The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 24
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.