"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 meet-
