The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 26
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 Lighten 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. Lighten 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, weVe 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 cælum!" 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?"