The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 17
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.