "Yet I beg of you, in case the plan I shall propose fails, remember Hicks' appeal! Do not condemn or ostracize John Thorwald in any degree. He has three more seasons of football, so let us keep on trying to make him understand campus life, college tradition. Be his friends, help him all you can, and sooner or later he will awaken. Something may suddenly shock him to a true understanding of what old Bannister means to a fellow. Or perhaps the awakening will be slow, but it must come. And Bannister can win without Thor, don't forget that! We'll make one final effort to awaken Thor, and if it fails, just forget him, boys, so far as football goes, and watch the Gold and Green win that championship." "What is your scheme, Coach?" questioned Captain Butch Brewster, his honest countenance showing how heavily the responsibility of team-leader weighed upon him. "You are right; as Thor is now, he is a handicap to the eleven, but--" "My idea is this," explained the Slave-Driver earnestly. "Select some student to go to Thorwald and try to show him that unless he gets into the game and plays for old Bannister, he will be dropped from the squad. If possible, let the fellow make him understand that, in his case, it will be a shame and a dishonor. Now, Butch, you and Hicks can probably approach Thor, or perhaps you know of someone who--" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, cherubic countenance showed the light of dawning inspiration, and Coach Corridan paused, as the sunny youth exhibited a desire to say something, with him not by any means a phenomenal happening; given the floor, the blithesome youth burst forth excitedly: "Theophilus--Theophilus Opperdyke is the one! He has more influence over Thor than any other student, and the big fellow likes the little boner. Thor will at least listen to Theophilus, which Is more than any of us can gain from him." After the meeting had adjourned, and the last inspection had been made in the other dorms, the Seniors being exempt, several members of the Gold and Green team--Captain Butch, Beef, Pudge, Monty, Roddy, and Bunch, together with little Theophilus Opperdyke, dragged from his studies--foregathered in the cozy room of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; those who had heard the coach's talk were still stunned at the ban likely to be placed on the Brobdingnagian Thor. On the campus outside Creighton Hall, a horde of Bannister youths, incited by Tug Cardiff, who gave them no reason for his act, were making a strenuous effort to awaken the Prodigious Prodigy, evidently depending on noise to achieve that end, for a vast sound-wave rolled up to Hicks' windows--"Rah! Rah! Rah! Thor! Thor! Thor! He's--all--right!" "Listen!" exploded T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., indignantly. "You and I, Theophilus, would give a Rajah's ransom just to hear the fellows whoop it up for us like that, and it has no more effect on that sodden hulk of a Thor than bombarding an English super-dreadnaught with Roman candles! Howsomever, Coach Corridan exploded a shrapnel bomb on old Bannister's eleven tonight." Then Hicks carefully outlined to the dazed little boner the substance of the coach's talk to the team, and Theophilus was alarmed when he thought of Thor's being dropped from the squad. When Captain Butch had outlined the Slave-Driver's plot for striving to awaken the Colossus to a realization of what a disgrace it would be to be sent from the gridiron, though he did not announce that the Human Encyclopedia had been elected to carry out Coach Corridan's last-hope idea, Theophilus sat on the edge of the chair, blinking owlishly at them over his big-rimmed spectacles. "After all, fellows," quavered Theophilus nervously, "Coach Corridan, if he drops Thor from the squad, won't create such a riot on the campus as you might expect. You see, the students, even as they built and planned on Thor, gradually came to know that there is vastly more to be considered than physical power. That great bulk actually acts as a drag on the eleven, because Thor isn't in sympathy with things! Still, if he could only be aroused, awakened, wouldn't the team play football, with him striving for old Bannister, and not because he thinks he ought to play, for Hicks' dad? Oh, I _do_ hope the Coach's plan succeeds, and he awakens tomorrow; I know the boys won't condemn him, if he doesn't, but--I--I want him to understand!" "It's his last chance this season," reflected T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., enshrouded in a penumbra of gloom. "I made a big boast that I would round up a smashing full-back. I returned to Bannister with the Prodigious Prodigy. I made a big mystery of him, and then--biff!--Thor quit football. Then I explained the mystery, and got the fellows to admire him, and when Thor decided to play the game I thought 'All O.K.; I'll just wait until he scatters Hamilton and Ballard over Bannister Field, then I'll swagger before Butch and say, "Oh, I told you just to leave it to Hicks!"' But now Thor has spilled the beans again." "I--I hope that the one you have chosen to appeal to Thor--" spoke Theophilus timorously, "will succeed, for--Oh, I _don't_ want him to be dropped from the squad, and--" Big Butch Brewster, who had been gazing at little Theophilus Opperdyke with a basilisk glare that perturbed the bewildered Human Encyclopedia, suddenly strode across the room and placed his hand on the grind's thin shoulders. "Theophilus, old man, it's up to you!" he said earnestly. "Thor has a strong regard for you; in fact, outside of his good-natured tolerance for Hicks, you alone have his friendship. Now I want you to go to him, Theophilus, and make a last appeal to Thor. Try to awaken him, to make him understand his peril of being dropped from the squad, unless he plays the game for his college! It's for old Bannister, old man, for your Alma Mater--" "Go to it, Theophilus!" urged Beef McNaughton. "Coach Corridan said Thor might be suddenly awakened by a shock, but no electric battery can shock that Colossus, and, besides, miracles don't happen nowadays. Yes, it's up to you, old man." For a moment little Theophilus, his big-rimmed spectacles falling off as fast as he replaced them, and his puny frame tense with excitement, hesitated. Sitting on the extreme edge of the chair, he surveyed his comrades solemnly and was convinced that they were in earnest. Then, "I--I will _try_, sir!" exclaimed Theophilus, who would _never_ forget his Freshman training. "I'm _sure_ Hicks, or somebody, could do It better than I; but--I'll try!" CHAPTER IX THEOPHILUS' MISSIONARY WORK "College ties can ne'er be broken-- Loyal will remain each heart; Though the last farewell be spoken-- And from Bannister we part! "Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail! Echoes softly from each heart; We'll be ever loyal to thee-- Till we from life shall part!" Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous, intensely studious Human Encyclopedia, stood at the window of John Thorwald's study room. That behemoth, desiring quiet, had moved his study-table and chair to a vacant room across the second-floor corridor of Creighton, the Freshman dormitory, when the Bannister youths cheered him, and he was still there, so that Theophilus, on his mission, had finally located him by his low rumblings, as he laboriously read out his Latin. The little Senior was gazing across the brightly lighted Quadrangle. He could see into the rooms of the other class dormitories, where the students studied, skylarked, rough-housed, or conversed on innumerable topics; from a room in Nordyke, the abode of care-free Juniors, a splendidly blended sextette sang songs of their Alma Mater, and their rich voices drifted across the Quad. to Thor and Theophilus: "Though thy halls we leave forever Sadly from the campus turn; Yet our love shall fail thee never For old Bannister we'll yearn! Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!" Theophilus turned from the window, and looked despairingly at that young Colossus, Thor. The behemoth Norwegian, oblivious to everything except the geometry problem now causing him to sweat, rested his massive head on his palms, elbows on the study-table, and was lost in the intricate labyrinth of "Let the line ABC equal the line BVD." The frail chair creaked under his ponderous bulk. On the table lay an unopened letter that had come in the night's mail, for, tackling one problem, the bulldog Hercules never let go his grip until he solved it, and nothing else, not even Theophilus, could secure his attention. Hence the Human Encyclopedia, trembling at the terrific importance of the mission entrusted to him, waited, thrilled by the Juniors' songs, which failed to penetrate Thor's mind. "Oh, what _can_ I do?" breathed Theophilus, sitting down nervously on the edge of a chair and peering owlishly over his big-rimmed spectacles at the stolid John Thorwald. "I am sure that, in time, I can help Thor to--to know campus life better; but--_tomorrow_ is his last chance! He will be dropped from the squad, unless--" As Thor at last leaned back and gazed at his little comrade, just then, to the tune of "My Old Kentucky Home," an augmented chorus drifted across the Quadrangle: "And we'll sing one song For the college that we love-- For our dear old Bannister--good-by" To the Bannister students there was something tremendously queer in the friendship of Theophilus and Thor. That the huge Freshman, of all the collegians, should have chosen the timorous little boner was most puzzling. Yet, to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a keen reader of human nature, it was clear; Thorwald thought of nothing but study, Theophilus was a grind, though he possessed intense college spirit, hence Thor was naturally drawn to the little Senior by the mutual bond of their interest in books, and Theophilus, with his hero-worshiping soul, intensely admired the splendid purpose of John Thorwald, toiling to gain knowledge, because of the promise of his dying mother. The grind, who thought that next to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Thor was the "greatest ever," as Hicks phrased it, had been, doing what that care-free collegian termed "missionary work," with the stolid, unimaginative Prodigious Prodigy for some weeks. Thrilled with the thought that he worked for his Alma Mater, he quietly strove to make Thorwald glimpse the true meaning and purpose of college life and its broadness of development. The loyal Theophilus lost no opportunity of impressing his behemoth friend with the sacred traditions of the campus, or of explaining why Thor was wrong in characterizing all else than study as foolishness and waste of time. "Thor," began Theophilus timidly yet determinedly, for he was serving old Bannister now, "old man, do you feel that you are giving the fellows at Bannister a square deal?" John Thorwald, slowly tearing open the letter that had come that night, and had lain, unnoticed, on the study-table while he wrestled with his geometry, turned suddenly. The Human Encyclopedia's vast earnestness and the strange query he had fired at Thor, surprised even that stolid mammoth. "Why, what do you mean, Theophilus?" spoke Thor slowly. "A square deal? Why, I owe them nothing! I sacrifice my time for them, leaving my studies to go out and waste precious time foolishly on football. Why--" "I mean this," Theophilus kept doggedly on, his earnest desire to stir Thor conquering his natural timidity. "You were brought to old Bannister by Hicks, who made a great mystery of you, so we knew nothing of you; but the fellows all thought you were willing to play football. Then, after they got enthused, and builded hopes of the championship on _you_, came your quitting. Hicks defended you, Thor, and changed the boys' bitter condemnation to vast admiration, by telling of your life, your father's being a castaway, your mother's dying wish, your toil to get learning, and your inability to grasp college life. Then from gratitude to Mr. Hicks you started to play again--naturally, the students waxed enthusiastic, when you ripped the 'Varsity to pieces, but now you may be dropped by the coach, after tomorrow, because you don't play for old Bannister, and your indifference kills the team's fighting spirit. You do not care if you are dropped; it will give you more time to study, and relieve you of your obligation, as you so quixotically view it, to play because Mr. Hicks will be glad; but--think of the fellows. "They, Thor, disappointed in you, their hopes of your bringing by your massive body and huge strength the Championship to old Bannister shattered, are still your friends--they of the eleven, I mean especially, for, as yet, the rest do not know you may be dropped. And the fellows came beneath your window tonight to cheer you; they will do so, Thor, even if you are dropped and they know that you will not use that prodigious power for their Alma Mater in the big games; they will stand by you, for they understand! Just think, old man; haven't the fellows, despite your rude rebuffs, _tried_ to be your comrades? Haven't they helped you to get settled to work and assisted you with your studies? Why, you have been a big boor, cold and aloof, you have upset their hopes of you in football, and yet they have no condemnation for you, naught but warm friendliness. "You are not giving them or yourself a square deal, Thor! You won't even _try_ to understand campus life, to grasp its real purpose, to realize what tradition is! The time will come, Thor, when you will see your mistake; you will yearn for their good fellowship, you will learn that getting knowledge is not all of college life. You will know that this 'silly foolishness' of singing songs and giving the yell, of rooting for the eleven, of loyalty and love for one's Alma Mater, is something worth while. And you may find it out too late. Oh, if you could only understand that it isn't what you take from old Bannister that makes a man of you, it is what you give to your college--in athletics, in your studies, in every phase of campus life; that in toiling and sacrificing for your Alma Mater you grow and develop, and reap a rich reward!" Could T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch Brewster, and the Gold and Green eleven have heard little Theophilus' fervent and eloquent appeal to John Thorwald, they would have felt like giving three cheers for him. They loved this pathetic little boner, who, because of his pitifully frail body, could never fight for old Bannister on gridiron, diamond, or track, and they tremendously admired him for working for his college and for the redemption of Thor. Timorous and shrinking by nature, whenever his Alma Mater, or a friend, needed him the Human Encyclopedia fought down his painful timidity and came up to scratch nobly. It was Theophilus whose clear logic had vastly aided T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., to originate The Big Brotherhood of Bannister, in 1919's Sophomore year, and quell Roddy Perkins' Freshman Equal Rights campaign. In fact, it had been the boner's suggestion that gave Hicks his needed inspiration. And, a Junior, Theophilus had been elected business manager of the _Bannister Weekly_, with Hicks as editor-in-chief as a colossal joke. The entire burden of that almost defunct periodical had been thrust on those two, and, thanks to the grind's intensely humorous "copy," the _Weekly_ had been revived and rebuilt. And Theophilus, in writing the humorous articles, had been moved by a great ambition to do something for old Bannister. "Look at me, Thor!" continued Theophilus Opperdyke, his puny body dwarfed as he faced the colossal Prodigious Prodigy. "A poor, weak, helpless nothing! I'd cheerfully sacrifice all the scholastic honor or glory I ever won, or shall win, just to make a touchdown for the Gold and Green, just to win a baseball game, or to break the tape in a race for old Bannister! And you--_you_, with that tremendous body, that massive bulk, that vast strength--you won't play the game for your Alma Mater, you won't throw that big frame into the scrimmage, thrilled with a desire to win for your college! Oh, what wonderful things you _could_ do with your powerful build; but it means nothing to you, while _I--_ Oh, you don't care, you just won't awaken; and, unless you do, in tomorrow's game you'll be dropped from the squad, a disgrace." John Thorwald-Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, that Gargantuan Freshman of whom Bannister said he possessed no soul--stirred uneasily, shifted his vast tonnage from one foot to the other, and stared at little Theophilus Opperdyke. That solemn Senior, who had not seen the slightest effect his "Missionary Work" was having on the stolid Thor, was in despair; but he did not know the truth. As Hicks had once said, "You don't know nothing what goes on in Thor's dome. There's a wall of solid concrete around the machinery of his mind, and you can't see the wheels, belts, and cogs at work!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with all his keen insight into human nature, had failed utterly to diagnose Thor's case, had not even stumbled on the true cause of that young giant's aloofness. The truth was unknown to anyone, but there was one natural reason for John Thorwald's not mingling with his fellows of the campus-the blond Colossus was inordinately bashful! From his fifteenth year, Thor had seen the seamy side of life, had lived, grown and developed among men. In his wanderings in the Klondike, the wild Northwest, in Panama, his experiences as cabin-boy, miner, cowboy, lumber-jack, and Canal Zone worker, he had existed where everything was roughness and violence, where brawn, not brain, usually held sway, where supremacy was won, kept, and lost by fists, spiked boots, or guns! In his adventurous career, young Thorwald had but seldom encountered the finer things of life, and his nature, while wholesome, was sturdy and virile, not likely to be stirred by sentiment; so that now, among the good-natured, friendly boys of old Bannister, he, accustomed to rude surroundings and rough acquaintances, was bashful. And Theophilus, as well as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., shot far wide of the mark in believing that the big Hercules had no power to feel; he possessed that power, but, with it the ability to conceal his feelings. They thought nothing appealed to him, had stirred his soul, at college, but they were wrong; true, Thor was unable to understand this new, strange life; he was puzzled when the collegians condemned and ostracized him at first, when he quit football because it was not a Faculty rule to play, but he was grateful when Hicks defended him, and the admiration of the student-body was welcome to him. He had thought he was doing all they desired of him, when he went back to the game, and now--when Theophilus told him that he might be dropped from the squad, he was bewildered. He could not understand just why this could be, when he was reporting for scrimmage every day! But the friendliness of the youths, their kind help with his studies, the assistance of the genial Hicks, and, more than all, above even the admiration of the Freshmen for his promise and purpose, the daily missionary work of little Theophilus, for whom the massive Thor felt a real love, had been slowly, insidiously undermining John Thorwald's reserve. No longer did he condemn what he did not understand. At times he had a vague feeling that all was not right, that, after all, he was missing something, that study was not all; and yet, bashful as he was, fearing to appear rough, crude, and uncouth among these skylarking youths, Thor kept on his silent, lonely way, and they thought him untouched by their overtures. Of late, when unobserved, the big Freshman had stood by the window, watching the collegians on the campus, listening to their songs of old Bannister, and yet because he felt embarrassed when with them, he gave no sign that he cared. Now, however, the splendid appeal of loyal, timorous Theophilus stirred Thor, and yet he could not break down the wall of reserve he had builded around himself. He had deluded himself that this comradeship was not for him, that he could never mingle with these happy-go-lucky youths, that he must plod straight ahead, and live to himself, because his past had roughened him. "You are a Freshman!" spoke Theophilus, unaware that forces were at work on Thor, and making a last effort. "You stand on the very threshold of your campus years; everything is before you. I am at the journey's end--very nearly, for in June I graduate from old Bannister. I never had the chance to fight for my Alma Mater on the athletic field, and you--Oh, think of what you can do! About to leave the campus, I, and my class-mates, realize how dear our college has become to us. If _you_ could just know that Bannister means something to you, even now, if you only felt it, you could make your years mean great things to you. Thor, could you leave old Bannister tomorrow without regret, without one sigh for the dear old place? We, who soon shall leave it forever, fully understand Shakespeare, when in a sonnet he wrote: "This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong-- To love that well which thou must leave ere long!" There was a silence, and then Thor slowly drew out a letter from its envelope, scanning the scrawl across its pages. A few moments, while its meaning seemed to seep into his slow-acting mind, and then a look of helpless bewilderment, as though the stolid Freshman just could not understand at all, came to his face; a minute John Thorwald stood, as in a trance, staring dully at the letter. "Thor! Thor! What's the matter? What's wrong?" quavered the alarmed Theophilus, "Have you gotten bad news?" "Read it, read it," said the big Freshman lifelessly, extending the letter to the startled Senior. "It's all over, I suppose, and I've got to go to work again. I've got to leave college, and toil once more, and save. My promise to my mother can't be fulfilled--yet. And just as I was getting fairly started." Theophilus Opperdyke hurriedly perused the message, which had come to Thor in that night's mail but which the blond giant had let lie unnoticed while he tackled his geometry. With difficulty Theophilus deciphered the scrawl on an official letterhead: THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANA STEAMSHIP LINE (New York Offices) Nov. 4, 19--. DEAR SON: I am writing to tell you that I've run into a sort of hurricane, and you and I have got a hard blow to weather. I started you at college on the $5,000 received from the heirs of Henry B. Kingsley, on whose yacht, as you know, I was wrecked in the South Seas, and marooned for ten years. I figured on giving you an education with that sum, eked out by my wages, and what you earn in vacations. I had the $5,000, untouched, in a New York bank, and I wanted to take it over to Christiania; when I was about to sail on my last voyage, I drew out the sum, and put it in care of the Purser of the _Norwhal_, on which I was mate, intending, of course, to get it on docking, and deposit it in Christiania. At the last hour I was transferred to the _Valkyrie_, to sail a few days later, and I knew the _Norwhal's_ purser would leave the $5,000 for me in the Company's Christiania offices, so I did not bother to transfer it to the _Valkyrie_. Perhaps you read in the newspapers that the _Norwhal_ struck a floating mine, and went down with a heavy loss of life. The Purser was among those lost, and none of the ship's papers were saved; my $5,000, of course, went down also. I am sorry, John, but there seems nothing to do but for you to leave college and work. For your mother's sake, I wish we could avoid it; but we must wait and work and tackle it again. Your first term expenses are paid, so stay until the term is out. Perhaps Mr. Hicks can give you a job in one of his steel mills again, but we must work our own way, son. Don't lose courage, we'll fight this out together with the memory of your promise to your dying mother to spur you on. The road may be long and rocky but we'll make it. Just work and save, and in a year or two you can start at college again. You can study at night, too, and keep on learning. I'll write later. Stay at college till the term is up, and in the meantime try to land a job. However, you won't have any trouble to do that. Keep your nerve, boy, for your mother's sake. It's a hard blow, but we'll weather it, never fear, and reach port. Your father, JOHN THORWALD, SR. P.S. I am sailing on the _Valkyrie_ today, will write you on my return to New York, in a few weeks. Theophilus looked at the massive young Norwegian, who had taken this solar-plexus blow with that same stolid apathy that characterized his every action. He wanted to offer sympathy, but he knew not how to reach Thor. He fully understood how terrific the blow was, how it must stagger the big, earnest Freshman, just as he, after ten years of grinding toil, of sacrifice, of grim, unrelenting determination, had conquered obstacles and fought to where he had a clear track ahead. Just as it seemed that fate had given him a fair chance, with his father rescued and five thousand dollars to give him a college course, this terrible misfortune had befallen him. Theophilus realized what it must mean to this huge, silent Hercules, just making good his promise to his dying mother, to give up his studies, and go back to work, toil, labor, to begin all over again, to put off his college years. "Leave me, please," said Thor dully, apparently as unmoved by the blow as he had been by Theophilus' appeal. "I--I would like to be alone, for awhile." Left alone, John Thorwald stood by the window, apparently not thinking of anything in particular, as he gazed across the brightly lighted Quad. The huge Freshman seemed in a daze--utterly unable to comprehend the disaster that had befallen him; he was as stolid and impassive as ever, and Theophilus might have thought that he did not care, even at having to give up his college course, had not the Senior known better. Across the Quadrangle, from the room of the Caruso-like Juniors, accompanied by a melodious banjo-twanging, drifted: "Though thy halls we leave forever Sadly from the campus turn; Yet our love shall fail thee never For old Bannister we'll yearn! "'Bannister, Bannister, hail, all hail!' Echoes softly from each heart; We'll be ever loyal to thee Till we from life shall part." Strangely enough, the behemoth Thorwald was not thinking so much of having to give up his studies, of having to lay aside his books and take up again the implements of toil. He was not pondering on the cruelty of fate in making him abandon, at least temporarily, his goal; instead, his thoughts turned, somehow, to his experiences at old Bannister, to the football scrimmages, the noisy sessions in "Delmonico's Annex," the college dining-hall, to the skylarking he had often watched in the dormitories. He thought, too, of the happy, care-free youths, remembering Hicks, good Butch Brewster, loyal little Theophilus; and as he reflected, he heard those Juniors, over the way, singing. Just now they were chanting that exquisitely beautiful Hawaiian melody, "Aloha Oe," or "Farewell to Thee," making the words tell of parting from their Alma Mater. There was something in the refrain that seemed to break down Thor's wall of reserve, to melt away his aloofness, and he caught himself listening eagerly as they sang. Somehow he felt no desire to condemn those care-free youths, to call their singing silly foolishness, to say they were wasting their time and their fathers' money. Queer, but he actually liked to hear them sing, he realized he had come to listen for their saengerfests. Now that he had to leave college, for the first time he began to ponder on what he must leave. Not alone books and study, but-- As he stood there, an ache in his throat, and an awful sorrow overwhelming him, with the richly blended voices of the happy Juniors drifting across to him, chanting a song of old Ballard, big Thor murmured softly: "What did little Theophilus say? What was it Shakespeare wrote? Oh, I have it: "'This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong-- To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.'" CHAPTER X THOR'S AWAKENING "There's a hole in the bottom of the sea, And we'll put Bannister in that hole! In that hole--in--that--hole-- Oh, we'll put Bannister in that hole!" "In the famous words of the late Mike Murphy," said T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., "the celebrated Yale and Penn track trainer, 'you can beat a team that can't be beat, but--you can't beat a team that won't be beat!' Latham must be in the latter class." It was the Bannister-Latham game, and the first half had just ended. Captain Butch Brewster's followers had trailed dejectedly from Bannister Field to the Gym, where Head Coach Corridan was flaying them with a tongue as keen as the two-edged sword that drove Adam and Eve from the Garden of Eden. A cold, bleak November afternoon, a leaden sky lowered overhead, and a chill wind swept athwart the field; in the concrete stands, the loyal "rooters" of the Gold and Green, or of the Gold and Blue, shivered, stamped, and swung their arms, waiting for the excitement of the scrimmage again to warm them. Yet, the Bannister cohorts seemed silent and discouraged, while the Latham supporters went wild, singing, cheering, howling. A look at the score-board explained this: END OF FIRST HALF: SCORE: Bannister ........ 0 Latham ........... 3 The statement of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swathed in a gold and green blanket and humped on the Bannister bench, to shivering little Theophilus Opperdyke, the Phillyloo Bird, Shad Weatherby, and several more collegians who had joined him when the half ended, was singularly appropriate. In Latham's light, fast eleven, trained to the minute, coached to a shifty, tricky style of play with numberless deceptive fakes from which they worked the forward pass successfully, Bannister seemed to have encountered, as Mike Murphy phrased it, "A team that won't be beat!" According to the advance dope of the sporting writers, who, in football, are usually as good prophets as the Weather Bureau, Bannister was booked to come out the winner by at least five touchdowns to none. But here a half was gone, and Latham led by three points, scored on a rather lucky field-goal! The psychology of football is inexplicable. Yale, beaten by Virginia, Brown, and Wash-Jeff, with the Blue's best gridiron star ineligible to play, a team that seemed at odds with itself and the 'Varsity, mismanaged, poorly coached, journeys to Princeton to battle with old Nassau; the Tiger, Its tail as yet untwisted, presents its best eleven for several seasons, a great favorite in the odds, and yet the final score is Yale, 14; Princeton, 7! A strange fear of the Bulldog, bred of many bitter defeats, of similar occasions when a feeble Yale team aroused itself and trampled an invincible Orange and Black eleven, when the Blue fought old Nassau with a team that "wouldn't" be beat, gave victory to the poorer aggregation. So many things unforeseen often enter into a football contest, shifting the balance of power from the stronger to the weaker team. One eleven gets the jump on the other, the favorite weirdly goes to pieces--team dissension may exist, a dozen other causes--but, boiled down, Mike Murphy's statement was most appropriate now. Latham simply _would not_ be beat! The sporting pages had said: "Latham simply can't beat Bannister!" Here the team, that could not be beaten was being defeated, and the team that would not be defeated was, so far, the victor. Perhaps the threatened dropping of Thor from the Gold and Green squad shook somewhat Captain Butch's players; more likely, the Latham aggregation got the jump on Bannister, opening up a bewildering attack of criss-crosses, line plunges, cross-bucks, and tandems, from all of which the forward pass frequently developed; they literally overwhelmed a supposedly unbeatable team. And once they got the edge, it was hard for Bannister to regain poise and to smother the fast plays that swept through or around the bewildered eleven. "We have _got_ to beat 'em!" growled Shad, "Mike Murphy or not. Why, if little old Latham cleans us up, smash go our chances of the State Championship! Oh, look at Thor--the big mountain of muscle. Why doesn't he wake up, and go push that team off the field?" Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, his vast hulk unprotected from the cold wind by a football blanket, squatted on the ground, on the side-line, apparently in a trance. Ever since the night before, when his father's letter had dealt such a knock-out blow to his hopes of fulfilling the promise to his dying mother, had rudely side-tracked him from the climb to his goal, the blond giant had maintained that dumb apathy. If anything, it seemed that the cruel blow of fate had only served to make Thor more stolid and impassive than ever, and Theophilus wondered if the Colossus had really grasped the import of the tragic letter as yet. The news had spread over the college and campus, and the students were sincerely sorry for Thor. But to offer him sympathy was about as difficult as consoling a Polar bear with the toothache. Coach Corridan, carrying out his plot, had decided not to start Thor in the first half of the game. So the Norwegian Hercules, having received no orders to the contrary, however, donned togs and appeared on the side-line, where he had sat, paying not the slightest heed to the scrimmage and seemingly unaware that the Gold and Green was facing defeat and the loss of the Championship, for a game lost would put the team out of the running. All big John Thorwald knew was, in a few weeks he must leave old Bannister, must give up, for a time, his college course. Just when the grim battle was won, he must leave, to work. Not that the Viking cared about toil. It was the delay that chafed even his stolid self. He was stunned at having to wait, maybe two years, before starting again. And yet, as he squatted on the side-line, oblivious to everything but his bitter reflections, the Theophilus-quoted words of Shakespeare persisted in intruding on his thoughts: "This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong-- To love that well, which thou must leave ere long." Try as he would, he could not fight away the keen realization that books and study were not all he would regret to leave. He was forced to acknowledge that his mind kept wandering to other things. He found himself pondering on the parting with Theophilus Opperdyke, with that crazy Hicks; he wondered if he, out in the world again, toiling his lonely way, would miss the glad fellowship of these care-free youths that he had watched, but never shared, if he would ever think of the weeks at old Bannister. Somehow, he felt that he would often vision the Quad at night, brightly lighted, dormitories' lights agleam, students crossing and recrossing, shouting at studious comrades. He would hear again the melodious banjo-twanging, the gleeful saengerfests, the happy skylarking of the boys. He had never entered into all this, and yet he knew he would miss it all; why, he would even miss the daily scrimmage on Bannister Field; the noisy shower-room, with its clouds of steam, and white forms flitting ghostlike. He would miss the classrooms; in brief, _everything_! John Thorwald was awakening! Even had this blow not befallen him, the huge, slow-minded Norwegian, in time, with Theophilus Opperdyke's missionary work, would have gradually come to understand things better--at least, to know he was wrong in his ideas, which is the beginning of wisdom. Already, he had ceased to condemn all this as foolishness, to rail at the youths for wasting time and money. Already something stirred within him, and yet, stolid as he was, bashful among the collegians, he was apparently the same. But the sudden shock Head Coach Corridan spoke of had come. His father's letter telling of his loss and that Thor must leave Bannister had awakened him to the startling knowledge that he did care for something more than study, that all the things that had puzzled him, that he had sneered at, meant something to his existence, that he dreaded leaving other things than his books. "I--I don't understand things," thought Thorwald. "But--if I could only stay, I'd want to learn. I'd try to get this 'college' spirit! Oh, I've been all wrong, but if I could only stay--" As if in answer to his unspoken thought, the big Freshman beheld marching toward him Theophilus Opperdyke, his spectacles off, and his face aglow, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., evidently in the throes of emotional insanity; a Senior whom he knew as Parson Palmetter; Registrar Worthington, and Doctor Alford, the kindly, beloved Prexy of old Bannister. The last named placed his hand on the puzzled behemoth's ponderous shoulder. "Thorwald," he said kindly, "Hicks, Opperdyke and Brewster, last night, came to my study and acquainted me with your misfortune. They told me of your life-history, of your splendid purpose to gain knowledge, to make something of yourself, for your dying mother's sake. Old Bannister needs men like you, Thorwald. Perhaps you do not understand campus ways and tradition yet, perhaps you are not in sympathy with everything here; but once a love for your Alma Mater is awakened, you will be a power for good for your college. "Now I at once took up the matter with Mr. Palmetter, President of The Students' Aid Bureau. This year, for the first time in our history, we have dispensed with janitors and sweeps in the dormitories, and with dining-hall waiters, so that needy and deserving students may work their way through Bannister. Owing to the fact that Mr. Deane, a Senior, has given up his dormitory, Creighton Hall, as he has funds for the year and needs the time to study, we can offer you board and tuition, in exchange for your work in the dormitory, and waiting on tables in the dining-hall. Since your first term bills, until January first, are paid, if you will start to work at once, we will credit any work done this term on books and incidentals for next term. By this means--" "Why, you don't--you _can't_ mean--" rumbled Thor, who had just dimly grasped the greatest point in Prexy's speech. "Why, then I won't have to leave Bannister--I won't have to quit my studies! Oh, thank you, sir; thank you! I will work _so_ hard. I am not afraid of work; I love it--a chance to toil and earn my education, that's what I want! Thank you!" "And in addition," said the Registrar, "Mr. Palmetter reports that he can secure you, downtown, a number of furnaces to tend this winter, which you can do early in the morning and at night; this will bring you an income for living expenses, and in the spring something else will offer itself. It means every moment of your time will be crowded, but Bannister needs workers--" Something stirred in John Thorwald. His heart had been touched at last. He thought of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., Butch, and little Theophilus worried at his having to leave college, going to Doctor Alford; of Prexy, the Registrar, and Parson Palmetter, working to keep Thor at old Bannister. He recalled how sympathetic all the youths had been, how they admired his purpose and determination; and he had rewarded their friendliness with cold aloofness. He felt a thrill as he visioned himself working for his education, rising in the cold dawn, tending furnaces, working in the dorm., waiting on tables--studying. With what fierce joy he would assail his tasks, glad that he could stay! He knew the students would rejoice, that they would not look down on him; instead, they would respect and admire him, toiling to grow and develop, to attain his goal! "Go to it, Thor!" urged T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "We all want you to stay, old man; we'll give you a lift with your studies. Old Bannister _wants_ you, _needs_ you, so _stick_!" "Stay, please!" quavered little Theophilus. "You don't want to leave your Alma Mater; stay, Thorwald, and--you'll understand things soon," "Report at the Registrar's office at seven tonight, Thorwald," said Prexy, and then, because he understood boys and campus problems, "and to show your gratitude, you might go out there and spank that team which is trying to lick old Bannister." John Thorwald, when Doctor Alford and the Registrar had gone, arose and stood gazing across Bannister Field. He saw not the white-lined gridiron, the gaunt goal-posts, the concrete stands filled with spectators, or the gay banners and pennants. He saw the buildings and campus of old Bannister, the stately old elms bordering the walks; he beheld the Gym., the four dormitories--Bannister, Nordyke, Smithson, and Creighton--the white Chapel, the ivy-covered Library, the Administration and Recitation Halls; he glimpsed the Memorial Arch over the entrance driveway, and big Alumni Hall. All at once, like an inundating wave, the great realization flashed on Thor that he did not have to leave it all! Often again would he hear the skylarking youths, the gay songs, the banjo-strumming; often would he see the brightly lighted Quad., would gaze out on the campus! It was still his--the work, the study, and, if he tried, even the glad comradeship of the fellows, the bigger things of college life, which as yet he did not understand. The big slow-minded youth could not awaken, at once, to a full knowledge and understanding of campus life and tradition, to a knowledge of college spirit; but, thanks to the belief that he had to leave it all, he had awakened to the startling fact that already he loved old Bannister. And now, joyous that he could stay, John Thorwald suddenly felt a strong desire to do something, not for himself, but for these splendid fellows who had worried for his sake, had worked to keep him at college. And just then he remembered the somewhat unclassical, yet well meant, words of dear old Doctor Alford, "And to show your gratitude, you might go out there and spank that team, which is trying to lick old Bannister." John Thorwald for the first time looked at the score-board; he saw, in big white letters: BANNISTER .......... 0 LATHAM ............. 3 From the Gym. the Gold and Green players--grim, determined, and yet worried by the team that "won't be beat!"--were jogging, followed by Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan. The Latham eleven was on the field, the Gold and Blue rooters rioted in the stands. From the Bannister cohorts came a thunderous appeal: "Hold 'em, boys--hold 'em, boys--hold--hold--_hold_! Don't let 'em beat the Green and the Gold!" A sudden fury swayed the Prodigious Prodigy; it was his college, his eleven, and those Blue and Gold youths were actually beating old Bannister! The Bannister boys had admired him, some of them had helped him in his studies, three had told Doctor Alford of him, had made it possible for him to stay, to keep on toward his goal. _They_ would be sorrow-stricken if Latham won! A feeling of indignation came to Thor. How dare those fellows think they could beat old Bannister! Why, _he_ would go out there and show them a few things! Head Coach Corridan, let it be chronicled, was paralyzed when he ducked under the side-line rope--stretched to hold the spectators back--to collide with an immovable body, John Thorwald, and to behold an eager light on that behemoth's stolid face. Grasping the Slave-Driver in a grip that hurt, Thor boomed: "Mr. Corridan, let me play, _please_! Send me out this half. We can win. We've _got_ to win! I want to do something for old Bannister. Why, if we lose today, we lose the Championship! I don't understand things yet, but I do love the college. I want to fight for Bannister. _Please_ let me play!" The astonished coach and the equally dazed Gold and Green eleven, with the bewildered collegians who heard Thor's earnest appeal, were silent a few moments, unable to grasp the truth. Then Captain Brewster, his face aglow, seized the big Freshman's arm excitedly. "_Sure_ you'll play, Thor!" he shouted. "Fullback, old man! Come on, team. Thor's awake! He wants to fight for his Alma Mater; he wants Bannister to win! Oh, watch us shove Latham off the field--everybody together now--the yell, for Thor!" "Right here," grinned an excitedly happy T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., when the yell was given, "is where a team that won't be beat gets licked by a chap what can lick 'em!" What took place when the blond Prodigious Prodigy lumbered on Bannister Field at the start of the last half of the Bannister-Latham game can be imagined by the final score-board figures: BANNISTER ......... 27 LATHAM ............. 3 It can best be described with the aid of Scoop Sawyer's account in the next _Bannister Weekly:_ --At the start of the second half, however, the Latham cohorts were given a shock when they beheld a colossal being almost as big as the entire Gold and Blue eleven, go in at fullback for Bannister. And the Latham eleven received a series of shocks when Thor began intruding that massive body of his into their territory. Tennyson's saying, "The old order changeth, yielding place to new" was aptly illustrated in the second half; for Bannister's bugler quit sounding "Retreat!" and blew "Charge!" Four touchdowns and three goals from touchdowns, in one half, is usually considered a fair day's work for an entire team. Even Yale or Harvard; but when one player corrals four touchdowns in a half--he is going some! Well, Thor went some! Most of the half he furnished free transportation for two-thirds of the Latham team, carrying them on his back, legs, and neck, as he strode down the field; a writ of habeas corpus could not have stopped the blond Colossus. Anyone would have stood more show to stop an Alpine avalanche than to slow up Thor, and the stretcher was constantly in evidence, for Latham knockouts. [Illustration C: 'A writ of habeas corpus could not have stopped the blond Colossus'] The game turned into a Thor's Personally Conducted Tour. Thorwald, escorted by the Gold and Green team, made four quick tours to the Latham goal-line. It was simply a matter of giving the ball to the Prodigious Prodigy, then waving the linesmen to move down twenty yards or more toward Latham's line. Thor was simply unstoppable, and more beneficial even than his phenomenal playing was his encouragement to the team. He kept urging them to action, his foghorn growl of, "Come on, boys!" was a slogan of victory! Judging by Thor's awakening, and his work of the Latham game, Bannister's hopes of The State Intercollegiate Football Championship are as roseate as the blush on a maiden's cheek at her first kiss, and-- That night, in the cozy room of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., John Thorwald, supremely happy yet withal as uncomfortable as a whale on the Sahara Desert, overflowed an easy-chair. The room was filled, or what space Thor left, with the Bannister eleven, second-team players, Coach Corridan, and several students; on the campus a riotous crowd of Bannister youths "raised merry Heck," as Hicks phrased it, and their cheer floated up to the windows: "Rah! Rah! Rah! Thor! Thor! Thor! He's--all--right!" "Come, fellows," spoke T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "Let's sing to the captain, good old Butch! Let 'er go!" "Here's to good Butch Brewster! Drink it down! Here's to good Butch Brewster! Drink It down! Here's to good Butch Brewster-- He plays football like he _uster--_ Drink it down! Drink it down--down--down--down!" A strange sound startled the joyous youths; it was a rumbling noise, like distant thunder, and at first they could not place it. Then, as It continued, they located the disturbance as coming from the prodigious body of Thor, and at last the wonderful phenomenon dawned on them. "Thor is singing college songs!" quavered little Theophilus Opperdyke, so happy that his big-rimmed spectacles rode the end of his nose. "Oh, Hicks--Butch--Thor is awake at last! He is trying to get college spirit, to understand campus life--" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., suddenly realized that what he had so ardently longed for had come to pass; aided by Theophilus' missionary work and by the sudden shock of Thorwald, Sr.'s, letter. Thor was awakened, had come to know that he loved old Bannister. His awakening, as shown in the football game, had been splendid. How he had towered over the scrimmage, in every play, urging his team to fight, himself doing prodigies for old Bannister. Thor, who had been so silent and aloof! Then the sunny-souled youth remembered. "Oh, I told you I'd awaken Thor, Butch!" he began, but that behemoth quelled him with an ominous look. "_You_!" he growled, with pretended wrath, "_you_! It was Theophilus Opperdyke who did the most of it, and Thorwald's father did the rest! Don't you rob Theophilus of his glory, you feeble-imitation-of-some-thing-human!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinned _à la_ Cheshire cat. The happy-go-lucky Senior was vastly glad that Thor had awakened, that now he would try to grasp the real meaning of college existence. He felt that the young Hercules, from now on, would slowly and surely develop to a splendid college man, that he would do big things for his Alma Mater. And the generous Hicks gave Theophilus all the credit, and impressed on that happy Human Encyclopedia the fact that he had done a great deed for old Bannister. Just so, Thor was awakened. "Oh, I say, Deke Radford, Coach, and Butch," Hicks chortled, getting the attention of that triumvirate as well as that of the others in the room, "remember up in Camp Bannister, in the sleep-shack, when Coach Corridan outlined a smashing full-back he wanted?" "Sure!" smiled Deke. "What of it, Hicks?" Then T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., that care-free, lovable, irrepressible youth, whose chance to swagger before this same trio had been postponed so long and seemingly lost forever, satiated his fun-loving soul and reaped his reward. Calling their attention to Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy, and asking them to remember his playing against Latham that day, the sunny Senior strutted before them vaingloriously. "Oh, I told you just to leave it to Hicks!" he declared, grinning happily. "I promised to round up an unstoppable fullback, a Gargantuan Hercules, and I did! Just think of what he will do to Hamilton and Ballard in the big games! As I have often told you, _always_--leave It to Hicks!" CHAPTER XI "ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL" "Oh, what we'll do to Ballard Will surely be a shame! We'll push their team clear off the field And win the football game!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one night three days after the first big game, that with Hamilton, a week following Thor's great awakening in the Latham game, sat in his cozy room, having assumed his favorite position--chair tilted back at a perilous angle and feet thrust atop of the radiator. The versatile youth, having just composed a song with which to encourage Bannister elevens in the future, was reading it aloud, when his mind was torpedoed by a most startling thought. "Land o' Goshen!" reflected the sunny-souled Senior, aghast. "I haven't twanged my ole banjo and held forth with a saengerfest for a coon's age! I surely can do so now without arousing Butch to wrath. Thor has awakened, Hamilton is walloped, and Bannister will surely win the Championship! Everything is happy, an' de goose hangs high, so here goes!" Holding his banjo _à la_ troubadour, the blithesome Hicks, who as a Senior was harassed by no study-hours or inspections, strode from his room and out into the corridor, up and down which he majestically paced, like a sentinel on his beat, twanging his beloved banjo with abandon, and roaring in his foghorn, subterranean voice: "Oh, the way we walloped Hamilton Surely was a shame! And we're going to win the Championship-- For we'll do Ballard the same! "And Bannister shall flaunt the flag For at least three seasons more; Because--no team can win a game While the Gold and Green has Thor!" On Bannister Field, three days before, the Gold and Green had crushed the strong team from "old Ham" to the tune of 20 to 0; Thor's magnificent ground-gaining, in which he smashed through the supposedly impregnable defense of the enemy, was a surprise to his comrades and a shock to Hamilton. Time and again, on the fourth down, the ball was given to Thorwald, and the blond Colossus, with several of old Ham's players clinging to him, plunged ahead for big gains. So now with a monster mass-meeting in half an hour, the exultant Bannister youths pretended to study, but prepared to parade on the campus, cheer the eleven and Thor, and arouse excitement for the winning of the biggest game, a victory over Ballard, a week later. From the rooms of would-be studious Seniors on both sides of the corridor, as Hicks patrolled it, came vociferous protests and classic criticisms, gathering in force and volume as the breezy youth's foghorn voice roared his song; that heedless collegian grinned as he heard: "R-r-rotten! Give that Jersey calf more rope!" "Hicks has had a relapse! _Sing-Sing_ for yours, old man!" "Arrest Hicks, under the Public Nuisance Act!" "_Woof! Woof_! Shoot it quick! Don't let it suffer!" Just as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., strumming the banjo blithely and Carusoing with glee, reached the end of the corridor and executed a brisk 'bout-face, he heard a terrific commotion on the stairway, and, a moment later, Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Deacon Radford and Monty Merriweather gained the top of the stairs. As they were now between the offending Hicks and his quarters, there seemed no chance for the sunny Senior to play his safety-first policy; so he waited, panic-stricken, as Butch and Beef lumbered heavily down the corridor. "Help! Aid! Succor! Relief! Assistance!" shrieked Hicks, leaning his beloved banjo against the wall and throwing himself into what he fatuously believed was an intensely pugilistic pose. "I am a believer in preparedness. You have me cornered, so beware! I am a follower of Henry Ford, but even _I_ will fight--at bay!" "Well, you are at _sea_ now!" growled Beef, tucking the splinter youth under one arm and striding down the corridor, followed by Butch with the banjo, and Monty with Deacon. "You desperado, you destroyer of peace and quietude, you one-cylinder gadabout! You're off again! We'll instruct you to annoy real students, you faint shadow of something human!" "Them's harsh sentences, Beef!" chuckled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as that behemoth kicked open Hicks' door, bore the futilely squirming, kicking youth into the room, and hurled him on the davenport. "Watch my banjo, there, Butch; have a couple of cares! Say, what'smatter wid youse guys, anyhow? This is my first saengerfest for eons. Old Bannister has a clear track ahead at last, the Championship is won for _sure_, and Thor, that mighty engine of destruction to Ham's and Ballard's hopes, after much tinkering, is hitting on all twelve cylinders. Why, I prithee, deny me the pleasure of a little joyous song?" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., since the memorable Latham game, when Thor had awakened between halves, and the Prodigious Prodigy had shown himself worthy of his title by winning the game after defeat leered at old Bannister, had suffered a relapse, and was again his old sunny, heedless, happy-go-lucky self. Now that John Thorwald had been startled into realizing that he loved his college and had been saved from having to leave, now that he played football for his Alma Mater, and Bannister's hopes of the Championship were roseate, the blithesome Hicks had abandoned himself to a golden existence of Beefsteak Busts downtown at Jerry's, entertaining jolly comrades in his cozy room, and pestering the campus with his banjo and ridiculous imitations of Sheerluck Holmes, the Dachshund Detective. Big Butch Brewster, lecturing him for his care-free ways, as futilely as he had done for three years past, gave up in despair. "I might as well be showing moving-pictures to the inmates of a blind asylum," he growled on one occasion, "as to persuade you to quit acting like a lunatic! You, a Senior--acting like an escaped inhabitant of Matteawan! Bah!" Big Butch Brewster, drawing a chair up to the davenport, assumed the manner of a physician toward a recalcitrant patient, while Beef carefully stowed the banjo in the closet and Deacon Radford, an interested spectator, sat on the bed. The happy-go-lucky Hicks, at a loss to account for the strange expressions of his comrades, tried to arise, but the football captain pinned him down with one hand. "Seriously, Hicks," spoke Butch, "your saengerfest came at a lamentably inopportune time! I regret to Inform you that old Bannister faces another problem, with regard to Thor, and unless it is solved, I fear--" "Thor has balked again?" gasped the dazed Hicks, whom Butch now allowed to sit up, as he showed interest. "Has the engine of destruction stalled? Why, as fast as we get him lined up, off he slides at an angle! Well, you fellows did perfectly right to bring this baffling problem, whatever it is, to me. What is the trouble--won't Thor play football?" The irrepressible Hicks was bewildered at hearing that a new problem regarding Thor had arisen, and, naturally, he at once connected it with football, since the big Freshman had twice balked in that respect. Since his awakening, effected by Theophilus' missionary work, his last appeal, and Thor's letter from his father, Thor had earnestly striven to grasp the true meaning of college life, to understand campus tradition. No longer did he hold aloof, boning always, in his lonely room. Instead, he mingled with his fellows, lingering with the team for the skylarking in the shower-room after scrimmage, turning out for the nightly mass-meeting. Often, as the youths practiced songs and yells on the campus, Thor's terrific rumble was heard--some had even dared to slap his massive back and say, "Hello, Thor, old man!" and the big Freshman had responded. It was evident to all that Thorwald was striving to become a collegian, and knowing his slow, bulldog nature, there was no doubt as to his ultimate success; hence T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was vastly puzzled now. "Oh, Thor hasn't backslid!" smiled Beef. "You see, Hicks, it's this way: Owing to Mr. Thorwald's losing the five thousand dollars, Thor, as you know, is working his way at Bannister. Well, with his hustling, his studies and football scrimmage, he simply does not have a minute for the other phases of college life, for the comradeship with his fellows--" "Here is his day's schedule," chimed in Deacon, referring to a paper: "Rise at four-thirty A. M. Hustle downtown to tend several furnaces until seven. Breakfast at seven. Till nine, make beds and sweep dormitory rooms. Nine till three-fifteen P. M., recitation periods and dormitory work, sandwiched. Then until supper, football practice, and nights study. Add to that waiting on tables for the three meals, and what time has Thor to broaden and develop, to take in all the big things of campus existence, to grow into an all-round college man?" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., wonderful to chronicle, was silent. He was reflecting on the irony of fate; as Deacon said, now that Thor had awakened, and earnestly wanted to be a collegian, he had no time to enter into campus life. Glad at being able to stay at old Bannister, to keep on with his studies, climbing steadily toward his goal, and finding a joy in his new relationship with the students, the ponderous Thorwald had flung himself into his hustling, as the youths called working one's way at college, with zeal. To the huge Freshman, toil was nothing, and since it meant that he could keep on with his study, he was content. The collegians vastly admired his grim determination; they aided all they could with his studies, and helped with his work, so he could have more time for scrimmage, and yet another phase of the problem came to Hicks. It seemed unjust that John Thorwald, after his long years of hard physical toil, and his mental struggles, often after hours of grinding work, at the very time when the five thousand dollars from Henry B. Kingsley's heirs promised him a chance to study without a body tortured and exhausted, should be forced again to take up his stern fight for knowledge. And it was cruel that Thor, just awakening to the true meaning of college life, striving to grasp campus tradition, and eager to serve his Alma Mater in every way, should have so little time to mingle with his fellows. He should be with them on the campus, on the athletic field, in the dorms., the literary society halls, the Y. M. C. A. He should be realizing the golden years of college life, the glad comradeship of the campus. Instead, he must arise in the bitter cold, gray dawn, and from then until late night toil and study unceasingly. "It's a howling shame!" declared the serious Hicks, a heart full of sympathy for Thor. "Just as he wakes up and is trying to understand things at old Bannister, bang! the _Norwhal_ is blown up by a stray mine, and down goes his dad's money. Why didn't Mr. Thorwald get the five thousand transferred to the _Valkyrie_? Oh, if that money hadn't gone down to Davy Jones' locker, Thor would be awakened and have time for college life, too!" Butch Brewster started to speak when the thunderous tread of John Thorwald sounded in the corridor. The Prodigious Prodigy seemed approaching at double-quick time, and the youths stared at each other. However, when Thor appeared in the doorway, a letter in hand, they gazed at him in bewilderment, for his face fairly glowed. "Read it, fellows, read it!" he breathed, with what, for him, was almost excitement. "It just came! Oh, isn't that good news? Read it out, Captain Butch. Won't we wallop Ballard now!" Big Butch Brewster, mystified by Thor's happiness, and urged on by his equally puzzled comrades, drew out the letter, and a glad smile coming to his honest countenance, he read aloud: "THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANIA. STEAMSHIP LINE (New York Office) "Nov. 18, 19--. "MR. JOHN THORWALD, JR., Bannister College. "DEAR SIR: "We beg to state that your father, first mate on our liner, the _Valkyrie_, three days outbound from New York to Christiania, sent a message, _via_ wireless, to our New York offices by the inbound Dutch Line's _Rotterdam_. The _Rotterdam_ relayed the message to us, and we forward it herewith, _verbatim:_ "'DEAR SON: Purser of my ship, the _Valkyrie_, informed me today that the purser of the ill-fated _Norwhal_, learning of my transfer to this liner, transferred my $5,000 to the _Valkyrie_ before he sailed to his fate. I am sending this _via_ the _Rotterdam_, inbound, and our office will forward it to you. Will write on arriving at Christiania. Father.' "We are sorry for the delay in forwarding this message, but through an accident, it was mislaid in our office for a few days. "Yours truly, "THE NEW YORK-CHRISTIANIA STEAMSHIP LINE, "per J. L. G." A moment of silence; outside on the campus the Bannister youths, preparing for the mass-meeting in the Auditorium, started cheering. Someone caught sight of Thor, standing now by the window of Hicks' room, on the third floor of Bannister Hall, and a few seconds later there sounded: "Thor! Thor! Thor! Thor will bring the Championship to old Bannister! Rah! Rah! Rah!--Thor!" "Oh," shouted T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., grinning happily, his arm across Thor's massive shoulders, "'All's well that ends well,' as Bill Shakespeare says. It's all right now, Thor. Fate dealt you a hard punch, but it served its purpose; for it made you realize how you would regret to leave college. Now you won't have to hustle and have all your time filled with toil and study; you can go after every phase of campus life, and serve old Bannister in so many ways." John Thorwald stood, a contented look on his placid, impassive face, gazing down at the campus below and hearing the plaudits of the excited collegians. The stately old elms, gaunt and bare, tossed their limbs against a leaden sky; a cold, dreary wind sent clouds of dry leaves scurrying down the concrete walks. In the faint moonlight that struggled through the clouds, the towers and spires of old Bannister were limned against the sky-line. Across the campus, on Bannister Field, the goal-posts, skeleton-like, kept their lonely vigil. On that field, in less than a week, the Gold and Green must face the crucial test--against Ballard's championship eleven, in the Biggest Game; and now, almost on the eve of battle, the shackles had been knocked from him; he was free of the great burden, free to serve his Alma Mater, to fight for the Gold and Green, to grow and develop into an all-round, representative college man. All of a sudden it dawned on the slow-thinking young Norwegian just how much this freedom to grow and expand meant to him, and he turned from the window. From below, the shouts of "Thor! Thor! Thor!" drifted, stirring his blood, as he looked at Hicks, Butch, Beef, Monty and Deacon. "'All's well that ends well,' you say. Hicks," he spoke slowly, his face joyous. "That's true; but I'm just starting, fellows. I'm just _beginning_ to live my college years, not for myself, but for old Bannister, for my Alma Mater, for I am awake, and _free_!" CHAPTER XII THEOPHILUS BETRAYS HICKS Big Butch Brewster, a life-sized picture of despair, roosted dejectedly on the Senior Fence, between the Gym and the Administration Building. It was quite cold, and also the beginning of the last study-period before Butch's final and most difficult recitation of the day, Chemistry. Yet instead of boning in his warm room, the behemoth Senior perched on the fence and stared gloomily into space. As he sat, enveloped in a penumbra of gloom, the campus entrance door of Bannister Hall, the Senior dorm., opened suddenly, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., that happy-go-lucky youth, came out cautiously, after the fashion of a second-story artist, emerging from his crib with a bundle of swag, the last item being represented by a football tucked under Hicks' left arm. Beholding Butch Brewster on the Senior Fence, the sunny-souled Senior exhibited a perturbation of spirit seeming undecided whether to beat a retreat or to advance. "Now what's ailin' _you_?" demanded Butch wrathily, believing the pestersome Hicks to be acting in that burglarious manner for effect. "Why should _you_ sneak out of a dorm., bearing a football like it was an auk's egg? Why, you resemble a nigger, making his get-away after robbing a hen-roost! Don't torment me, you accident-somewhere-on-its-way-to-happen. I feel about as joyous as a traveling salesman who has made a town and gotten nary a order!" "It's _awful_!" soliloquized T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., perching beside the despondent Butch on the Senior Fence. "I am not a fatalist, old man, but it _does_ seem that fate hasn't destined Thor to play football for old Bannister this season! Here, after he won the Ham game, and we expected him to waltz off with Ballard's scalp and the Championship, he has to tumble downstairs! Oh, it's tough luck!" It was two days before the biggest game, with Ballard--the contest that would decide the State Intercollegiate Football Championship. Ballard, the present champions, discounting even Hamilton's stories of Thor's prowess, were coming to Bannister with an eleven more mighty than the one that had crushed the Gold and Green the year before, with a heavy, stonewall line, fast ends, and a powerful, shifty backfield. The Ballard team was confident of victory and the pennant. Bannister, building on the awakened Thorwald, superbly sure of his phenomenal strength and power, of his unstoppable rushes, serenely practiced the doctrine of preparedness, and awaited the day. And then John Thorwald, the Prodigious Prodigy, whose gigantic frame seemed unbattered by the terrific daily scrimmage, whom it was impossible to hurt on the gridiron, the day before, going downstairs in Creighton Hall, hurrying to a class, had caught his heel on the top step, and crashed to the bottom! And now, with a broken ankle, the blond Colossus, heartbroken at not being able to win the Championship for old Bannister, hobbled about on crutches. Without Thor, the Gold and Green must meet the invincible Ballard team! It was a solar-plexus blow, both to the Bannister youths, confident in Thor's prowess, building on his Herculean bulk, and to the big Freshman. Thorwald, awakened, striving to grasp campus tradition, to understand college life, was eager to fling himself into the scrimmage, to give every ounce of his mighty power, to offer that splendid body, for his Alma Mater, and now he must hobble impotently on the side-line, watching his team fight a desperate battle. "If Bannister only had a sure, accurate drop-kicker!" reflected Captain Butch hopelessly. "One who could be depended on to average eight out of ten trials, we'd have a fighting chance with Ballard. Deke Radford is a wonder. He can kick a forty-five-yard goal, but he's erratic! He might boot the pigskin over when a score is needed from the forty-yard line, and again he might miss from the twenty-yard mark. Oh, for a kicker who isn't brilliant and spectacular, but who can methodically drop 'em over from, say, the thirty-five-yard line! Hello, what's the row, Hicks?" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., started to speak, changed his mind, coughed, grew red and embarrassed, and acted in a most puzzling manner. At any other time, big Butch would have been bewildered; but with Thor's loss weighing on his mind, the Gold and Green captain gave his comrade only a cursory glance. "I--I--Oh, nothing, Butch!" stammered Hicks, to whom, being "fussed," as Bannister termed embarrassment, was almost unknown. "I--I guess I'll take this football over to my locker in the Gym. I ought to glance at my Chemistry, too. So-long, Butch; see you later, old top!" When the splinter-youth had drifted into the Gym., Butch Brewster, remembering his strange actions, actually managed to transfer his thoughts for a time from the eleven to the care-free T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. The behemoth Senior reflected that, to date, the pestiferous Hicks had not explained his baffling mystery he recalled the day when he had told the Gold and Green eleven of the loyal Hicks' ambition to please his dad by winning his B, when he had described the youth's intense college spirit and had suggested that if Hicks failed to corral his letter the Athletic Association award him one for his loyalty to old Bannister. And Butch saw again the bewildering sentences in the letter from Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., to his son. "Evidently," meditated Butch, literally and figuratively "on the fence," "Hicks has failed to summon up enough self-confidence to explain his mystery; queer, too, for he usually is bubbling with faith in himself. He has acted like a bashful schoolgirl at frequent times--he starts to tell me something, then he gets embarrassed, back-fires, and stalls. He and Theophilus have been sneaking out in the early dawn, too. Wow! What did he sneak out of the dorm. that way, with a football, for? He looked like a yeggman working night shift. Why should _he_ skulk out with a football? He has never explained his dad's letter, or told just what Mr. Hicks meant by calling him the "Class Kid" of Yale, '96, and saying those members of old Eli wanted him to star! Oh, he's a tantalizing wretch, and I'd like to solve his mystery, without his knowledge, so I could--" At that instant, to the intense indignation and bewilderment of good Butch Brewster, little Theophilus Opperdyke, the timorous Human Encyclopedia of old Bannister, exited from Bannister Hall. The Senior boner gave a correct imitation of the offending Hicks, in that he skulked out, gazing around him nervously; but he portaged no pigskin, and, unlike the sunny youth, on periscoping Butch, he seemed relieved. "Theophilus, _come here_!" thundered the wrathful football captain, shifting his tonnage on the Senior Fence. "What's the plot, anyhow? It's bad enough when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sneaks out, bearing a football, like an amateur cracksman making a getaway; but when you appear, imitating a Nihilist about to hurl a bomb--say, what's the answer to the puzzle, old man?" Little Theophilus, his pathetically frail body trembling with suppressed excitement, his big-rimmed spectacles tumbling off with ridiculous regularity, and his solemn eyes peering owlishly at his behemoth classmate, stood before the startled Butch. It was evident that the 1919 grind labored under great stress. He was waging a terrific battle with himself, struggling to make some vast and all-important decision. He strove to speak, hesitated, choked, coughed apologetically, and acted as fussed as Hicks had done, until Butch was wild; then, as if resolved to cast the die and cross the Rubicon, he decided, and plunged desperately ahead. "It's--it's Hicks, Butch!" he quavered, torn cruelly by conflicting emotions. "Oh, I don't want to be a traitor--he trusted me with his secret, and I--I can't betray him, I just can't! But he didn't make me promise not to tell. He just told me not to. Oh, it's his very last chance, Butch, and with Thor hurt, old Bannister might need him in the Ballard game." "What is it, Theophilus, old man?" Butch spoke kindly, for he saw the solemn little Senior was intensely excited. "Tell me--if our Alma Mater needs any fellow's services, you know, he should give them freely--since you did not promise not to tell about Hicks, if Bannister may be able to use Hicks against Ballard--though I can't, by any stretch of the imagination, figure how--then it is your duty to tell! I think I glimpse the dark secret--Hicks possesses some sort of football prowess, goodness knows what, and he lacks the confidence to tell Coach Corridan! Now, were it only drop-kicking--" _"It is drop-kicking!"_ Theophilus burst forth desperately. "Hicks is a drop-kicker, Butch, and a sure one--inside the thirty-yard line. He almost _never_ misses a goal, and he kicks them from every angle, too. He isn't strong enough to kick past the thirty-yard line, but inside that he is wonderfully accurate. With Thor out of the Ballard game, a drop-kick may win for Bannister, and Deke Radford is so erratic! Oh, Hicks will be angry with me for telling; but he just won't tell about himself, after all his practice, because he fears the fellows will jeer. He is afraid he will fail in the supreme test. Oh, I've betrayed him, but--" "T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a drop-kicker!" exploded the dazed Butch, who could not have been more astounded had Theophilus announced that the sunny youth possessed powers of black magic. "Theophilus Opperdyke, Tantalus himself was never so tantalized as I have been of late. Tell me the whole story, old man--hurry. Spill it, old top!" Butch Brewster, by questioning the excited Human Encyclopedia, like a police official giving the third degree, slowly extracted from Theophilus the startling story. A year before, just as the Gold and Green practiced for the Ham game, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one afternoon, had arrayed his splinter-structure in a grotesque, nondescript athletic outfit, and had jogged out on Bannister Field. The gladsome youth's motive had been free from any torturesome purpose. He intended to round up the Phillyloo Bird, Shad Weatherby, and other non-athletic collegians, and with them boot the pigskin, for exercise. However, little Skeet Wigglesworth, beholding him as he donned the weird regalia of loud sweater, odd basket-ball stockings, tennis trousers, baseball shoes, and so on, misconstrued his plan, and believed Hicks intended to torment the squad. Hence, he hurried out, so that when Hicks appeared in the offing, the football squad and the spectators in the stands had jeered the happy-go-lucky Junior, and had good-natured sport at his expense. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., after Jack Merritt had drop-kicked a forty-yard goal, made the excessively rash statement that it was easy. Captain Butch Brewster had indignantly challenged the heedless youth to show him, and the results of Hicks' effort to propel the pigskin over the crossbar were hilarious, for he missed the oval by a foot, nearly dislocated his knee, and, slipping in the mud, he sat down violently with a thud. However, so the excited Theophilus now narrated, even as the convulsed students jeered Hicks, hurling whistles, shouts, cat-calls, songs and humorous remarks at the downfallen kicker, one of Hicks' celebrated inspirations had smitten the pestersome Junior, evidently jarred loose by his crashing to terra firma. "Hicks figured this way, Butch," explained little Theophilus Opperdyke, eloquent in his comrade's behalf, "nature had built him like a mosquito, and endowed him with enough power to lift a pillow; hence he could never hope to play football on the 'Varsity; but he knew that many games are won by drop-kicks and by fellows especially trained and coached for that purpose, and they don't need weight and strength, but they must have the art, that peculiar knack which few possess. His inspiration was this: Perhaps he had that knack, perhaps he could practice faithfully, and develop into a sure drop-kicker. If he trained for a year, in his Senior season, he might be able to serve old Bannister, maybe to win a big game. So he set to work." Theophilus hurriedly yet graphically narrated how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had made the loyal, hero-worshiping little Human Encyclopedia his sole confidant. He told the thrilled Butch how the sunny youth, from that day on, had watched and listened as Head Coach Corridan trained the drop-kickers, learning all the points he could gain. Vividly he described the mosquito-like Hicks, as he with a football bought from the Athletic Association began in secret to practice the fine art of drop-kicking! For a year, at old Bannister and at his dad's country home near Pittsburgh, Hicks had faithfully, doggedly kept at it. With no one bat Theophilus knowing of his great ambition, he had gone out on Bannister Field, when he felt safe from observation; here, with his faithful comrade to keep watch, and to retrieve the pigskin, he had practiced the instructions and points gained from watching Coach Corridan train the booters of the squad. To his vast delight, and the joy of his little friend, Hicks had found that he did possess the knack, and from before the Ham game until Commencement he had kept his secret, practicing clandestinely at old Bannister; he had improved wonderfully, and when vacation started the cheery collegian had told his beloved dad, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., of his hopes. The ex-Yale football star, delighted at his son's ambition to serve old Bannister and joyous at discovering that Hicks actually possessed the peculiar knack of drop-kicking, coached the splinter-youth all summer at their country place near Pittsburgh. Under the instruction of Hicks, Sr., the youth developed rapidly, and when he returned to the campus for his final year, he was a sure, dependable drop-kicker, inside the thirty-yard line. As Theophilus stated, beyond that he lacked the power, but in that zone he could boot 'em over the cross-bar from any angle. "He's been practicing all this season, in secret!" quavered the little Senior, "and he's a--a _fiend_, Butch, at drop-kicking. And yet, here it is time for the last game of his college years, and--he lacks confidence to tell you, or Coach Corridan. Oh, I'm afraid he will be angry with me for betraying him, and yet--I just _can't_ let him miss his splendid chance, now that Thor is out and old Bannister _needs_ a drop-kicker!" Big Butch was silent for a time. The football leader was deeply impressed and thrilled by Theophilus Opperdyke's story of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s ambition. As he roosted on the Senior Fence, the behemoth gridiron star visioned the mosquito-like youth, whom nature had endowed with a splinter-structure, sneaking out on Bannister Field, at every chance, to practice clandestinely his drop-kicking. He could see the faithful Human Encyclopedia, vastly excited at his blithesome colleague's improvement, retrieving the pigskin for Hicks. He thrilled again as he thought of the bean-pole Hicks, who could never gain weight and strength enough to make the eleven, loyally training and perfecting himself in the drop-kick, trying to develop into a sure kicker, within a certain zone, hoping sometime, before he left college forever, to serve old Bannister. With Thor in the line-up at fullback, he would not have been needed, but now, with the Prodigious Prodigy out, it was T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s big chance! And Butch Brewster understood why the usually confident Hicks, even with the knowledge of his drop-kicking power, hesitated to announce it to old Bannister. Until Butch had told the Gold and Green football team of Hicks' being in earnest in his ridiculous athletic attempts of the past three years, no one but himself and Hicks had dreamed that the sunny youth meant them, that he really strove to win his B and please his dad. The appearance of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., on Bannister Field was always the cause of a small-sized riot among the squad and spectators. Hicks was jeered good-naturedly, and "butchered to make a Bannister holiday," as he blithely phrased it. Hence, the splinter-Senior was reluctant to announce that he could drop-kick. He knew that when tested he would be so in earnest, that so much would hang in the balance and the youths, unknowing how important it was, would jeer. Then, too, knowing his long list of athletic fiascos, ridiculous and otherwise, Hicks trembled at the thought of being sent into the biggest game to kick a goal. He feared he might fail! "You are a _hero_, Theophilus!" said Butch, with deep feeling. "I can realize how hard it was for Hicks to tell us. He would have kept silent forever, even after his training in secret! And how you must have suffered, knowing he could drop-kick, and yet not desiring to betray him! But your love for old Bannister and for Hicks himself conquered. I'll take him out on the gridiron, before the fellows come from class, and see what he can do. Aha! There is the villain now. Hicks, ahoy! Come hither, you Kellar-Herman-Thurston. Your dark secret is out at last!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., peering cautiously from the Gym. basement doorway, in quest of the tardy Theophilus, who was to have accompanied him on a clandestine journey to Bannister Field, obeyed the summons. Bewildered, and gradually guessing the explanation from the shivering little boner's alarmed expression, the gladsome youth approached the stern Butch Brewster, who was about to condemn him for his silence. "Don't be angry with me, Hicks, _please_!" pled Theophilus, pathetically fearful that he had offended his comrade, "I--I just _had_ to tell, for it was positively your last chance, and--and old Bannister needs your sure drop-kicking! I never promised not to tell. You never made me give my word, so--" "It was Theophilus' duty to tell!" spoke Butch, hiding a grin, for the grind was so frightened, "and yours, Hicks, knowing as you do how we need you, with Thor hurt! You graceless wretch, you aren't usually so like ye modest violet! Why didn't you inform us, then swagger and say, 'Oh, just leave it to Hicks, he'll win the game with a drop-kick?' Now, you come with me, and I'll look over your samples. If you've got the goods, it's highly probable you'll get your chance, in the Ballard game; and I'm _glad_, old man, for your sake. I know what it would mean, if you win it! But--now that the '_mystery_' is solved, what's that about your being a 'Class Kid,' of Yale, '96?" "That's easy!" grinned T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his arm across Theophilus' shoulders, "I was the first boy born to any member of Yale, '96; it is the custom of classes graduating at Yale to call such a baby the class kid! Naturally, the members of old Eli, Class of 1896, are vastly interested in me. Hence, my Dad wrote they'd be tickled if I won a big game for Bannister with a field-goal!" A moment of silence, Theophilus Opperdyke, gathering from Hicks' arm, across his shoulders, that the cheery youth was not so awfully wrathful at his base betrayal, adjusted his big-rimmed spectacles, and stared owlishly at Hicks. "Hicks, you--you are not angry?" he quavered. "You are not sorry. I--I told--" "_Sorry_?" quoth T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., "Class Kid," of Yale, '96, with a Cheshire cat grin, "_sorry_? I should say _not_--I wanted it to be known to Butch, and Coach Corridan, but I got all shivery when I tried to confess, and I--couldn't! Nay, Theophilus, you faithful friend, I'm so _glad_, old man, that beside yours truly, the celebrated Pollyanna resembles Niobe, weeping for her lost children." CHAPTER XIII HICKS--CLASS KID--YALE '96 "Brekka-kek-kek--Co-Ax--Co-Ax! Brekka-kek-kek--Co-Ax--Co-Ax! Whoop-up! Parabaloo! Yale! Yale! Yale! _Hicks! Hicks! Hicks_!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swathed in a cumbersome Gold and Green football blanket, and crouching on the side-line, like some historic Indian, felt a thrill shake his splinter-structure, as the yell of "old Eli" rolled from the stand, across Bannister Field. In the midst of the Gold and Green flags and pennants, fluttering in the section assigned the Bannister cohorts, he gazed at a big banner of Blue, with white lettering: YALE UNIVERSITY--CLASS OF 1896 "Oh, Butch," gasped Hicks, torn between fear and hope, "just listen to that. Think of all those Yale men in the stand with my Dad! Oh, suppose I do get sent in to try for a drop-kick!" It was almost time far the biggest game to start, the contest with Ballard, the supreme test of the Gold and Green, the final struggle for The State Intercollegiate Football Championship! In a few minutes the referee's shrill whistle blast would sound, the vast crowd in the stands, on the side-lines, and in the parked automobiles, would suddenly still their clamor and breathlessly await the kick-off--then, seventy minutes of grim battling on the turf, and victory, or defeat, would perch on the banners of old Bannister. It was a thrilling scene, a sight to stir the blood. Bannister Field, the arena where these gridiron gladiators would fly at each other's throats--or knees, spread out--barred with white chalk-marks, with the skeleton-like goal posts guarding at each end. On the turf the moleskin clad warriors, under the crisp commands of their Coaches, swiftly lined down, shifted to the formation called, and ran off plays. Nervous subs. stood in circles, passing the pigskin. Drop-kickers and punters, tuning up, sent spirals, or end-over-end drop-kicks, through the air. The referee, field-judge, and linesmen conferred. Team-attendants, equipped with buckets of water, sponges, and ominous black medicine-chests, with Red Cross bandages, ran hither and thither. On the substitutes' bench, or on the ground, crouched nervous second-string players; Ballard's on one side of the gridiron, and Bannister's directly across. A glorious, sunshiny day in late November, with scarcely a breath of wind, the air crisp and bracing; the radiant sunlight fell athwart the white-barred field, and glinted from the gay pennants and banners in the stands! Here was a riot of color, the gold and green of old Bannister; in the next section, the orange and black of Ballard. The bright hues and tints of varicolored dresses, and the luster of the official flowers all contributed to a bewilderingly beautiful spectacle! Flower-venders, peddlers of pennants, sellers of miniature footballs with the college colors of one team and the other, hawked their wares, loudly calling above the tumult, "Get yer Ballard colors yere!" "This way fer the Bannister flags!" Ten thousand spectators, packed into the cheering sections of the two colleges, or in the general stands, or standing on the side-lines, impatiently awaited the kick-off. At the appearance of each football star, a tremendous cheer went up from the mass. Across the field from each other, the two bands played stirring strains. The confident Ballard cohorts cheered, sang, and yelled and those of Bannister, not _quite_ so sure of victory, with Thor out, nevertheless, cheered, sang, and yelled as loudly, for the Gold and Green. The sight of that vast Yale banner, so conspicuous, with its big white letters on a field of blue, amidst the fluttering pennants of gold and green, excited comment among the Ballard followers. The Bannister students, however, knew what it meant; Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., and thirty members of Yale, '96, were in the stand, ready to cheer Captain Butch's eleven, and hoping for a chance to whoop it up for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., if he got his big chance. Two days before, when little Theophilus Opperdyke, after a terrible struggle with himself, divided between loyalty to Hicks and a love for his Alma Mater, had betrayed his toothpick class-mate to Captain. Butch Brewster, that behemoth Senior had rounded up Coach Corridan, and together they had dragged the shivering Hicks out to the football field. Here, while the rest of the student body, unsuspecting the important event in progress, made good use of the study-hour, or attended classes in Recitation Hall, the Gold and Green Coach, with the team-Captain, and the excited Human Encyclopedia, watched T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. show his samples of drop-kicks. And the success of that happy-go-lucky youth, after his nervous tension wore off, may be attested by the Slave-Driver's somewhat slangy remark, when the exhibition closed. "Butch," said Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, impressively, "what it takes to drop-kick field-goals, from anywhere inside the thirty-yard line, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., is broke out with!" The proficiency attained by the heedless Hicks in the difficult art of drop-kicking, gained by faithful practice for a year, aided by his Dad's valuable coaching, was wonderful. Of course, Hicks possessed naturally the needed knack, but he deserved praise for his sticking at it so loyally. He had no surety that he would ever be of use to his college, and, indeed, with the advent of Thor, his hopes grew dim, yet he plugged on, in case old Bannister might sometime need him--and yet, but for Theophilus, he would not have summoned the courage to tell! To the surprise and delight of the Coach and Captain, Hicks, after missing a few at first, methodically booted goals over the crossbar from the ten, twenty, and thirty-yard lines, and from the most difficult angles. There was nothing showy or spectacular in his work, it was the result of dogged training, but he was almost sure, when he kicked! [Illustration D: He was almost sure, when he kicked!] "Good!" ejaculated Coach Corridan, his arm across Hicks' shoulders, as they walked to the Gym. "Hicks, the chances are big that I'll send you in to try for a goal tomorrow, if Bannister gets blocked inside the thirty-yard line! Just keep your nerve, boy, and boot it over! Now--I'll post a notice for a brief mass-meeting at the end of the last class period, and Butch and I will tell the fellows about you, and how you may serve Bannister." "That's the idea!" exulted Butch, joyous at his comrade's chance to get in the biggest game. "The fellows will understand, Hicks, old man, and they won't jeer when you come out this afternoon. They'll root for you! Oh, just wait until you hear them cheer you, and _mean_ it--you'll astonish the natives, Hicks!" Butch's prophecy was well fulfilled. In the scrimmage that same day, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., shivering with apprehensive dread, his heart in his shoes, sat on the side-line. In the stands, the entire student-body, informed in the mass-meeting of his ability, shrieked for "Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" Near the end of the practice game, the hard-fighting scrubs fought their way to the 'Varsity's thirty-yard line, and another rush took it five yards more. Coach Corridan, halting the scrimmage, sent the right-half-back to the side-line, and a moment later, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. hurried out on the field with the Bannister Band playing, the collegians yelling frenziedly, and excitement at fever height, the sunny youth took his position in the kick formation. Then a silence, a few seconds of suspense, as the pigskin whirled back to him, and then--a quick stepping forward, a rip of toe against the leather, and--above the heads of the 'Varsity players smashing through, the football shot over the cross-bar! "Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" was the shout, _"Hicks will beat Ballard!"_ That night, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., having crossed the Rubicon, and committed himself to Coach Corridan and Captain Brewster, had dispatched a telegraphic night-letter to his beloved Dad. He informed his distinguished parent that his drop-kicking powers were now known to old Bannister, and that the chances were fifty-fifty that he would be sent in to try for a field-goal in the biggest game. On the day before the game, Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., in a night-letter, had wired back: Son Thomas: Am on my way to New Haven for Yale-Harvard game. Will stop off at old Bannister--bringing thirty members of Yale '96. We hope our Class Kid will get his chance against Ballard. Dad. On the morning of the Bannister-Ballard game, Mr. Hicks' private car the _Vulcan_, with the Pittsburgh "Steel King," and thirty other members of Yale, '96, had reached town. They had ridden in state to College Hill in good old Dan Flannagan's jitney, where T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., proudly introduced his beloved Dad to the admiring collegians. All morning, Mr. Hicks had made friends of the hero-worshiping youths, who listened to his tales of athletic triumphs at Bannister and at old Yale breathlessly. The ex-Yale star had made a stirring speech to the eleven, sending them out on Bannister Field resolved to do or die! "My Dad!" breathed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., crouched on the side line; as he gazed at the Yale banner, he could see his father, with his athletic figure, his strong face that could be appallingly stern or wonderfully tender and kind. Like the sunny Senior, Mr. Hicks, despite his wealth, was thoroughly democratic and already the Bannister collegians were his comrades. "Here we go, Hicks!" spoke Butch Brewster, as the referee raised his whistle to his lips. "Hold yourself ready, old man; a field-goal may win for us, and I'll send you in just as soon as I find all hope of a touchdown is gone. If they hold us back of the thirty-yard line, I'll try Deke Radford, but inside it, you are far more sure." The vast crowd, a moment before creating an almost inconceivable din, stilled with startling suddenness; a shrill blast from the referee's whistle cut the air. The gridiron cleared of substitutes, coaches, trainers, and rubbers-out, and in their places, the teams of Bannister and Ballard jogged out. Captain Brewster won the toss, and elected to receive the kick-off. The Gold and Green players, Butch, Beef, Roddy, Monty, Biff, Pudge, Bunch, Tug, Hefty, Buster, and Ichabod, spread out, fan-like, while across the center of the field the Ballard eleven, a straight line, prepared to advance as the full-back kicked off. There was a breathless stillness, as the big athlete poised the pigskin, tilted on end, then strode back to his position. "All ready, Ballard?" The Referee's call brought an affirmative from the Orange and Black leader. "Ready, Bannister?" "Ready!" boomed big Butch Brewster, with a final shout of encouragement to his players. The biggest game was starting! Before ten thousand wildly excited and partisan spectators, the Gold and Green and the Orange and Black would battle for Championship honors; with Thor out of the struggle, Ballard, three-time Champion, was the favorite. The visitors had brought the strongest team in their history, and were supremely confident of victory. Bannister, however, could not help remembering, twice fate had snatched the greatest glory from their grasp, in Butch's Sophomore year, when Jack Merritt's drop-kick struck the cross-bar, and a year later, when Butch himself, charging for the winning touchdown, crashed blindly into the upright. Old Bannister had not won the Championship for five years, and now--when the chances had seemed roseate, with Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy--smashing Hamilton out of the way, Fate had dealt the annual blow in advance, by crippling him. "Oh, we've _got_ to win!" shivered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. "Oh, I hope I don't get sent in--I mean--I hope Bannister wins without me! But if I _do_ have to kick--Oh, I hope I send it over that cross-bar--" A second later the Ballard line advanced, the fullback's toe ripped into the pigskin, sending it whirling, high in air, far into Bannister's territory; the yellow oval fell into the outstretched arms of Captain Butch Brewster, on the Gold and Green's five-yard line, and--"We're off!" shrieked Hicks, excitedly. "Come on, Butch--run it back! Oh, we're off." The biggest game had started! CHAPTER XIV THE GREATER GOAL "Time out!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., enshrouded in a gold and green blanket, and standing on the side-line, like a majestic Sioux Chief, gazed out on Bannister Field. There, on the twenty-yard line, the two lines of scrimmage had crashed together and Bannister's backfield had smashed into Ballard's stonewall defense with terrific impact, to be hurled back for a five-yard loss. The mass of humanity slowly untangled, the moleskin clad players rose from the turf, all but one. He, wearing the gold and green, lay still, white-faced, and silent. "It's Biff Pemberton!" chattered Hicks, shivering as with a chill. "Oh, the game is lost, the Championship is gone. Biff is out, and the last quarter is nearly ended. Coach Corridan has got to send me in to kick. It's our very last chance to tie the score, and save old Bannister from defeat!" The time keeper, to whom the referee had megaphoned for time out, stopped the game, while Captain Butch Brewster, the campus Doctor, and several players worked over the senseless Biff. In the stands, the exultant Ballard cohorts, confident that victory was booked to perch on their banners, arose _en masse,_ and their thunderous chorus drifted across Bannister Field: "There's a hole in the bottom of the sea, And we'll put Bannister in that hole! In that hole--in--that--hole-- Oh, we'll put Bannister in that hole!" From the Bannister section, the Gold and Green undergraduates, alumni, and supporters, feeling a dread of approaching defeat grip their hearts, yet determined to the last, came the famous old slogan of encouragement to elevens battling on the gridiron: "Smash 'em, boys, run the ends--hold, boys, _hold_-- Don't let 'em beat the Green and the Gold! Touchdown! Touchdown! Hold, boys, _hold, Don't_ let 'em win from the Green and the Gold!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with a groan of despair, sat down on the deserted subs. bench. With a feeling that all was lost, the splinter-like Senior gazed at the big score-board, announcing, in huge, white letters and figures: 4TH QUARTER; TIME TO PLAY--2 MIN.; BANNISTER'S BALL ON BALLARD'S 22-YD. LINE; 4TH DOWN--8 YDS. TO GAIN; SCORE: BALLARD--6; BANNISTER--3. It had been a terrific contest, a biggest game never to be forgotten by the ten thousand thrilled spectators! Each eleven had been trained to the second for this decisive Championship fight, and with the coveted gonfalon of glory before them, the Bannister players battled desperately, while Ballard's fighters struggled as grimly for their Alma Mater. For six years, the Gold and Green had failed to annex the Championship, and for the past three, the invincible Ballard machine had rushed like a car of Juggernaut over all other State elevens; one team was determined to wrest the banner from its rival's grasp, and the other fully as resolved to retain possession, hence a memorable gridiron contest, to which even the alumni could find none in past history to compare, was the result. Weakened by the loss of Thor, whose colossal bulk and Gargantuan strength would have made victory a moral certainty, presenting practically the same eleven that had faced Ballard the past season and had been defeated by a scant margin, old Bannister had started the first quarter with a furious rush that swept the enemy to midfield without the loss of a first down. Then Ballard had rallied, stopping that triumphal march, on its own thirty-five yard line, but unable to check Quarterback Deacon Radford, who booted a forty-three-yard goal from a drop-kick, with the score 3-0 in Bannister's favor, and Deacon, a brilliant but erratic kicker, apparently in fine trim, the Gold Green rooters went wild. In the second half, however, came the break of the game, as sporting writers term it. The strong Ballard eleven found itself, and with a series of body-smashing, bone-crushing rushes, battering at the Bannister lines like the Germans before Verdun, they steadily fought their way, trench by trench, line by line, down the field. Without a fumble, or the loss of a single yard, the terrific, catapulting charges forced back old Bannister, until the enemy's fullback, who ran like the famous Johnny Maulbetsch, of Michigan, shot headlong over the goal line! The attempt for goal from touchdown failed, leaving the score, at the end of the third quarter, Ballard--6; Bannister--3. And Deacon Radford, whose first effort at drop-kicking had been so brilliant, failed utterly. Three times, taking a desperate chance, the Bannister quarter booted the pigskin, but the oval flew wide of the goal posts, even from the thirty-yard line. With his mighty toe not to be depended on, with the Gold and Green line worn to a frazzle by Ballard's battering rushes, unable to beat back the victorious enemy, the Bannister cohorts, dismayed, saw the start of the fourth and final quarter, their last hope. The forward pass had been futile, for the visitors were trained especially for this aerial attack, and with ease they broke up every attempt. And then, with the ball in Ballard's possession on Bannister's twenty-yard line, came a fumble--like a leaping tiger, Monty Merriweather had flung himself on the elusively bounding ball, rolled over to his feet, and was off down the field. "Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!" shrieked old Bannister's madly excited students, as Monty sprinted. "Go it, Monty--_touchdown_! Sprint, old man, _sprint_!" But Cupid Colfax, Ballard's famous sprinter, playing quarterback, was off on Monty's trail almost instantly, and his phenomenal speed cut down the Ballard end's advantage; still, by dint of exerting every ounce of energy, it was on Ballard's forty-yard line that Monty Merriweather, hugging the pigskin grimly, finally crashed to earth. "Come on, Bannister!" shouted Captain Butch Brewster, as the two teams lined down. "Right across the goal-line, then kick the goal, and we win! Play the game--_fight_--Oh, we can win the Championship right now." Then ensued a session of football spectacular in the extreme, replete with thrilling plays, with sensational tackles, and blood-stirring scrimmage. The Bannister players, nerved by Captain Brewster's exhortation, by sheer will-power drove their battered bodies into the scrimmage. End runs, line-smashing tandem plays, forward passes, followed in bewildering succession, until the ball rested on Ballard's twenty-yard line, and a touchdown meant victory and the Championship for old Bannister, Another rush, and five yards gained, then, Ballard, fighting at the last ditch, made a stand every bit as heroic and thrilling as that sensational march in the first half. The Gold and Green's tigerish rushes were hurled back--three times Captain Butch threw his backfield against the line, and three times not an inch was gained. On the third down, Monty Merriweather was forced back for a loss, so now, with two minutes to play and the ball in Bannister's possession, with eight yards to gain, the play was on Ballard's twenty-two-yard line! And the biggest game had produced a new hero of the gridiron. Biff Pemberton, left half-back, imbued with savage energy, had borne the brunt of that spectacular advance; and now, he stretched on the turf, white and still. "Hicks, old man," T, Haviland Hicks, Jr. turned as a hand rested grippingly on his shoulder. Head Coach Patrick Henry Corridan, his face grim, had come to him, and in quick, terse sentences, he outlined his plan. "It's Bannister's last chance--" he said, tensely. "We _can't_ make the first down, the way Ballard is fighting, unless we take desperate odds. Now, Hicks, it's _up to you_. On _you_ depend old Bannister's hopes." A great, chilling fear swept over T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., leaving him weak and shaken. It had come at last-the moment for which he had trained and practiced drop-kicking, for a year, in secret, that moment he had hoped would come, sometime, and yet had dreaded, as in a nightmare. Before that vast, howling crowd of ten thousand madly partisan spectators, _he_ must go out on Bannister Field, to try and boot a drop-kick from the twenty-eight-yard-line, to save the Gold and Green from defeat. And he thought of the great glory that would be his, if he succeeded-he would be a campus hero, the idol of old Bannister, the youth who saved his Alma Mater from defeat, in the biggest game! Then he remembered his Dad, inspiring the eleven, between the halves, by a ringing speech; he heard again his sentences: "--And to serve old Bannister, to bring glory and honor to our dear Alma Mater, is our greater goal! Go back into the game, throw yourselves into the scrimmage, with no thought of personal glory, of the plaudits of the crowd--it is a fine thing, a splendid goal, to play the game and be a hero; it is a far more noble act to strive for the greater goal, one's Alma Mater!" "Now listen carefully," Coach Corridan rushed on, "Biff is knocked out. They'll start again soon, we are going to take a desperate chance; your Dad advises it! A tie score means the Championship stays with Ballard. To win it, we must _win_ this game--and on _you_ everything depends." "But--how--" stammered Hicks, dazed--the only way to _tie_ the score was by a drop-kick; the only way to win, by a touchdown--did the Coach mean he was _not_ to realize his great ambition to save old Bannister by a goal, the reward of his long training? "You jog out," whispered Coach Corridan, hurriedly, for a stretcher was being rushed to Biff Pemberton, "report to the Referee, and whisper to Butch to try Formation Z; 23-45-6-A! Now, here is the dope: our only chance is to fool Ballard completely. When you go out, the Bannister rooters, and your Yale friends, will believe it is to try a drop-kick and tie the score. I am sure that the Ballard team will think this, too, because of your slender build. You act as though you intend to try for a goal, and have Captain Butch make our fellows act that way. Then--it is a fake-kick; the backfield lines up in the kick formation, but the ball is passed to Butch, at your right. He either tries for a forward pass to the right end, or if the end Is blocked, rushes it himself! Hurry-the referee's whistle is blowing; remember, Hicks, my boy, it's the greater goal, it's for your Alma Mater." In a trance, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., flung off the gold and green blanket, and dashed out on Bannister Field. How often, in the past year, had he visioned this scene, only--he pictured himself saving the game by a drop-kick, and now Coach Corridan ordered him to sacrifice this glory! From the stands came the thunderous cheer of the excited Bannister cohorts, firmly believing that the slender youth, so ludicrously fragile, among those young Colossi, was to try for a goal. "Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Rah! Hicks! Kick the goal--Hicks!" And from the Yale grads., among them his Dad, came a shout, as he jogged across the turf: "Breka-kek-kek--co-ax--Yale! Hicks-Hicks-Hicks!" But the Bannister Senior did not thrill. Now, instead, a feeling of growing resentment filled his soul; even this intensely loyal youth, with all his love for old Bannister, was vastly human, and he felt cheated of his just rights. How the students were cheering him, how those Yale men called his name, and he was not to have his big chance! That for which he had trained and practiced; the opportunity to serve his Alma Mater, by kicking a goal at the crucial moment, and saving Bannister from defeat, was never to be his. Now, in his last game at college, he was to act as a decoy, as a foil. Like a dummy he must stand, while the other Gold and Green athletes ran off the play! Instead of everything, a tie game, or a defeat, depending on his kicking, defeat or victory hung on that fake play, on Butch Brewster and Monty Merriweather! So--the ear-splitting plaudits of the crowd for "Hicks!" meant nothing to him; they were dead sea fruit, tasteless as ashes--as the ashes of ambition. And then-- "--And to serve old Bannister, to bring glory and honor to our dear Alma Mater, is our greater goal--no thought of personal glory--a splendid goal, to play the game and be a hero; It is a far more noble act to strive for the greater goal--one's Alma Mater--" "I was nearly a _traitor_" gasped T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his Dad's words echoing In his memory, and a vision of that staunch, manly Bannister ex-athlete before him. "Oh, I was betraying my Alma Mater. Instead of rejoicing to make _any_ sacrifice, however big, for Bannister, I thought only of myself, of my glory! I'll do it, Dad, I'll strive for the greater goal, and--we just can't fail." Reaching the scrimmage, Hicks, whose nervous dread had left him, when he fought down selfish ambition, and thirst for glory, reported to the Referee, and hurriedly transferred Coach Corridan's orders to Captain Butch Brewster; half a minute of precious time was spent in outlining the desperate play to the eleven, for "time!" had been called, and then-- "Z-23-45-6-A!" shouted Quarterback Deacon Radford. "Come on, line--hold! Right over the cross-bar with it, Hicks--tie the score, and save Bannister from defeat--" The Gold and Green backfield shifted to the kick formation. Ten yards back of the center, on the thirty-two-yard line of Ballard, stood T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; the vast crowd was hushed, all eyes stared at that slender figure, standing there, with Captain Butch Brewster at his right, and Beef McNaughton on his left hand-the spectators believed the frail-looking youth had been sent in to try a drop-kick. The Ballard rooters thought it, and--the Ballard eleven were _sure_ of their enemy's plan--Hicks' mosquito-like build, his nervous swinging of that right leg, deluded them, and helped Coach Corridan's plot. It was the only play, if Bannister wanted the Championship enough to try a desperate chance; better a fighting hope for that glory, with a try for a touchdown, than a field-goal, and a tie-score! The lines of scrimmage tensed. The linesmen dug their cleats in the sod, those of Ballard tigerish to break through and block; old Bannister's determined to _hold_. Back of Ballard's line, the backfield swayed on tip-toe, every muscle nerved, ready to crash through; the ends prepared to knock Roddy and Monty aside, the backs would charge madly ahead, in a berserk rush, to crash into that slim figure. "Boot it, Hicks!" shrieked Deke Radford, and as he shouted, the pigskin shot from the Bannister center's hands; the Gold and Green line held nobly, but not so the ends. Monty Merriweather, making a bluff at blocking the left end, let him crash past, while he sprinted ahead--Captain Butch Brewster, to whom the pass had been made, ran forward, until he saw he was blocked, and then, seeing Monty dear, he hurled a beautiful forward pass. Into the arms of the waiting Monty it fell, and that Gold and Green star, absolutely free of tacklers, sprinted twelve yards to the goal-line, falling on the pigskin behind it! Coach Corridan's "100 to 1" chance, suggested by Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., had succeeded, and--the Biggest Game and the Championship had come to old Bannister at last! Followed a scene pauperizing description! For many long years old Bannister had waited for this glory; years of bitter disappointment, seasons when the Championship had been missed by a scant margin, a drop-kick striking the cross-bar, Butch Brewster blindly crashing into an upright. But now, all their pent-up joy flowed forth in a mighty torrent! Singing, yelling, dancing, howling, the Bannister Band leading them, the Gold and Green students, alumni, Faculty, and supporters, snake-danced around Bannister Field. A vast, writhing, sinuous line, it wound around the gridiron, everyone who possessed a hat flinging it over the cross-bars. The victorious eleven, were borne by the maddened youths--Captain Butch, Pudge, Beef, Monty, Roddy, Ichabod, Tug, Hefty, Buster, Bunch, and--T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. Ballard, firmly believing Hicks would try a field-goal, had been taken completely off guard. Surprised by the daring attempt, it had succeeded with ease, and the final score was Bannister--10; Ballard--6! "At last! At last!" boomed Butch Brewster, to whom this was the happiest day of his life. "The Championship at last. My great ambition is realized. Old Bannister has won the Championship, and I was the Team Captain!" After a time, when "the shouting and the tumult died," or at least quieted somewhat, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., felt a hand on his arm, and looking down from the shoulders on which he perched, he saw his Dad. Mr. Hicks' strong face was aglow with pride and a vast joy, and he shook his son's hand again and again. "I understand, Thomas!" he said, and his words were reward enough for the youth. "It was a _big_ sacrifice, but you made it gladly--I know! You gave up personal glory for the greater goal, and--old Bannister won the Championship! You helped win, for the winning play turned on _you_. It was splendid, my son, and I am proud of you! No matter if your sacrifice is never known to the fellows, _I_ understand." A moment of silence on Hicks' part; then the sunny youth grinned at his beloved Dad, as he responded blithesomely: "I'm Pollyanna, that old Bannister and _I_ won out, Dad!" CHAPTER XV HICKS HAS A "HUNCH" "Ladies and gentlemen, Seniors, Juniors, Sophomores, human beings, and--_Freshmen_! Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., the Olympic High-Jump Champion, holder of the World's record, and winner at the Panama-Pacific International Exposition National Championships, in his event, is about to high jump! The bar is at five feet, ten inches. Mr. Hicks is the Herculean athlete in the crazy-looking bathrobe." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his splinter-structure enshrouded in that flamboyant bathrobe of vast proportions and insane colors, that inevitably attended his athletic efforts, shaming Joseph's coat-of-many-colors, gazed despairingly at his good friend, Butch Brewster, and Track-Coach Brannigan, with a Cheshire cat grin on his cherubic countenance. "It's no use, Butch, it's no use!" quoth he, with ludicrous indignation, as big Tug Cardiff, the behemoth shot-putter, through a huge megaphone imitated a Ballyhoo Bill, and roared his absurd announcement to the hilarious crowd of collegians in the stand. "Old Bannister will _never_ take my athletic endeavors seriously. Here I have won two second places, and a third, in the high-jump this season, and have a splendid show to annex _first_ place and my track B in the Intercollegiates, but--hear them!" It was a balmy, sunshiny afternoon in late May. The sunny-souled, happy-go-lucky T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had trained indefatigably for the high jump, with the result that he had won several points for his team--however, he had not realized his great ambition of first place, and his track letter. As Hicks now exclaimed to his team-mate and Coach Brannigan, no matter, to the howling Bannister youths, if he _had_ won three places in the high jump, in regularly scheduled meets; his comrades had been jeering at his athletic fiascos for nearly four years, and even had Hicks suddenly blossomed out as a star athlete, they would not have abandoned their joyous habit. Still, those football 'Varsity players to whom good Butch had read Hicks, Sr.'s, letters, and explained the sunny youth's persistence, despite his ridiculous failures, though they kept on hailing his appearance on Bannister Field with exaggerated joy, understood the care-free collegian, and loved him for his ambition to please his Dad. Since Hicks had absolutely refused to accept his B, for any sport, unless he won it according to Athletic Association eligibility rules, the eleven had kept secret the contents of the letters Butch Brewster had read to them, for Hicks requested it. The Bannister College track squad, under Track Coach Brannigan and Captain Spike Robertson, had been training most strenuously for that annual cinder-path classic, the State Intercollegiate Track and Field Championships. The sprinters had been tearing down the two-twenty straightaway like suburban commuters catching the 7.20 A.M. for the city. Hammer-throwers and shot-putters--the weight men--heaved the sixteen-pound shot, or hurled the hammer, with reckless abandon, like the Strong Man of the circus. Pole-vaulters seemed ambitious to break the altitude records, and In so doing, threatened to break their necks; hurdlers skimmed over the standard as lightly as swallows, though no one ever beheld swallows hurdling. The distance runners plodded determinedly around the quarter-mile track, broad-jumpers tried to jump the length of the landing-pit. And T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., vainly essayed to clear five-ten In the high-jump! It was the last-named event that "broke up the show," as the Phillyloo Bird quaintly stated, somewhat wrongly, since the appearance of that blithesome youth in the offing, his flamboyant bathrobe concealing his shadow-like frame, had _started_ the show, causing the track squad, as well as a hundred spectator-students, to rush for seats in the stand. The arrival of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., to train for form and height in the high-jump, though a daily occurrence, was always the signal for a Saturnalia of sport at his expense, because-- "You can't live down your athletic past, Hicks!" smiled good-hearted Butch Brewster. "Your making a touchdown for the other eleven, by running the wrong way with the pigskin, your hilarious fiascos in every sport, your home-run with the bases full, on a strike-out-are specters to haunt you. Even now that you have a chance to win your B, just listen to the fellows." The track squad's "heavy weight--white hope" section, composed of hammer-heavers and shot-putters--Tug Cardiff, Beef McNaughton, Pudge Langdon, Buster Brown, Biff Pemberton, Hefty Hollingsworth, and Bunch Bingham, equipped with megaphones, and with the _basso profundo_ voices nature gave them, lined up on both sides of the jumping-standards, and chanted loudly: "All hail to T. Haviland Hicks! He runs like a carload of bricks; When to high jump he tries From the ground he can't rise-- For he's built on a pair of toothpicks!" This saengerfest was greeted with vociferous cheers from the vastly amused youths in the stands, who hailed the grinning Hicks with jeers, cat-calls, whistles, and humorous (so they believed) remarks: "Say, Hicks, you won't _never_ be able to jump anything but your board-bill!" "You're built like a grass-hopper, Hicks, but you've done lost the hop!" "If you keep on improving as you've done lately, you'll make a high-jumper in a hundred more years, old top!" "You may rise in the world, Hicks, but never in the high jump!" "Don't mind them, Hicks!" spoke Coach Brannigan, his hands on the happy-go-lucky youth's shoulders. "Listen to me; the Intercollegiates will be the last track meet of your college years, and unless you take first place in your event, you won't win your track B. Second, McQuade, of Hamilton, will do five-eight, and likely an inch higher, so to take first place, you, must do five-ten. You have trained and practiced faithfully this season, but no matter what I do, I _can't_ give you that needed two inches, and--" "I know it, Coach!" responded the chastened Hicks, throwing aside his lurid bathrobe determinedly, and exposing to the jeering students his splinter-frame. "Leave it to Hicks, I'll clear it this time, or--" "Not!" fleered Butch, whom Hicks' easy self-confidence never failed to arouse. "Hicks, listen to me, _I_ can tell you why you can't get two inches higher. The whole trouble with you is this; for almost four years you have led an indolent, butterfly, care-free existence, and now, when you must call on yourself for a special effort, you are too lazy! You can dear five-ten; you ought to do it, but you can't summon up the energy. I've lectured you all this time, for your heedless, easy-going ways, and now--you pay for your idle years!" "You said an encyclopedia, Butch!" agreed the Coach, with vigor. "If only something would just _make_ Hicks jump that high, if only he could do it once, and know it is in his power, he could do it in the Intercollegiates, aided by excitement and competition! Let something _scare_ him so that he will sail over five-ten, and--he will win his B. He has the energy, the build, the spring, and the form, but as you say, he is so easy-going and lazy, that his natural grass-hopper frame avails him naught." "Here I go!" announced Hicks, who, to an accompaniment of loud cheers from the stand, had been jogging up and down in that warming-up process known to athletes as the in place run, consisting of trying to dislocate one's jaw by bringing the knees, alternately, up against the chin. "Up and over--that's my slogan. Just watch Hicks." Starting at a distance of twenty yards from the high-jump standards, on which the cross-bar rested at five feet, ten inches, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who vastly resembled a grass-hopper, crept toward the jumping-pit, on his toe-spikes, as though hoping to catch the cross-bar off its guard. Advancing ten yards, he learned apparently that his design was discovered, so he started a loping gallop, turning to a quick, mad sprint, as though he attempted to jump over the bar before it had time to rise higher. With a beautiful take-off, a splendid spring--a quick, writhing twist in air, and two spasmodic kicks, the whole being known as the scissors form of high jump, the mosquito-like youth made a strenuous effort to clear the needed height, but--one foot kicked the cross-bar, and as Hicks fell flat on his back, in the soft landing-pit, the wooden rod, In derision, clattered down upon his anatomy. "Foiled again!" hissed Hicks, after the fashion of a "Ten-Twent'-Thirt'" melodrama-villain, while from the exuberant youths in the grandstand, who really wanted Hicks to clear the bar, but who jeered at his failure, nevertheless, sounded: "Hire a derrick, Hicks, and hoist yourself over the bar!" "Your _head_ is light enough--your feet weigh you down!" "'Crossing the Bar'--rendered by T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.!" "Going up! Go play checkers, Hicks, you ain't no athlete!" While the grinning, albeit chagrined T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., reposed gracefully on his back, staring up at the cross-bar, which someone kindly replaced on the pegs, big Butch Brewster, who seemed suddenly to have gone crazy, tried to attract Coach Brannigan's attention. Succeeding, Butch--usually a grave, serious Senior, winked, contorted his visage hideously, pointed at Hicks, and sibilated, "_Now_, Coach--now is your chance! Tell Hicks--" Tug Cardiff, Biff Pemberton, Hefty Hollingsworth, Bunch Bingham, Buster Brown, Beef McNaughton, and Pudge Langdon, who had been attacked in a fashion similar to Butch's spasm, concealed grins of delight, and made strenuous efforts to appear guileless, as Track-Coach Brannigan approached T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. To that cheery youth, who was brushing the dirt from his immaculate track togs, and bowing to the cheering youths in the stand, the Coach spoke: "Hicks," he said sternly, "you need a cross-country jog, to get more strength and power in your limbs! Now, I am going to send the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope Brigade for a four-mile run, and you go with them. Oh, don't protest; they are all shot-putters and hammer-throwers, but Butch, and they can't run fast enough to give a tortoise a fast heat. Take 'em out two miles and back, Butch, and jog all the way; don't let 'em loaf! Off with you." The unsuspecting Hicks might have detected the nigger in the woodpile, had he not been so anxious to make five-ten in the high-jump. However, willing to jog with these behemoths, with whom even he could keep pace, so as to develop more jumping power, the blithesome youth cast aside his garish bathrobe, pranced about in what he fatuously believed was Ted Meredith's style, and howled: "Follow Hicks! All out for the Marathon--we're off! One--two--three--_go_!" With the excited, track squad, non-athletes, and the baseball crowd, which had ceased the game to watch the start, yelling, cheering, howling, and whistling, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., drawing his knees up in exaggerated style at every stride, started to lead the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade on its cross-country run. Without wondering why Coach Brannigan had suddenly elected to send _him_ along with the hammer-throwers and shot-putters, on the jog, and not having seen the insane facial contortions of the Brigade, before the Coach gave orders, the gladsome Senior started forth in good spirits, resembling a tugboat convoying a fleet of battleships. "'Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho! And over the country we go!'" warbled Hicks, as the squad left Bannister Field, and jogged across a green meadow. "'--O'er hill and dale, through valley and vale, Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho! Yo! Ho!'" "Save your wind, you insect!" growled Butch Brewster, with sinister significance that escaped the heedless Hicks, as the behemoth Butch, a two-miler, swung into the lead. "You'll _need_ it, you fish, before we get back to the campus! Not _too_ fast, you flock of human tortoises. You'll be crawling on hands and knees, if you keep that pace up long!" A mile and a half passed. Butch, at an easy jog, had led his squad over green pastures, up gentle slopes, and across a plowed field, by way of variety. At length, he left the road on which the pachydermic aggregation had lumbered for some distance, and turned up a long lane, leading to a farm-house. Back of it they periscoped an orchard, with cherry-trees, laden with red and white fruit, predominating. Also, floating toward the collegians on the balmy May air came an ominous sound: "Woof! Woof! Woof! Bow-wow-wow! Woof!" "Come on, fellows!" urged Butch Brewster. "We'll jog across old Bildad's orchard and seize some cherries--the old pirate can't catch us, for we are attired for sprinting. Don't they look good?" "Nothing stirring!" declared Hicks, slangily, but vehemently, as he stopped short in his stride. "Old Bildad has got a bulldog what am as big as the New York City Hall. He had it on the campus last month, you know! Not for mine! I don't go near that house, or swipe no cherries from his trees. If you wish to shuffle off this mortal coil, drive right ahead, but _I_ will await your return here." T, Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, dread of dogs, of all sizes, shapes, pedigrees, and breeds, was well known to old Bannister; hence, the Heavy-weights now jeered him unmercifully. Old "Bildad," as the taciturn recluse was called, who lived like a hermit and owned a rich farm, did own a massive bulldog, and a sight of his cruel jaws was a "No Trespass" sign. With great forethought, when cherries began to ripen, the farmer had brought Caesar Napoleon to the campus, exhibited him to the awed youths, and said, "My cherries be for _sale_, not to be _stole_!" which object lesson, brief as it was, to date, had seemed to have the desired effect. Yet--here was Butch proposing that they literally thrust their heads, or other portions of their anatomies, into the jaws of death! "Well," said Bunch Bingham at last, "I tell you what; we'll jog up to the house and ask old Bildad to _sell_ us some cherries; we can pay him when he comes to the campus with eggs to sell, Come along. Hicks, I'll beard the bulldog in his kennel." So, dragged along by the bulky hammer-throwers and shot-putters, the protesting T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., in mortal terror of Caesar Napoleon, and the other canine guardians of old Bildad's property, progressed up the lane toward the house. "I got a hunch," said the reluctant Hicks, sadly, "that things ain't a-comin' out right! In the words of the immortal Somebody-Or-Other, 'This 'ere ain't none o' _my_ doin'; it's a-bein' thrust on me!' All right, my comrades, I'll be the innocent bystander, but heed me--look out for the bulldog!" CHAPTER XVI THANKS TO CAESAR NAPOLEON The Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade, towing the mosquito-like T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., advanced on the stronghold of old Bildad, so named because he was a pessimistic Job's comforter, like Bildad, the Shuhite, of old--like a flock of German spies reconnoitering Allied trenches. Hearing the house, with Butch and Beef holding the helpless, but loudly protesting Hicks, who would fain have executed what may mildly be termed a strategic retreat, big Tug Cardiff boldly marched, in close formation, toward the door, when the portal suddenly flew open. "Woof! Woof! Bow! Wow! Woof! Let go, Butch--there's the dog!" Amid ferocious howls from Caesar Napoleon, and alarmed protests from the paralyzed Hicks, who could not have run, with his wobbly knees, had he been set free by his captors, old Bildad, towed from the house by Caesar Napoleon, who strained savagely at the leash until his face bulged, burst upon the scene with impressive dramatic effect! It was difficult to decide, without due consideration, which was the more interesting. Bildad, a huge, gnarled old Viking, with matted gray hair, bushy eyebrows, a flowing beard, and leathery face, a fierce-looking giant, was appalling to behold, but so was Caesar Napoleon, an immense bulldog, cruel, bloodthirsty, his massive jaws working convulsively, his ugly fangs gleaming, as he set his great body against the leash, and gave evidence of a sincere desire to make free lunch of the Bannister youths. As Buster Brown afterward stated, "Neither one would take the booby prize at a beauty show, but at that, the bulldog had a better chance than Bildad!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., let it be recorded, could not have qualified as a judge, since his undivided attention was awarded to Caesar Napoleon! "What d'ye want round here, ye rapscallions?" demanded Bildad, courteously, holding the savage bulldog with one hand, and constructing a ponderous fist with the other, "_Hike_--git off'n my land, y'hear? _Git_, er Caesar Napoleon'll git holt o' them scanty duds ye got on!" "We want to--to buy some cherries, Mr.--Mr. Bildad!" explained Bunch Bingham, edging away nervously. "We won't steal any, honest, sir. Well pay you for them the very next time you come to the campus with milk and eggs." "Ho! Ho!" roared old Bildad, piratically, his colossal body shaking, "A likely tale, lads--an' when I come for my money, ye'll jeer me off the campus, an' tell me to whistle for it! Off my land--_git,_ an' don't let me cotch ye on it inside o' two minutes, or I'll let Caesar Napoleon make a meal off'n yer bones--_git_!" To express it briefly, they got. T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., not standing on the order of his going, set off at a sprint that, while it might have caused Ted Meredith to lose sleep, also aroused in Caesar Napoleon an overwhelming desire to take out after the fugitive youth, so that Mr. Bildad was forced to exert his vast strength to hold the massive bulldog. Butch, Beef, Hefty, Tug, Buster, Bunch, Pudge, and Biff, a pachydermic crew, awed by Caesar Napoleon's bloodthirsty actions, jogged off in the wake of Hicks, who confidently expected to hear the bulldog giving tongue, on his trail, at every second. Another lane, making in from a road making a cross-roads with the one from which they came to Bildad's house, ran alongside the orchard for two hundred yards, inside the fence; at its end was a high roadgate. At what they decided was a safe distance from the "war zone," the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., the latter forcibly restrained from widening the margin between him and peril, held a council on preparedness. "The old pirate!" stormed Butch Brewster, gazing back to where the vast figure of old Bildad, striding toward the house, towered. "We can't let him get away with that, fellows. I'll have some of his cherries now, or--" "No, no--_don't_, Butch!" chattered Hicks, whose dread of dogs amounted to an obsession. "He can still see us, and if you leave the lane, he will send Caesar Napoleon after us! Oh, _don't_--" But Butch Brewster, evidently wrathful at being balked, strode from the path, or lane, of virtue, toward a cherry-tree, whose red fruit hung temptingly low, and his example was followed by every one of the Brigade, leaving the terrified Hicks to wait in the lane, where, because of his alarm, he had no time to wonder at the bravado of his behemoth comrades. However, finding that Bildad had disappeared, and believing he had taken Caesar Napoleon into the house, the sunny Hicks, who was far from a coward otherwise, but who had an unreasonable dread of dogs, little or big, was about to wax courageous, and join his team-mates, when a wild shout burst from Pudge Langdon: "Run, fellows--_run_! Bildad's put the bulldog on us! Here comes--Caesar Napoleon--!" With a blood-chilling _"Woof! Woof!"_ steadily sounding louder, nearer, a streak of color shot across the orchard, from the house, toward the affrighted Brigade, while old Bildad's hoarse growl shattered the echoes with "Take 'em out o' here, Nap--chaw 'em up, boy!" For a startled second, the youths stared at the on-rushing body, shooting toward them through the orchard-grass at terrific speed, and then: "Run!" howled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., terror providing him with wings, as per proverb. Down the lane, at a pace that would have done credit to Barney Oldfield in his Blitzen Benz, the mosquito-like youth sprinted madly, and ever, closer, closer on his trail, sounded that awful "Woof! Woof!" from Caesar Napoleon, who, as Hicks well knew, was acting with full authority from Bildad! He heard, as he fled frantically, the excited shouts of his comrades. "Beat it, Hicks--he's right after you--run! Run!" "Jump the fence--he can't get you then--jump!" "He's right on your trail, Hicks--_sprint_, old man!" "Make the fence, old man--_jump_ it--and you're _safe_!" The terrible truth dawned on the frightened youth, as he desperately sprinted: the innocent bystander always gets hurt. He had protested against the theft of Bildad's cherries, and naturally, the bulldog had kept after _him_! But it was too late to stop, for the old adage was extremely appropriate, "He who hesitates is lost." He must _make_ that road-gate, and tumble over it, in some fashion, or be torn to shreds by Caesar Napoleon, the savage dog that the cruel Bildad had sent after the youths. Nearer loomed the road-gate, appallingly high. Closer sounded the panting breath of the ferocious Caesar Napoleon, and his incessant "Woof-woof!" became louder. It seemed to the desperate Hicks that the bulldog was at his heels, and every instant he expected to feel those sharp teeth take hold of his anatomy! Once, the despairing youth imitated Lot's wife and turned his head. He saw a body streaking after him, gaining at every jump, also he lost speed; so thereafter, he conscientiously devoted his every energy to the task in hand, that of making the gate, and getting over it, before Caesar Napoleon caught his quarry! At last, the road-gate, at least ten feet high, to Hicks' fevered imagination, came so close that a quick decision was necessary, for Caesar Napoleon, also, was in the same zone, and in a few seconds he would overhaul the fugitive. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., realizing that a second lost, perhaps, might prove fatal to his peace of mind, desperately resolved to dash at the gate, and jump; if he succeeded even in striking somewhere near the top, and falling over, he would not care, for the bulldog would not follow him off Bildad's land. From his comrades, far in the rear, came the chorus: "Jump, Hicks! He's right on your heels!" Like the immortal Light Brigade, Hicks had no time to reason about anything. His but to jump or be bitten summed up the situation. So, with a last desperate sprint, a quick dash, he left the ground--luckily, the earth was hard, giving him a solid take-off, and he got a splendid spring. As he arose In air, al! the training and practicing for form stayed with him, and instinctively he turned, writhed, and kicked-- For a fleeting second, he saw the top of the gate beneath his body, and he felt a thrill as he beheld twisted strands of barbed wire, cruel and jagged, across it; then, with a great sensation of joy, he knew that he had cleared the top, and a second later, he landed on the ground, in the country road, in a heap. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., that sunny-souled, happy-go-lucky, indolent youth, for once in his care-free campus career aroused to strenuous action, scrambled wildly to his feet, and forcibly realized the truth of Longfellow's, "And things are not-what they seem!" Instead of the ferocious, bloodthirsty bulldog, Caesar Napoleon, a huge, half-grown St. Bernard pup gamboled inside the gate, frisking about gleefully, and exhibiting, even so that Hicks, with all his innate dread of dogs, could understand it, a vast friendliness. In fact, he seemed trying to say, "That's fun. Come on and play with me some more!" "Hey, fellows," shrieked the relieved Hicks, "that ain't Caesar Napoleon! Why, he just wanted to play." Bewildered, the members of the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade of the Bannister College track squad rushed on the scene. To their surprise, they found not a savage bulldog, but a clumsy, good-natured St. Bernard puppy, who frisked wildly about them, groveled at their feet, and put his huge paws on them, with the playfulness of a juvenile elephant. "Why, it _isn't_ Nappie, for a fact!" gasped Butch. "Oh, I am so glad that old Bildad wasn't mean enough to put the bulldog after us, for he is dangerous. He scared us, though, and put this pup on our trail. He wanted to play, and he thought it all a game, when Hicks fled. Oho! What a joke on Hicks." "I don't care!" grinned Hicks, thus siding with the famous Eva Tanguay. "You fellows were fooled, too! You were too _scared_ to run, and if it had been Caesar Napoleon, I'd have saved your worthless lives by getting him after me! I'll bet Bildad is snickering now, the old reprobate! Why, Tug, are you _crazy_?" Tug Cardiff, indeed, gave indications of lunacy. He marched up to the road-gate, and stood close to it, so that the barbed wire top was even with his hair; then he backed off, and gazed first at the gate, then at the bewildered Hicks, while he grinned at the dazed squad in a Cheshire cat style. "Measure it, someone!" he shouted. "I am nearly six feet tall, and it comes even with the top of my dome! Can't you see, you brainless imbeciles, Hicks cleared it." "Wait for me here!" howled big Butch Brewster, climbing the fence and starting down the road at a pace that did credit even to that fast two-miler. The Brigade, In the absence of their leader, tried to estimate the height of the gate, and Hicks, gazing at its barbed-wire top, shuddered. The St. Bernard pup, having caused T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., for once in his indolent life to exert every possible ounce of energy in his splinter-frame, groveled at his feet, and strove to express his boundless joy at their presence. Butch Brewster, in fifteen minutes, returned, panting and perspiring, bearing a tape-measure, borrowed at the next farm-house. With all the solemnity of a sacred rite being performed, the youths waited, as Butch and Tug, holding the tape taut, carefully measured from the ground to the top of the barbed wire on the gate. Three times they did this, and then, with an expression of gladness on his honest countenance, Butch hugged the dazed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., while Tug Cardiff howled, "Now for the Intercollegiates and your track B, Hicks! You _can_ do five-ten in the meet, for Coach Brannigan said you could dear it, if only you did it _once_." "Why--what do you mean, Tug?" quavered Hicks, not daring to allow himself to believe the truth. "You--you surely don't mean--" "I mean, that now you _know_ you can jump that high," boomed Tug, executing a weird dance of exultation, In which, the Brigade joined, until it resembled a herd of elephants gone insane, "for you have done it--allowing for the sag, and everything, that gate is just five feet, ten inches high, and--_you cleared it_!" "Ladies and gentlemen--Hicks, of Bannister, is about to high jump! Hicks and McQuade, of Hamilton, are tied for first place at five feet eight inches! McQuade has failed three times at five-ten! Hicks' third and last trial! Height of bar--five feet ten inches!" This time, however, it was not big Tug Cardiff, imitating a Ballyhoo Bill, and inciting the Bannister youths to hilarity at the expense of the sunny-souled T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.; it was the Official Announcer at the Annual State Intercollegiate Field and Track Championships, on Bannister Field, and his announcement aroused a tumult of excitement in the Bannister section of the stands, as well as among the Gold and Green cinder-path stars. "Come on, Hicks, old man!" urged Butch Brewster, who, with a dozen fully as excited comrades of the cheery Hicks, surrounded that splinter-athlete. "It's positively your last chance to win your track B, or your letter in any sport, and please your Dad! If they lower the bar, and you two jump off the tie, McQuade's endurance will bring him out the winner." "You _can_ clear five-ten!" encouraged Bunch Bingham. "You did it once, when you believed Caesar Napoleon was after you. Just summon up that much energy now, and clear that bar! Once over, the event and your letter are won! Oh, if we only had that bulldog here, to sick on you." Sad to chronicle, the score-board of the Intercollegiates recorded the results of the events, so far, thus: HAMILTON ............35 BALLARD .............20 BANNISTER ...........28 It was the last event, and even did Hicks win the high-jump, McQuade's second place would easily give old Ham. the Championship. Hence, knowing that victory was not booked for an appearance on the Gold and Green banners, the Bannister youths, wild for the lovable, popular Hicks to win his Bs vociferously pulled for him: "Come on, Hicks--up and over, old man--it's _easy_!" "Jump, you Human Grass-Hopper--you can do it!" "Now or never, Hicks! One big jump does the work!" "Sick Caesar Napoleon on him, Coach; he'll clear it then!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., casting aside that flamboyant bathrobe, for what he believed was the last athletic event of his campus career, stood gazing at the cross-bar. One superhuman effort, a great explosion of all his energy, such as he had executed when he cleared the gate, thinking Caesar Napoleon was after him, and the event was won! He _had_ cleared that height, it was within his power. If he failed, as Butch said, the bar would be lowered, and then raised until one or the other missed once. McQuade, with his superior strength and endurance, must inevitably win, but as he had just missed on his third trial at five-ten, if Hicks cleared that height on _his_ final chance, the first place was his. "And my B!" murmured Hicks, tensing his muscles. "Oh, won't my Dad be happy? It will help him to realize some of his ambition, when I show him my track letter! It is positively my last chance, and I _must_ clear it." With a vast wave of determined confidence inundating his very being, Hicks started for the bar; after those first, peculiar, creeping steps, he had just started his gallop, when he heard Tug Cardiff's _basso_, magnified by a megaphone, roared: "All together, fellows--_let 'er go_--" Then, just as Hicks dug his spikes into the earth, in that short, mad sprint that gives the jumper his spring, just as he reached the take-off, a perfect explosion of noise startled him, and he caught a sound that frightened him, tensed as he was: "Woof! Woof! Bow! Wow! Woof! Woof! Woof! Look out, Hicks, Caesar Napoleon is after you!" Psychology Is inexplicable. Ever afterward, Hicks' comrades of that cross-country run averred strenuously that their roaring through megaphones, in concert, imitating Caesar Napoleon's savage bark at the psychological moment, flung the mosquito-like youth clear of the cross-bar and won him the event and his B. Hicks, however, as fervidly denied this statement, declaring that he would have won, anyhow, because he had summoned up the determination to do it! So it can not be stated just what bearing on his jump the plot of Butch Brewster really had. In truth, that behemoth had entertained a wild idea of actually hiring old Bildad and Caesar Napoleon to appear at the moment Hicks started for his last trial, but this weird scheme was abandoned! Fifteen minutes later, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., had escaped from the riotous Bannister students, delirious with joy at the victory of the beloved youth, the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope Brigade, capturing the grass-hopper Senior, gave him a shock second only to that which he had experienced when first he believed Caesar Napoleon was on his trail. "Perhaps our barking didn't make you jump it!" said Beef McNaughton, when Hicks indignantly denied that he had been scared over the cross-bar, "but indirectly, old man, we helped you to win! If we had not put up a hoax on you--" "A _hoax_?" queried the surprised Hicks. "What do you mean--hoax?" "It was all a frame-up!" grinned Butch Brewster, triumphantly. "We paid old Bildad five dollars to play his part, and as an actor, he has Booth and Barrymore backed off the stage! We got Coach Brannigan to send you along with us on the cross-country jog, and your absurd dread of dogs, Hicks, made it easy! Bildad, per instructions, produced Caesar Napoleon, and scared you. Then, with a telescope, he watched us, and when I gave the signal, he let loose Bob, the harmless St. Bernard pup, on our trail. "The pup, as he always does, chased after strangers, ready to play. We yelled for you to run, and you were so _scared_, you insect, you didn't wait to see the dog. Even when you looked back, in your alarm, you didn't know it was not Caesar Napoleon, for his grim visage was seared on your brain--I mean, where your brain ought to be! And even had you seen it wasn't the bulldog, you would have been frightened, all the same. But I confess, Hicks, when you sailed over that high gate, it was one on _us_." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., drew a deep breath, and then a Cheshire cat grin came to his cherubic countenance. So, after all, it had been a hoax; there had not been any peril. No wonder these behemoths had so courageously taken the cherries! But, beyond a doubt, the joke _had_ helped him to win his B. It had shown him he could clear five feet, ten inches, for he had done it--and, in the meet, when the crucial moment came, the knowledge that he _had_ jumped that high, and, therefore, could do it, helped--where the thought that he never had cleared it would have dragged him down. He had at last won his B, a part of his beloved Dad's great ambition was realized, and-- "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" quoth that sunny-souled, irrepressible youth, swaggering a trifle, "It was my mighty will-power, my terrific determination, that took me over the cross-bar, and not--_not_ your imitation of--" "Woof! Woof! Woof!" roared the "Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade" in thunderous chorus. "Sick him--Caesar Napoleon--!" CHAPTER XVII HICKS MAKES A RASH PROPHECY "Come on, Butch! Atta boy--some fin, old top! Say, you Beef--you're asleep at the switch. What time do you want to be called? More pep there, Monty--bust that little old bulb, Roddy! Aw, rotten! _Say_, Ballard, your playing will bring the Board of Health down on you--why don't you bring your first team out? Umpire? What--do you call that an umpire? Why, he's a highway robber, a bandit. Put a 'Please Help the Blind' sign on that hold-up artist!" Big Butch Brewster, captain of the Bannister College baseball squad, navigating down the third-floor corridor of Bannister Hall, the Senior dormitory, laden with suitcases, bat-bags, and other impedimenta, as Mr. Julius Caesar says, and vastly resembling a bell-hop in action, paused in sheer bewilderment on the threshold of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, cozy room. "Hicks!" stormed the bewildered Butch, wrathfully, "what in the name of Sam Hill _are_ you doing? Are you crazy, you absolutely insane lunatic? This is a study-hour, and even if _you_ don't possess an intellect, some of the fellows want to exercise their brains an hour or so! Stop that ridiculous action." The spectacle Butch Brewster beheld was indeed one to paralyze that pachydermic collegian, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., the sunny-souled, irrepressible Senior, danced madly about on the tiger-skin rug in midfloor, evidently laboring under the delusion that he was a lunatical Hottentot at a tribal dance; he waved his arms wildly, like a signaling brakeman, or howled through a big megaphone, and about his toothpick structure was strung his beloved banjo, on which the blithesome youth twanged at times an accompaniment to his jargon: "Come on, Skeet, take a lead (_plunkety-plunk_!) Say, d'ye wanta marry first base--divorce yourself from that sack! (_plunk-plunk_!) _Oh_, you bonehead--steal--you won't get arrested for it! Hi! Yi! _Ouch_, Butch! Oh, I'll be good--" At this moment, the indignant Butch abruptly terminated T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, noisy monologue by seizing that splinter-youth firmly by the scruff of the neck and forcibly hurling him on the davenport. Seeing his loyal class-mate's resemblance to a Grand Central Station baggage-smasher, the irrepressible Senior forthwith imitated a hotel-clerk: "Front!" howled the grinning Hicks, to an imaginary bellboy, "Show this gentleman to Number 2323! Are you alone, sir, or just by yourself? I think you will like the room-it faces on the coal-chute, and has hot and cold folding-doors, and running water when the roof leaks! The bed is made once a week, regularly, and--" "Hicks, you Infinitesimal Atom of Nothing!" growled big Butch, ominously. "What were you doing, creating all that riot, as I came down the corridor? What's the main idea, anyway, of--" "Heed, friend of my campus days," chortled the graceless Hicks, keeping a safe distance from his behemoth comrade, "tomorrow-your baseball aggregation plays Ballard College, at that knowledge-factory, for the Championship of the State. Because nature hath endowed me with the Herculean structure of a Jersey mosquito, I am developing a 56-lung-power voice, and I need practice, as _I_ am to be the only student-rooter at the game tomorrow! Q.E.D.! And as for any Bannister student, except perhaps Theophilus Opperdyke and Thor, desiring to investigate the interiors of their lexicons tonight, I prithee, just periscope the campus." "I guess you are right, Hicks!" grinned Butch Brewster, as he looked from the window, down on an indescribably noisy scene. "For once, your riotous tumult went unheard. Say, get your traveling-bag ready, and leave that pestersome banjo behind, if you want to go with the nine!" Several members of the Gold and Green nine, embryo American and National League stars, roosted on the Senior Fence between the Gymnasium and the Administration Building, with, suitcases and bat-bags on the grass. In a few minutes old Dan Flannagan's celebrated jitney-bus would appear in the offing, coming to transport the Bannister athletes downtown to the station, for the 9 P.M. express to Philadelphia. Incited by Cheer-Leaders Skeezicks McCracken and Snake Fisher, several hundred youths encouraged the nine, since, because of approaching final exams., they were barred by Faculty order from accompanying the team to Ballard. In thunderous chorus they chanted: "One more Job for the undertaker! More work for the tombstone maker! In the local ceme_tery_, they are very--very--_very_ Busy on a brand-new grave for--Ballard!" As the lovable Hicks expressed it, "'Coming events cast their shadows before.' Commencement overshadows our joyous campus existence!" However, no Bannister acquaintance of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., could detect wherein the swiftly approaching final separation from his Alma Mater had affected in the least that happy-go-lucky, care-free, irrepressible youth. If anything, it seemed that Hicks strove to fight off thoughts of the end of his golden campus years, using as weapons his torturesome saengerfests, his Beefsteak Busts down at Jerry's, and various other pastimes, to the vast indignation of his good friend and class-mate, Butch Brewster, who tried futilely to lecture him into the proper serious mood with which Seniors must sail through Commencement! "You are a Senior, Hicks, a Senior!" Butch would explain wrathfully. "You are popularly supposed to be dignified, and here you persist in acting like a comedian in a vaudeville show! I suppose you intend to appear on the stage, and, when handed your sheepskin, respond by twanging your banjo and roaring a silly ballad." Yet, the cheery Hicks had been very busy, since that memorable day when, thanks to Caesar Napoleon and the hoax of the Heavy-Weight-White-Hope-Brigade of the track squad, he had cleared the cross-bar at five-ten, and won the event and his white B! Mr. T. Haviland Hicks, Sr., overjoyed at his son's achievement, had sent him a generous check, which the youth much needed, and had promised to be present at the annual Athletic Association Meeting, at Commencement, when the B's were awarded deserving athletes, which caused Hicks as much joy as the pink slip. With his final study sprint for the Senior Finals, his duties as team-manager of the baseball nine, his preparations for Commencement, his social duties at the Junior Prom., and multifarious other details coincident to graduation, the heedless Hicks had not found time to be sorrowful at the knowledge that it soon would end, forever, that he must say "Farewell, Alma Mater," and leave the campus and corridors of old Bannister; yet soon even Hicks' ebullient spirits must fail, for Commencement was a trifle over a week off. "Hicks, you lovable, heedless, irrepressible wretch," said Big Butch, affectionately, as the two class-mates thrilled at the scene. "Does it penetrate that shrapnel-proof concrete dome of yours that the Ballard game tomorrow is the final athletic contest of my, and likewise your, campus career at old Bannister?" "Similar thoughts has smote my colossal intellect, Butch!" responded the bean-pole Hicks, gladsomely. "But--why seek to overshadow this joyous scene with somber reflections? You-should-worry. You have annexed sufficient B's, were they different, to make up an alphabet. You've won your letter on gridiron, track, and baseball field, and you've been team-captain of everything twice! Why, therefore, sheddest thou them crocodile tears?" "Not for myself, thou sunny-souled idler!" announced Butch, generously, "But for _thee_! I prithee, since you pritheed me a few moments hence, let that so-called colossal intellect of yours stride back along the corridors of Time, until it reaches a certain day toward the close of our Freshman year. Remember, you had made a hilarious failure of every athletic event you tried-football, basketball, track, and baseball; you had just made a tremendous farce of the Freshman-Sophomore track meet, and to me, your loyal comrade, you uttered these rash words, 'Before I graduate from old Bannister, I shall have won my B in three branches of sport!' "I reiterate and repeat, tomorrow's game with Ballard is the last chance you will have. There is no possibility that you, with your well-known lack of baseball ability, will get in the game, and--your track B, won in the high-jump, is the only B you have won! Now, do you still maintain that you will make good that rash vow?" "'Where there's a will, there's a way.' 'Never say die.' 'While there's life, there's hope.' 'Don't give up the ship.' 'Fight to the last ditch.' 'In the bright lexicon of youth there is no such word as _fail_,'" quoth the irrepressible Hicks, all in a breath. "As long as there is an infinitesimal fraction of a chance left, I repeat, just leave it to Hicks!" "You haven't got a chance in the world!" Butch assured him, consolingly. "You did manage to get into one football game, for a minute, and you were a 'Varsity player that long. By sticking to it, you have won your track B in the high-jump, thanks to your grass-hopper build, and we rejoice at your reward! Your Dad is happy that you've won a B, so why not be sensible, and cease this ridiculous talk of winning your B in _three_ sports, when you can see it is preposterously out of the question, absolutely impossible--" It was not that Butch. Brewster did not _want_ his sunny classmate to win his B in three sports, or that he would have failed to rejoice at Hicks' winning the triple honor. Had such a thing seemed within the bounds of possibility, Butch, big-hearted and loyal, would have been as happy as Hicks, or his Dad. But what the behemoth athlete became wrathful at was the obviously lunatical way in which the cheery Hicks, now that his college years were almost ended, parrot-like repeated, "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" when he must know all hope was dead. In truth, T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., in pretending to maintain still that he would make good the rash vow of his Freshman year, had no purpose but to arouse his comrade's indignation; but Butch, serious of nature, believed there really lurked in Hicks' system some germs of hope. "We never know, old top!" chuckled Hicks, though he was _sure_ he could never fulfill that promise, as he had not played three-fourths of a season on both the football and the baseball teams, "Something may show up at the last minute, and--" At that moment, something evidently did show up, on the campus below, for the enthusiastic students howled in: thunderous chorus, as the "Honk! Honk!" of a Claxon was heard, "Here he comes! All together, fellows--the Bannister yell for the nine--then for good old Dan Flannagan!" As Hicks and Butch watched from the window, old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus, to the discordant blaring of a horn, progressed up the driveway, even as it had done on that night in September, when it transported to the campus T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and Thor, the Prodigious Prodigy. Amid salvos of applause from the Bannister youths, and blasts of the Claxon, old Dan brought "The Dove" to a stop before the Senior Fence, and bowed to the nine, grinning genially the while. "The car waits at the door, sir!" spoke T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., touching his cap after the fashion of an English butler, before seizing a bat-bag, and his suit-case. "As team manager, I must attempt to force into Skeet Wigglesworth's dome how he and the five subs, are to travel on the C. N. & Q., to Eastminster, from Baltimore. Come on, Butch, we're off--" "You are always off!" commented Butch, good-humoredly, as he seized his baggage and followed the mosquito-like Hicks from the room, downstairs, and out on the campus. Here the assembled youths, with yells, cheers, and songs sandwiched between humorous remarks to Dan Flannagan, watched the thrilling spectacle of the Gold and Green nine, with the Team Manager and five substitutes, fifteen in all, squeeze into and atop of Dan Flannagan's jitney-Ford. "Let me check you fellows off," said Hicks, importantly, peering into the jitney, for he, as Team Manager, had to handle the traveling expenses. "Monty Merriweather, Roddy Perkins, Biff Pemberton. Butch Brewster, Skeet Wigglesworth, Beef McNaughton, Cherub Challoner, Ichabod Crane, Don Carterson; that is the regular nine, and are you five subs, present? O. K. Skeet, climb out here a second." Little Skeet Wigglesworth, the brilliant short-stop, climbed out with exceeding difficulty, and facing T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., he saluted in military fashion. The team manager, consulting a timetable of the C. N. &.Q. railroad, fixed him with a stern look. "Skeet," he spoke distinctly, "now, _get this_--myself and eight regulars, _nine_ in all, will take the 9 P. M. express for Philadelphia, and stay there all night. Tomorrow, at 8 A. M., we leave Broad Street Station for Eastminster, arriving at 11 A. M. _Now_ I have a lot of unused mileage on the C. N. & Q., and I want to use it up before Commencement. So, heed: you want to go _via_ Baltimore, to see your parents. You take the 9.20 P. M. express tonight, to Baltimore, and go from that city in the morning, to Eastminster, on the C. N, & Q.--it's the only road. And take the five subs with you, to devour the mileage. Now, has that penetrated thy bomb-proof dome?" "_Sure;_ you don't have to deliver a Chautauqua lecture, Hicks!" grinned Skeet. "Say, what time does my train leave Baltimore, in the A.M., for Eastminster?" "Let's see." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., handing the mileage-books to the shortstop, focused his intellect on the C. N. & Q. timetable. "Oh, yes--you leave Union Station, Baltimore, at 7:30 A.M., arriving at Eastminster at noon; _it is the only train, you can get,_ to make it in time for the game, so remember the hour--7.30 A.M.! Here, stuff the timetable in your pocket." In a few moments, the team and substitutes had been jammed into old Dan Flannagan's jitney, and the Bannister youths on the campus concentrated their interest on the sunny Hicks, who, grinning _à la_ Cheshire cat, climbed atop of "The Dove," which old Dan was having as much trouble to start as he had experienced for over twenty years with the late Lord Nelson, his defunct quadruped. Seeing Hicks abstract a Louisville Slugger from the bat-bag, the students roared facetious remarks at the irrepressible youth: "Home-run Hicks--he made a home-run--_on a strike-out_!"--"Put Hicks in the game, Captain Butch--he will win it."--"Watch Hicks--he'll pull some _bonehead_ play!"--"Bring home the Championship, but--lose Hicks somewhere!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as the battered engine of the jit. yielded to old Dan's cranking, and kindly consented to start, surveyed the yelling students, seized a bat, and struck an attitude which he fatuously believed was that of Ty Cobb, about to make a hit; taking advantage of a lull in the tumult, the lovable youth howled at the hilarious crowd: "Just leave it to Hicks! I will win the game and the _Championship_, for my Alma Mater, and--I'll do it by my headwork!" CHAPTER XVIII T. HAVILAND HICKS, JR'S. HEADWORK "Play Ball! Say, Bannister, are you _afraid_ to play?" "Call the game, Mr. Ump.--make 'em play ball!" "Batter up! Forfeit the game to Ballard, Umpire!" "Lend 'em Ballard's bat-boy-to make a full nine!" Captain Butch Brewster, his honest countenance, as a moving-picture director would express it, "registering wrathful dismay," lumbered toward the Ballard Field concrete dug-out, in which the Gold and Green players had entrenched themselves, while from the stands, the Ballard cohorts vociferated their intense impatience at the inexplicable delay. "We have _got_ to play," he raged, striding up and down before the bench. "The game is ten minutes late now, and the crowd is restless! And here we have only _eight_ 'Varsity players, and no one to make the ninth--not even a sub.! Oh, I could--" "That brainless Skeet Wigglesworth!" ejaculated T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who, arrayed like a lily of the field, reposed his splinter-structure on the bench with his comrades. "In some way, he managed to _miss_ that train from Baltimore! They didn't come on the noon C, N. & Q. train, and there isn't another one until night. My directions were as plain as a German war-map, and it beats me how Skeet got befuddled!" Gloom, as thick and abysmal as a London fog, hovered over the Bannister dug-out. On the concrete bench, the seven Gold and Green athletes, Beef, Monty, Roddy, Biff, Ichabod, Don, and Cherub, with Team Manager T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., stared silently at Captain Butch Brewster, who seemed in imminent peril of exploding. Something probably never before heard of in the annals of athletic history had happened. Bannister College, about to play Ballard the big game for the State Championship, had lost a short-stop and five substitutes, in some unfathomable manner, and it was impossible to round up one other member of the Gold and Green baseball squad. True, a hundred loyal alumni were in the stands, but only _bona fide_ students, of course, were eligible to play the game, and--the Faculty ruling had kept them at old Bannister! "Here comes Ballard's Manager," spoke Beef McNaughton, as a brisk, clean-cut youth advanced, a yellow envelope in hand. "Why, he has a telegram. Do you suppose Skeet actually had _brains_ enough to wire an explanation?" "Telegram for Captain Brewster!" announced the Ballard collegian, giving the message to that surprised behemoth. "It was sent in my care--collect, and the sender, name of Wigglesworth, fired one to me personally, telling me to deliver this one to Captain Butch Brewster, and collect from Team Manager Hicks--he surely didn't bother to save money! I've been out of town, and just got back to the campus; of course, the telegrams could not be delivered to anyone but me, hence the delay." Big Butch, thanking the Ballard Team Manager, and assuring him that the charges he had paid would be advanced to him after the game, ripped open the yellow envelope, and drew out the message. Like a thunder-storm gathering on the horizon, a dark expression came to good Butch's countenance, and when he had perused the lengthy telegram, he transfixed the startled and bewildered T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., with an angry glare: "_Bonehead_!" he raged, apparently controlling himself with a superhuman effort. "Oh, you lunatic, you wretch, villain--you--_you_--" To the supreme amazement and dismay of the puzzled Hicks, Beef, next in line, after _he_ had scanned Skeet's telegram, followed Butch's example, for _he_ glowered at the perturbed youth, and heaped condemnations on his devoted head. And so on down the line on the bench, until Monty, Roddy, Biff, Ichabod, Don, and Cherub, reading the message, joined in gazing indignantly at their gladsome Team Manager, who, as the eight arose _en masse_ and advanced on him, sought to flee the wrath to come. "Safety first!" quoth T, Haviland Hicks, Jr. "'Mine not to reason why, mine but to haste and fly,' or--be crushed! Ouch! Beef, Monty--have a heart!" Captured by Beef and Monty Merriweather, as he frantically scrambled up the steps of the concrete dug-out, the grinning Hicks was held in the firm grasp of that behemoth, Butch Brewster, aided by the skyscraper Ichabod, while Cherub Challoner thrust the telegram before his eyes. In words of fire that burned themselves into his brain--something his colleagues denied he possessed--T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., saw the explanation of Skeet Wigglesworth's missing the train from Baltimore that A. M. Dazed, the sunny youth read the message on which over-charges must be paid: "Hicks--you bonehead! The time-table of the C.N. & Q. you gave me was an old one--schedule revised two weeks ago! Train now leaves Balto. at 6.55 A.M.! When we got to station at 7.05 A.M. she had went! No train to Ballard till night! I and subs, had to wire Bannister for money to get back on! You mis-manager--the _head-work_ you boasted of is boneheadwork! Pay the charges on this, you brainless insect! I'll send it to Butch, for you'd never show it to him if I sent it to you! Indignantly-- "SKEET." "_Mis_-manager is _right_!" seethed Captain Butch, for once in his campus career really wrathy at the lovable Hicks. "We are in a fix--eight players, and the crowd howling for the game to start. Oh, I could jump overboard, and drag you with me!" "Bonehead! Bonehead!" chorused the Gold and Green players, indignantly. "Gave Skeet an out-of-date time-table--never looked at the date! Let's drag him out before the crowd, and announce to them his brilliant headwork!" Captain Butch, "up against it," to employ a slightly slang expression, gazed across Ballard Field. In the stands, the students responding thunderously to their cheer-leaders' megaphoned requests, roared, "Play ball! Play ball! Play ball!" Gay pennants and banners fluttered in the glorious sunshine of the June day. It was a bright scene, but its glory awakened no happiness in the heart of the Bannister leader, as his gaze wandered to the somewhat flabbergasted expression on the cheery Hicks' face. That inevitably sunny youth, however, managed to conjure up a faint resemblance of his Cheshire cat grin, and following his usual habit of letting nothing daunt his gladsome spirit, he croaked feebly: "Oh, just leave it to Hicks! I will--" "Play the game!" thundered Butch, inspired. "Beef, see the umpire and say we'll be ready as soon as we get Hicks into togs-show him the telegram, and explain our delay! I'll shift Monty from the outfield to Skeet's job at short, and put this diluted imitation of something human in the field, to do his worst. Come to the field-house, you poor fish--" "Oh, Butch, I can't--I just _can't_!" protested the alarmed Hicks, helpless, as the big athlete towed him from the trench, "I--I can't play ball, and I don't want to be shown up before all that mob! It's all right at Bannister, in class-games, but--Oh, can't you play the game with _eight_ fellows?" "That is just what we intend to do!" said Butch, with grim humor. "But--we'll have a dummy in the ninth position, to make the people believe we have a full nine! Cheer up, Hicks--'In the bright lexicon of youth there ain't no such word as fail,' you say! As for your making a fool of yourself, you haven't brains enough to be classed as one! Now--you'll pay dearly for your bonehead play." Ten minutes later, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., as agitated as a _prima donna_ making her début with the Metropolitan: Opera Company, decorated the Bannister bench, arrayed in one of the substitutes' baseball suits. It was too large for his splinter-structure, so that it flapped grotesquely, giving him a startling resemblance to a scarecrow escaped from a cornfield. With the thermometer of his spirits registering zero, the dismayed youth, whose punishment was surely fitting the crime, heard the Umpire bellow: "Play ball! Batter up! Bannister at bat--Ballard in the field!" Hicks, that sunny-souled youth, had often daydreamed of himself in a big game of baseball, for his college. He had vividly imagined a ninth inning crisis, three of the enemy on base, two out, and a long fly, good for a home-run, soaring over his head. How he had sprinted--back--back--and at the last second, reached high in the air, grabbing the soaring spheroid, and saving the game for his Alma Mater! Often, too, he had stepped up to bat in the final frame, with two out, one on base, and Bannister a run behind. With the vast crowd silent and breathless, he had walloped the ball, over the left-field fence, and jogged around the bases, thrilling to the thunderous cheers of his comrades. But now-- _"Oooo!"_ shivered Hicks, as though he had just stepped beneath an icy shower-bath. "I wish I could run away. I just _know_ they'll knock every ball to me, and I couldn't catch one with a sheriff and posse!" However, since, despite the blithesome Hicks' lack of confidence, it was that sunny Senior, after all, whom fate--or fortune, accordingly as each nine viewed it--destined to be the hero of the Bannister-Ballard Championship baseball contest, the game itself is shoved into such insignificance that it can be briefly chronicled by recording the events that led up to T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, self-prophesied "head-work." Without Skeet Wigglesworth at shortstop, with the futile Hicks in right-field, and the confidence of the nine shaken, Captain Butch Brewster and the Gold and Green players went into the big game, unable to shake off the feeling that they would be defeated. And when Pitcher Don Carterson, in his half of the frame, passed the first two Ballard batters, the belief deepened to conviction. However, a fast double play and a long fly ended the inning without damage, and Bannister, likewise, had failed to make an impression on the score-board. In the second, Don promptly showed that he was striving to rival the late Cy Morgan, of the Athletics, for he promptly hit two batters and passed the third, whereupon, as sporting-writers express it, he was "derricked" by Captain Butch. Placing the deposed twirler in left field, Captain Brewster, as a last resort, believing the game hopelessly lost, with his star pitcher having failed, and his relief slabmen, thanks to Hicks, mislaid _en route_, sent out to the box one Ichabod Crane, brought in from the position given to Don Carterson. This cadaverous, skyscraper Senior, who always announced, himself as originating, "Back at Bedwell Center, Pa., where I come from--" was well known to fame as the "Champion Horse-Shoe Pitcher of Bucks County," but his baseball pitching was rather uncertain; like the girl in the nursery jingle, Ichabod, as a twirler, "When he was good, he was very, very good, and when he was wild, he was _horrid_!" Like Christy Mathewson, after he had pitched a few balls, he knew whether or not he was in shape for the game, and so did the spectators. With terrific speed and bewildering curves, Ichabod would have made a star, but his wildness prevented, and only on very rare days could he control the ball. Luckily for old Bannister's chances of victory and the Championship, this was one of the elongated Ichabod's rare days. He ambled into the box, with the bases full, and promptly struck out a batter. The next rolled to first, forcing out the runner at home, while the third hitter under Ichabod's régime drove out a long fly to center-field. Thus the game settled to one of the most memorable contests that Ballard Field had ever witnessed, a pitchers' battle between the awkward, bean-pole youth from "Bedwell Center, Pa.," and Bob Forsythe, the crack Ballard twirler. It was a fight long to be remembered, with hits as scarce as auks' eggs, and runs out of the reckoning, for six innings. At the start of the seventh, with the Ballard rooters standing and thundering, "The lucky seventh! Ballard--win the game in the lucky seventh!" the score was 0-0. Only two hits had been made off Forsythe, of Ballard, whose change of pace had the Bannister nine at his mercy, and but three off Ichabod, who had superb control of his dazzling speed. T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., cavorting in right field, had made the only error of the contest, dropping an easy fly that fell into his hands after he had run bewilderedly in circles, when any good fielder could have stood still and captured it; however, since he got the ball to second in time to hold the runner at third, no harm resulted. "Hold 'em, Bannister, _hold_ 'em!" entreated Butch Brewster, as they went to the field at their end of the lucky seventh, not having scored. "Do your best, Hicks, old man--never mind their Jokes. If you can't _catch_ the ball, just get it to second, or first, without delay! Pitch ball, Ichabod--three innings to hold 'em!" But it was destined to be the lucky seventh for Ballard. An error on a hard chance, for Roddy Perkins, at third, placed a runner on first. Ichabod struck out a hitter, and the runner stole second, aided somewhat by the umpire. The next player flew out, sacrificing the runner to third; then--an easy fly traveled toward the paralyzed T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., one that anybody with the most infinitesimal baseball ability could have corralled, as Butch said, "with his eyes blindfolded, and his hands tied behind him!" But Hicks, who possessed absolutely _no_ baseball talent, though he made a desperate try, succeeded in doing an European juggling act for five heartbreaking seconds, after which he let the law of gravity act on the sphere, so that it descended to terra firma. Hence, the "Lucky Seventh" ended with the score: Ballard, 1; Bannister, 0; and the Ballard cohorts in a state bordering on lunacy! "Oh, I've done it now--I've lost the game and the Championship!" groaned the crushed Hicks, as he stumbled toward the Bannister bench. "First I made that bonehead play, giving Skeet an old time-table I had on hand, and not telling him to get one at the station. How was _I_ to know the old railroad would change the schedule, within two weeks of this game? And now--I've made the error that gives Ballard the Championship. If I hadn't pulled that boner, Skeet would be here, and the regular right-fielder would have had that fly. What a glorious climax to my athletic career at old Bannister!" Hicks' comrades were too generous, or heartbroken, to condemn the sorrowful youth, as he trailed to the dug-out, but the Ballard rooters had absolutely no mercy, and they panned him in regulation style. In fact, all through the game, Hicks expressed himself as being butchered by the fans to make a Ballard holiday, for he struck out with unfailing regularity at bat, and dropped everything in the field, so that the rooters jeered him, whenever he stepped to the plate, and--it was quite different from the good-natured ridicule of his comrades, back at old Bannister. "Never mind, Hicks," said good Butch Brewster, brokenly, seeing how sorrow-stricken his sunny classmate was, "We'll beat 'em--yet! We bat this inning, and in the ninth maybe someone will knock a home-run for us, and tie the score." The eighth Inning was the lucky one for the Gold and Green. Monty Merriweather opened with a clean two-base hit to left, and advanced to third on Biff Pemberton's sacrifice to short. Butch, trying to knock a home-run, struck out-_à la_ "Cactus" Cravath in the World's Series; but the lanky Ichabod, endeavoring to bunt, dropped a Texas-Leaguer over second, and the score was tied, though the sky-scraper twirler was caught off base a moment later. And, though Ballard fought hard in the last of the eighth, Ichabod displayed big-league speed, and retired two hitters by the strike-out route, while the third popped out to first. "The _ninth_ Inning!" breathed Beef McNaughton, picking up his Louisville Slugger, as he strode to the plate. "Come on, boys--we will win the Championship _right now_. Get one run, and Ichabod will hold Ballard one more time!" Perhaps the pachydermic Beef's grim attitude unnerved the wonderful Bob Forsythe, for he passed that elephantine youth. However, he regained his splendid control, and struck out Cherub Challoner on three pitched balls. After this, it was a shame to behold the Ballard first-baseman drop the ball, when Don Carterson grounded to third, and would have been thrown out with ease--with two on base, and one out, Roddy Perkins made a sharp single, on which the two runners advanced a base. Now, with the sacks filled, and with only one out-- "It's all over!" mourned Captain Butch Brewster, rocking back and forth on the bench. "Hicks--is--at--bat!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his bat wobbling, and his knees acting in a similar fashion, refusing to support even that fragile frame, staggered toward the plate, like a martyr. A tremendous howl of unearthly joy went up from the stands, for Hicks had struck out every time yet. "Three pitched balls, Bob!" was the cry. "Strike him out! It's all over but the shouting! He's scared to death, Forsythe--he can't hit a barn-door with a scatter-gun! One--two--three--out! Here's where Ballard wins the Championship." Twice the grinning Bob Forsythe cut loose with blinding speed--twice the extremely alarmed Hicks dodged back, and waved a feeble Chautauqua salute at the ball he never even saw! Then--trying to "cut the inside corner" with a fast inshoot, Forsythe's control wavered a trifle, and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., saw the ball streaking toward him! The paralyzed youth felt like a man about to be shot by a burglar. He could feel the bail thud against him, feel the terrific shock; and yet--a thought instinctively flashed on him, he remembered, in a flash, what a tortured Monty Merriweather had shouted, as he wobbled to bat: "Get a base on balls, or--if you can't _make_ a hit--_get hit_!" If he got hit--it meant a run forced in, as the bases were full! That, in all probability, would give old Bannister the Championship, for Ichabod was invincible. It is not likely that the dazed Hicks thought all this out, and weighed it against the agony of getting hit by Forsythe's speed. The truth is, the paralyzed youth was too petrified by fear to dodge, and that before he could avoid it, the speeding spheroid crashed against his noble brow with a sickening impact. All went black before him, T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., pale and limp, crumpled, and slid to the ground, senseless; therefore, he failed to hear the roar from the Bannister bench, from the loyal Gold and Green rooters in the stands, as big Beef lumbered across the plate with what proved later to be the winning run. He did not hear the Umpire shout: "Take your base!" "What's the matter with our Hicks--he's all right! What's the matter with our Hicks--he's all right! He was never a star in the baseball game, But he won the Championship just the same-- What's the matter with our Hicks-he's all right!" "Honk! Honk!" Old Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus, rattling up the driveway, bearing back to the Bannister campus the victorious Gold and Green nine, and the State Intercollegiate Baseball Championship, though the hour was midnight, found every student on the grass before the Senior Fence! Over three hundred leather-lunged youths, aided by the Bannister Band, and every known noise-making device, hailed "The Dove," as that unseaworthy craft halted before them, with the baseball nine inside, and on top. However, the terrific tumult stilled, as the bewildered collegians caught the refrain from the exuberant players: "He was never a star in the baseball game-- But he won the Championship just the same-- What's the matter with our Hicks--he's all right!" "Hicks did what?" shrieked Skeezicks McCracken, voicing through a megaphone the sentiment of the crowd. Captain Butch had simply telegraphed the final score, so old Bannister was puzzled to hear the team lauding T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who, still white and weak, with a bandage around his classic forehead, maintained a phenomenal quiet, atop of "The Dove," leaning against Butch Brewster. "Fellows," shouted Butch, despite Hicks' protest, rising to his feet on the roof of the "jit."--"T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., today won the game and the Championship! Listen--" The vast crowd of erstwhile clamorous youths stood spellbound, as Captain Butch Brewster, in graphic sentences, described the game--Don Carterson's failure, Ichabod's sensational pitching, Hicks' errors, and--the wonderful manner in which the futile youth had won the Championship! As little Skeet Wigglesworth and the five substitutes, who had returned that afternoon, had spread the story of Hicks' bonehead play, old Bannister had turned out to ridicule and jeer good-naturedly the sunny youth, but now they learned that Hicks had been forced by his own mistake into the Big Game, and had won it! Of course, his comrades knew it had been through no ability of his, but the knowledge that he had been knocked senseless by Forsythe's great speed, and had suffered so that his college might score, thrilled them. "What's the matter with Hicks?" thundered Thor, he who at one time would have called this riot foolishness, and forgetting that the nine had just chanted the response to this query. "He's all right!" chorused the collegians, in ecstasy. "Who's all right?" demanded John Thorwald, his blond head towering over those of his comrades. To him, now, there was nothing silly about this performance! "Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" came the shout, and the band fanfared, while the exultant collegians shouted, sang, whistled, and created an indescribable tumult with their noise-making devices. For five minutes the ear-splitting din continued, a wonderful tribute to the lovable, popular youth, and then it stilled so suddenly that the result was startling, for--T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., swaying on his feet arose, and stood on the roof of the "jit." With that heart-warming Cheshire cat grin on his cherubic countenance, the irrepressible Hicks seized a Louisville Slugger, assumed a Home-Run Baker batting pose, and shouted to his breathlessly waiting comrades: "Fellows, I vowed I would win that baseball game and the Championship for my Alma Mater by my headwork! With the bases full, and the score a tie, the Ballard pitcher hit me in the head with the ball, forcing in the run that won for old Ballard--now, if that wasn't _headwork_--" CHAPTER XIX BANNISTER GIVES HICKS A SURPRISE PARTY "We have come to the close of our college days. Golden campus years soon must end; From Bannister we shall go our ways-- And friend shall part from friend! On our Alma Mater now we gaze, And our eyes are filled with tears; For we've come to the close of our college days, And the end of our campus years!" Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., Bannister, '92; Yale, '96, and Pittsburgh millionaire "Steel King," stood at the window of Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, room, his arm across the shoulders of that sunny-souled Senior, his only son and heir. Father and son stood, gazing down at the campus. On the Gym steps was a group of Seniors, singing songs of old Bannister, songs tinged with sadness. Up to Hicks' windows, on the warm June: night, drifted the 1916 Class Ode, to the beautiful tune, "A Perfect Day." Over before the Science Hall, a crowd of joyous alumni laughed over narratives of their campus escapades. Happy undergraduates, skylarking on the campus, celebrated the end of study, and gazed with some awe at the Seniors, in cap and gown, suddenly transformed into strange beings, instead of old comrades and college-mates. "'The close of our college days, and the end of our campus years--!'" quoted Mr. Hicks, a mist before his eyes as he gazed at the scene. "In a few days, Thomas, comes the final parting from old Bannister--I know it will be hard, for _I_ had to leave the dear old college, and also Yale. But you have made a splendid record in your studies, you have been one of the most popular fellows here, and--you have vastly pleased your Dad, by winning your B in the high-jump." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, last study-sprint was at an end, the final Exams. of his Senior year had been passed with what is usually termed flying colors; and to the whole-souled delight of the lovable youth, he and little Theophilus Opperdyke, the Human Encyclopedia, had, as Hicks chastely phrased it, "run a dead heat for the Valedictory!" So close had their final averages been that the Faculty, after much consideration, decided to announce at the Commencement exercises that the two Seniors had tied for the highest collegiate honors, and everyone was satisfied with the verdict. So, now it was all ended; the four years of study, athletics, campus escapades, dormitory skylarking--the golden years of college life, were about to end for 1919. Commencement would officially start on the morrow, but tonight, in the Auditorium, would be held the annual Athletic Association meeting, when those happy athletes who had won their B during the year would have it presented, before the assembled collegians, by one-time gridiron, track, and diamond heroes of old Bannister. And--the ecstatic Hicks would have his track B, his white letter, won in the high-jump, thanks to Caesar Napoleon's assistance, awarded him by his beloved Dad, the greatest all-round athlete that ever wore the Gold and Green! Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., _en route_ to New Haven and Yale in his private car, "Vulcan," had reached town that day, together with other members of Bannister College, Class of '92. They, as did all the old grads., promptly renewed past memories and associations by riding up to College Hill in Dan Flannagan's jitney-bus--a youthful, hilarious crowd of alumni. Former students, alumni, parents of graduating Seniors, friends, sweethearts--every train would bring its quota. The campus would again throb and pulsate with that perennial quickening--Commencement. Three days of reunions, Class Day exercises, banquets, and other events, then the final exercises, and--T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., would be an alumnus! "It's like Theophilus told Thor, last fall, Dad," said the serious Hicks. "You know what Shakespeare said: 'This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong; To love that well which thou must leave ere long.' Now that I soon shall leave old Bannister, I--I wish I had studied more, had done bigger things for my Alma Mater! And for you, Dad, too; I've won a B, but perhaps, had I trained and exercised more, I might have annexed another letter--still; hello, what's Butch hollering--?" Big Butch Brewster, his pachydermic frame draped in his gown, and his mortar-board cap on his head, for the Seniors were required to wear their regalia during Commencement week, was bellowing through a megaphone, as he stood on the steps of Bannister Hall, and Mr. Hicks, with his cheerful son, listened: "Everybody--Seniors, Undergrads., Alumni--in the Auditorium at eight sharp! We are going to give Mr. Hicks and T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a surprise party--don't miss the fun!" "Now, just what does Butch mean, Dad?" queried the bewildered Senior. "Something is in the wind. For two days, the fellows have had a secret from me--they whisper and plot, and when _I_ approach, loudly talk of athletics, or Commencement! Say, Butch--_Butch_--I ain't a-comin' tonight, unless you explain the mystery." "Oh, yes, you be, old sport!" roared Butch, from the campus, employing the megaphone, "or you don't get your letter! Say, Hicks, one sweetly solemn thought attacks me--old Bannister is puzzling _you_ with a mystery, instead of vice versa, as is usually the case." "Well, Thomas," said Mr. Hicks, his face lighted by a humorous, kindly smile, as he heard the storm of good-natured jeers at Hicks, Jr., that greeted Butch Brewster's fling, "I'll stroll downtown, and see if any of my old comrades came on the night express. I'll see you at the Athletic Association meeting, for I believe I am to hand you the B. I can't imagine what this 'surprise party' is, but I don't suppose it will harm us. It will surely be a happy moment, son, when I present you with the athletic letter you worked so hard to win." When T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, beloved Dad had gone, his firm stride echoing down the corridor, that blithesome, irrepressible collegian, whom old Bannister had come to love as a generous, sunny-souled youth, stood again by the window, gazing out at the campus. Now, for the first time, he fully realized what a sad occasion a college Commencement really is--to those who must go forth from their Alma Mater forever. With almost the force of a staggering blow, Hicks suddenly saw how it would hurt to leave the well-loved campus and halls of old Bannister, to go from those comrades of his golden years. In a day or so, he must part from good Butch, Pudge, Beef, Ichabod, Monty, Roddy, Cherub, loyal little Theophilus and all his classmates of '19, as well as from his firm friends of the undergraduates. It would be the parting from the youths of his class that would cost him the greatest regret. Four years they had lived together the care-free campus life. From Freshmen to Seniors they had grown and developed together, and had striven for 1919 and old Bannister, while a love for their Alma Mater had steadily possessed their hearts. And now soon they must sing, "Vale, Alma Mater!" and go from the campus and corridors, as Jack Merritt, Heavy Hughes, Biff McCabe, and many others had done before them. Of course, they would return to old Bannister. There would be alumni banquets at mid-year and Commencement, with glad class reunions each year. They would come back for the big games of the football or baseball season. But it would never be the same. The glad, care-free, golden years of college life come but once, and they could never live them, as of old. "Caesar's Ghost!" ejaculated T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., making a dive for his beloved banjo, as he awakened to the startling fact that for some time he had been intensely serious. "This will never, never do. I must maintain my blithesome buoyancy to the end, and entertain old Bannister with my musical ability. Here goes." Assuming a striking pose, _à la_ troubadour, at the open window, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., a somewhat paradoxical figure, his splinter-structure enshrouded in the gown, the cap on his classic head, this regalia symbolic of dignity, and the torturesome banjo in his grasp, twanged a ragtime accompaniment, and to the bewilderment of the old Grads on the campus, as well as the wrath of 1919, he roared in his fog-horn voice: "Oh, I love for to live in the country! And I love for to live on the farm! I love for to wander in the grass-green fields-- Oh, a country life has the charm! I love for to wander in the garden-- Down by the old haystack; Where the pretty little chickens go 'Kick-Kack-Kackle!' And the little docks go 'Quack! Quack!'" From the Seniors on the Gym steps, their dignified song rudely shattered by this rollicking saenger-fest, came a storm of protests; to the unbounded delight of the alumni, watching the scene with interest, shouts, jeers, whistles, and cat-calls greeted Hicks' minstrelsy: "Tear off his cap and gown--he's a disgrace to '19!" "Shades of Schumann-Heink--give that calf more rope!" "Ye gods--how long must we endure--that?" "Hicks, a Senior--nobody home--can that noise!" "Shoot him at sunrise! Where's his Senior dignity?" Big Butch Brewster, referring to his watch, bellowed through the megaphone that it was nearly eight o'clock, and loudly suggested that they forcibly terminate Hicks' saengerfest, and spare the town police force a riot call to the campus, by transporting the pestiferous youth to the Auditorium, for his "surprise party." His idea finding favor, he, with Beef and Pudge, somewhat hampered by their gowns, lumbered up the stairway of Bannister, and down the third-floor corridor to the offending Hicks' boudoir, followed by a yelling, surging crowd of Seniors and underclassmen. They invaded the graceless youth's room, much to the pretended alarm of that torturesome collegian, who believed that the entire student-body of old Bannister had foregathered to wreak vengeance on his devoted head. "_Mercy_! Have a heart, fellows!" plead T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., helpless in the clutches of Butch, Beef, and Pudge, "I won't never do it no more, no time! Say, this is too much--much too much--too much much too much--I, Oh--_help--aid--succor--relief--assistance--"_ "To the Auditorium with the wretch!" boomed Butch; and the splinter-youth was borne aloft, on his broad shoulders, assisted by Beef McNaughton. They transported the grinning Hicks down the corridor, while fifty noisy youths, howling, "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow!" tramped after them. Downstairs and across the campus the hilarious procession marched, and into the Auditorium, where the students and alumni were gathering for the awarding of the athletic B. A thunderous shout went up, as T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was carried to the stage and deposited in a chair. "_Hicks! Hicks! Hicks_! We've got a surprise for--_Hicks_!" "Now, just what have I did to deserve all these?" grinned that happy-go-lucky youth, puzzled, nevertheless. "Well, time will tell, so all I can do is to possess my soul with impatience; old Bannister has a mystery for me, this trip!" In fifteen minutes, the Athletic Association meeting opened. On the stage, beside its officers, were those athletes, including T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., who were to receive that coveted reward--their B, together with a number of one-time famous Bannister gridiron, track, basketball, and diamond stars. Each youth was to receive his monogram from some ex-athlete who once wore the Gold and Green, and Hicks' beloved Dad--Bannister's greatest hero--was to present his son with the letter. There were speeches; the Athletic Association's President explained the annual meeting, former Bannister students and athletic idols told of past triumphs on Bannister Field; the football Championship banner, and the baseball pennant were flaunted proudly, and each team-captain of the year was called upon to talk. Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., a great favorite on the campus, delivered a ringing speech, an appeal to the undergraduates for clean living, and honorable sportsmanship, and then: "We now come to the awarding of the athletic B," stated the President. "The Secretary will call first the name of the athlete, and then the alumnus who will present him with the letter. In the name of the Athletic Association of old Bannister, I congratulate those fellows who are now to be rewarded for their loyalty to their Alma Mater!" Thrilled, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., watched his comrades, as they responded to their names, and had the greatest glory, the B, placed in their hands by past Bannister athletic heroes. Butch, Beef, Roddy, Monty, Ichabod, Biff, Hefty, Tug, Buster, Deacon Radford, Cherub, Don, Skeet, Thor, who had won the hammer-throw. These, and many others, having earned the award by playing in three-fourths of a season's games on the eleven or the nine, or by winning a first place in some track event, stepped forward, and were rewarded. Some, as good Butch, had gained their B many times, but the fact that this was their last letter, made the occasion a sad one. Every name was called but that of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and that perturbed youth wondered at the omission, when the President spoke: "The last name," he said, smiling, "is that of Thomas Haviland Hicks, Jr., and we are glad to have his father present the letter to his son, as Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., is with us. However, we Bannister fellows have prepared a surprise party for our lovable comrade, and I beg your patience awhile, as I explain." Graphically, Dad Pendleton described the wonderful all-round athletic record made by Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., while at old Bannister, and sketched briefly but vividly his phenomenal record at Yale; he told of Mr. Hicks' great ambition, for his only son, Thomas, to follow in his footsteps--to be a star athlete, and shatter the marks made by his Dad. Then he reminded the Bannister students of T. Haviland Hicks, Jr.'s, athletic fiascos, hilarious and otherwise, of three years. He explained how that cheery youth, grinning good-humoredly at his comrades' jeers, had been in earnest, striving to realize his father's ambition. As the spellbound collegians and grads. listened, Dad chronicled Hicks' dogged persistence, and how he finally, in his Senior year, won his track B in the high-jump. Then he described the biggest game of the past football season, the contest that brought the Championship to old Bannister. The youths and alumni heard how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., made a great sacrifice, for the greater goal; how, after training faithfully in secret for a year, hoping sometime to win a game for his Alma Mater, he cheerfully sacrificed his chance to tie the score by a drop-kick, and became the pivotal part of a fake-kick play that won for the Gold and Green. "I have left Hicks' name until last," said Dad, with a smile, "because tonight we have a surprise party for our sunny comrade, and for his Dad. In the past, the eligibility rule, as regards the football and baseball B, has been--an athlete must play on the 'Varsity in three-fourths of the season's games. But, just before the Hamilton game, last fall, the Advisory Board of the Athletic Association amended this rule. "We decided to submit to the required two-thirds majority vote of the students this plan, inasmuch as many athletes, toiling and sacrificing all season for their college, never get to win their letter, yet deserve that reward for their loyalty, we suggested that Bannister imitate the universities. Anyone sent into the Yale-Harvard game, you know, wins his H or Y. If one team is safely ahead, a lot of scrubs are run into the scrimmage, to give them their letter. Therefore, we--the Advisory Board--made this rule: 'Any athlete taking part, for any period of time whatsoever, in the Ballard football or baseball game as a regular member of the first team shall be eligible for his Gold or Green B. This rule, upon approval of the students, to be effective from September 25!' "Now," continued the Athletic Association President, "we decided to keep this new ruling a secret until the present, for this reason: Many good football and baseball players, not making the first teams, lack the loyalty to stick on the scrubs, and others, not as brilliant, but with more college spirit, give their best until the season's end. We knew that if we announced this rule last fall, several slackers, who had quit the squad, would come out again, just on the hope of getting sent into the Ballard game, for their B. This would not be fair to those who loyally stuck to the scrubs. So we did not announce the rule until the year closed, and then a practically unanimous vote of the students made the rule effective from September 25. So--all athletes who took part in the Ballard football game, last fall, for any period of time whatsoever, are eligible for the gold B, and the same, as regards the green letter, applies to the Ballard baseball game this spring." T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., gasped. Slowly, the glorious truth dawned on the happy-go-lucky Senior--he had been sent into the Bannister-Ballard football game; the crucial and deciding play had turned on him, hence he had won his gold letter! And thanks to his brilliant "mismanaging" of the nine, losing shortstop Skeet Wigglesworth and the substitutes, he had played the entire nine innings of the Ballard-Bannister baseball contest, and, therefore, was eligible for his green B. In a dazed condition, he heard Dad Pendleton saying: "You remember how T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., was sent into the Ballard game, and how the fake-play fooled Ballard, who believed he would try a drop-kick? Well, knowing Hicks to be eligible for his football B, we planned a surprise party. The Advisory Board kept the new rule a secret, and not until this week was it voted on. Then, the required two-thirds majority made it effective from last September--we managed to have Hicks absent from the voting, and the fellows helped us with our surprise! So instead of Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., presenting his son with one B, that for track work, we are glad to hand him _three_ letters, one for football, one for baseball, and one for track, to give our own T. Haviland Hicks, Jr. And, let me add, he can accept them with a clear conscience, for when the rule was made by the Advisory Board, we had no idea that Hicks would ever be eligible in football or baseball." A moment of silence, and then undergraduates and alumni, thrilled at Dad Pendleton's announcement, arose in a body, and howled for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his beloved Dad. Mr. Hicks, unable to speak, silently placed the three monograms, gold, green, and white, in his son's hands, and placed his own on the shoulders of that sunny-souled Senior, who for once in his heedless career could not say a word! "What's the matter with Hicks?" Big Butch Brewster roared, and a terrific response sounded: "He's all right! Hicks! Hicks! Hicks!" For ten minutes pandemonium reigned. Then, regardless of the fact that, in order to surprise Mr. Hicks and his son, other athletes, eligible under the new rule, had yet to be presented with their B, the howling youths swarmed on the stage, hoisted the grinning T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his happy Dad to their shoulders, and started a wild parade around the campus and the Quadrangle, singing: "Here's to our own Hicks--drink it down! Drink it down! Here's to our own Hicks--drink it down! Drink it down! Here's to our own Hicks--When he starts a thing, he sticks--Drink it down--drink it down--down! Down! Down!" T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., aloft on the shoulders of his behemoth class-mate, Butch Brewster, was deliriously happy. The surprise party of his campus comrades was a wonderful one, and he could scarcely realize that he had actually, by the Athletic Association ruling, won his three B's! How glad his beloved Dad, was, too. He had not expected this bewildering happiness. He had been so joyous, when his sort earned the track letter, but to have him leave old Bannister, with a B for three sports--it was almost unbelievable! And, as Dad had said--there had been no thought of Hicks when the Advisory Board made the rule, so Hicks had no reason to suppose it was done just to award him his letter. Then, Hicks remembered that rash vow, made at the end of his Freshman year, a vow uttered with absolutely no other thought than a desire to torment Butch Brewster, "Before I graduate from old Bannister, I shall have won my B in three branches of sport!" Never, not even for a moment, had the happy-go-lucky youth believed that his wild prophecy would be fulfilled, though he had pretended to be confident to tease his loyal comrades; but now, at the very end of his campus days, just before he graduated, his prediction had come true! So the sunny Senior, who four years before had made his rash vow, saw its realization, and suddenly thrilled with the knowledge that he had a golden opportunity to make Butch indignant. "Oh, I say, Butch," he drawled, nonchalantly, leaning down to talk in Butch's ear, "do you recall that day, at the close of our Freshman year, when I vowed to win my B in three branches of sport, ere I bade farewell to old Bannister?" "No, you don't get away with that!" exploded Butch Brewster, indignantly, lowering his tantalizing classmate to terra firma. "Here, Beef, Pudge, catch this wretch; he intends to swagger and say--" But he was too late, for T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., dodging from his grasp, imitated the celebrated Charley Chaplin strut, and satiated his fun-loving soul. After waiting for three years, the irrepressible youth realized an ambition he had never imagined would be fulfilled. "Oh, just leave it to Hicks!" quoth he, gladsomely. "I told you I'd win my three B's, Butch, old top, and--_ow_!--unhand me, you villain, you _hurt_!" CHAPTER XX "VALE, ALMA MATER!" "Oh, it was '_Ave_, Alma Mater--' We sang as Freshmen gay; But it's '_Vale_, Alma Mater' now As our last farewells we say!" "_Honk-Honk! Br-r-rr-r-Bang! Honk-Monk! Br-rr-rr-r--"_ T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., big Butch Brewster, Beef McNaughton, Pudge Langdon, Scoop Sawyer, and little Theophilus Opperdyke--late Seniors of old Bannister--roosted atop of good old Dan Flannagan's famous jitney-bus before Bannister Hall. It was nearly time for the 9.30 A. M. express, but the "peace-ship" had inconsiderately stalled, and the choking, wheezing, and snorting of the engine, as old Dan frenziedly cranked, together with the Claxon, operated by Skeet Wigglesworth, rudely interrupted the Seniors' chant. A vociferous protest arose above the tumult: "Oh, the little old _Ford_--rambled right along--like heck!" "Can that noise-we want to sing a last song, boys!" "Chuck that engine, Dan, and put in an alarm clock spring!" "Christmas is coming, Dan-u-el--we've graduated you know!" "'The Dove' doesn't want us to leave old Bannister, fellows!" Commencement was ended. The night before, on the stage of Alumni Hall, before a vast audience of old Bannister grads, undergraduates, friends, and relatives of the Seniors, the Class of 1919 had received its sheepskins, and the "Go forth, my children, and live!" of its Alma Mater. T, Haviland Hicks, Jr., and timorous little Theophilus had jointly delivered the Valedictory, eight other Seniors, including Butch, Scoop, and the lengthy Ichabod, had swayed the crowd with oratory. Kindly old Prexy, his voice tremulous, had talked to them, as students, for the last time. The Class Ode had been sung, the Class Shield unveiled, and then--Hicks and his comrades of '19 were alumni! It had been a busy, thrilling time, Commencement Week. There had been scarcely any spare moments to ponder on the parting so soon to come; after the memorable Athletic Association meeting, when T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his beloved Dad had been given a wonderful "surprise party" by the collegians, and Hicks had corralled his three B's, time had "sprinted with spiked shoes," as the sunny Hicks stated. Event had followed event in bewildering fashion. The Seniors, dignified in cap and gown, had been fêted and banqueted, the cynosure of all eyes. Campus and town were filled with visitors. Old Bannister pulsated with renewed life, with the glad reunions of former students. There had been the Alumni Banquet, the annual baseball game between the 'Varsity and old-time Gold and Green diamond stars, Class Night exercises, the Literary Society Oratorical Contests, and the last Class Supper; and, Commencement had come. It was all ended now--the four happy, golden years of campus life, of glad fellowship with each other; like those who had gone before, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., and his comrades of 1919 had come to the final parting. The sunny-souled youth's Dad had gone to New Haven, to Yale's Commencement. Alumni and visitors had left town; the night before had witnessed farewells with Monty, Roddy, Biff, Hefty, and the underclassmen, with that awakened Colossus, John Thorwald. All the collegians had gone, except the few Seniors now leaving, and they had remained to enjoy Hicks' final Beefsteak Bust downtown at Jerry's. The campus was silent and deserted. No footsteps or voices echoed in the dormitories, and a shadow of sadness hovered over all. The youths who were leaving old Bannister forever felt an ache in their throats, and little Theophilus Opperdyke's big-rimmed spectacles were fogged with tears. Three times, in the past, they had left the campus, but this was forever, as collegians! "I don't care if we miss the old train!" declared Scoop Sawyer, as the jitney-Ford's engine wheezed, gasped, and was silent, for all of Dan's cranking. "Just think, fellows, it's all over now--'We have come to the end of our college days-golden campus years are at an end--!' Say, Hicks, old man, what's your Idea. What future have you blue-printed?" "Journalism!" announced T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., sticking a fountain pen behind his ear, and fatuously supposing he resembled a City Editor, "In me you behold an embryo Richard Harding Davis, or Ty--no, I mean Irvin Cobb. I shall first serve my apprenticeship as a 'cub,' but ere many years, I shall sit at a desk, run a newspaper, and tell the world where to get off." "That is--If Dad says so!" chuckled Butch Brewster. "You know, Hicks, it's the same old story--your father wants you to learn how to own steel and iron mills, and when it comes to a showdown, you must convince Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr., that you'd make a better journalist than Steel King!" "Nay, nay-say not so!" responded the happy-go-lucky alumnus of old Bannister, as the perspiring Dan Flannagan cranked away futilely. "My Dad has a broader vision, fellows, than most men. He and I talked it over last night, and he would never try to make me take up anything but a work that appeals to me. While, as Butch says, he'd like to train me to follow in his footsteps, he understands my ambition so thoroughly that he is trying to get me started--read this:" The lovable youth produced a letter, the envelope bearing the heading: "THE BALTIMORE CHRONICLE;" Butch Brewster, to whom he extended it, read aloud: "Baltimore, Maryland, "June 12, 1919. "DEAR OLD CLASSMATE: "I'd sure like to be with you, back at old Yale, next week, but I can't leave the wheel of this ship, the _Chronicle_, for even a day. Give my regards to all of old Eli, '96, old man. "As regards a berth for your son, Thomas. The _Chronicle_ usually takes on a few college men during the summer, when our staff is off on vacations. We always use undergraduates, and often, in two or three summers, we develop them into star reporters. However, for old time's sake, I'll be glad to give your son a chance, and if he means business, let him report for duty next Friday, at 1 P.M., to my office. Understand, Hicks, he must come here and fight his own way, without any favor or special help from me. Were he the son of our nation's President, I'd not treat him a whit better than the rest of the Staff, so let him know that in advance. On the other hand, I'll develop him all I can, and if he has the ability, the _Chronicle_ long-room is the place for him. "Yours for old Yale, "'Doc' Whalen, Yale, '96, "City Editor--_THE CHRONICLE_." "Here's my Dad's ultimatum," grinned Hicks, when. Butch finished the letter. "I am to take a summer as a cub on the _Baltimore Chronicle_, making my own way, and living on my weekly salary, without financial aid from anyone. If, at the end of the summer, City Editor Whalen reports that I've made good enough to be retained as a regular, then--Yours truly for the Fourth Estate. If I fail, then I follow a course charted out by Mr. Thomas Haviland Hicks, Sr.! So, it is up to me to make good--" "You--you will make good, Hicks," quavered Theophilus, whose faith in the shadow-like youth was prodigious. "Oh, that will be splendid, for I am going to take a course at a business college in Baltimore. I want to become an expert stenographer, and we'll be together." "It's work now, fellows!" sighed Beef McNaughton, shifting his huge bulk atop of the jit "College years are ended, we're chucked into the world, to make good, or fail! Butch and I have not decided on our work yet. We may accept jobs as bank or railroad presidents, or maybe run for President of the U.S.A., provided John McGraw or Connie Mack do not sign us up. However--" At that moment, the engine of old Dan Flannagan's battered "Dove" consented to hit on two cylinders, and the genial Irishman, who was to transport Hicks and his comrades, as collegians, for the last time, yelled, "_All aboard_!" loudly, to conceal his emotion at the sad scene. "We're off!" shrieked Skeet Wigglesworth, stowed away below, as the jitney-bus moved down the driveway. "Farewell, dear old Bannister! Run slow, Dan, we want to gaze on the campus as long as we can." The youths were silent, as the 'bus rolled slowly down the driveway and under the Memorial Arch, old Dan, sympathizing with them, and finding he could make the express by a safe margin, allowing the jitney to flutter along at reduced speed. From its top, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., his vision blurred with tears, gazed back with his class-mates. He saw the campus, its grass green, with stately old elms bordering the walks, and the golden June sunshine bathing everything in a soft radiance. He beheld the college buildings--the Gym., the Science Hall, the Administration Building, Recitation Hall, the ivy-covered Library; the white Chapel, and the four dorms., Creighton, Smithson, Nordyke, Bannister. One year he had spent in each, and every year had been one of happiness, of glad comradeship. He could see Bannister Field, the scene of his many hilarious athletic fiascos. And now he was leaving it all--had come to the end of his college course, and before him lay Life, with its stern realities, its grim obstacles, and hard struggles; ended were the golden campus days, the gay skylarking in the dorms. Gone forever were the joyous nights of entertaining his comrades, of Beefsteak Busts down at Jerry's. Silenced was his beloved banjo, and no more would his saengerfests bother old Bannister. A turn in the street, and the campus could not be seen. As the last vision of their Alma Mater vanished, T. Haviland Hicks, Jr., smiling sunnily through his tear-blurred eyes, gazed at his comrades of old '19-- "Say, fellows--" he grinned, though his voice was shaky, "let's--let's start in next September, and--do it all over again!"