"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
