The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 4
CHAPTER IV
THE HAZING
"What sort of hazing do they do?" asked Tom Parsons of Sid Henderson as the two youths followed their companions from the gymnasium.
"Oh, all sorts. It's hard to tell. Mostly they come in your room and make a rough house, but not too rough, for the proctor doesn't stand for it. They'll tumble you about, tear down any ornaments you may have up, pour a pitcher of watef in the bed, and make things unpleasant generally."
"Are we supposed to stand for that?" There was a grim look settling on Tom's face.
"Well, what can you do when three or four big sophs are holding you?"
"Not much, that's a fact. But I'm going to fight back."
"So am I, but that's all the good it'll do. If they don't put enough on you in your room they'll tackle you outside, when you're alone, and maybe chuck you into the river or lake, or make you walk Spanish, or force you to parade through town doing the wheelbarrow act. Oh, you've got to take some hazing in one form or another."
"Well, I don't mind getting my share. So they're coming to-night, eh?"
"So the twin said."
"The twin—who's he?"
"The little fellow that brought word. I don't know whether he was Jerry or Joe Jackson. I didn't look closely enough to see."
"Why, is it hard to tell?"
"Sure. They're two brothers, Jerry and Joe. They come from some town in New Jersey. We call them the 'Jersey Twins,' and they look so much alike it's hard to tell them apart. The only way you can tell is when they're playing ball."
"How then?"
"Why, Jerry plays right field, and Joe left. Then it's easy to say which is which; but when they come to bat it always happens that some one on the other team makes a kick. They think we're ringing in the same man twice, and we have to explain. That's what I've heard. Of course, I've only been here a week."
"Oh, then they've played here some time?"
'Yes; they're juniors. It was mighty white of Jerry or Joe, whichever it was, to tip us off. Now we'll be ready for the sophs."
"What can you do?"
"Well, if you know in time, as we do now, we can take down the best things in our room, so they won't get busted, and we can hide the bed clothes, so they won't get soaked. Then we can put on our old clothes. It's no fun to have a good suit ruined, especially when you don't find new clothes growing on trees."
"That's right. Let's go to our room and make ready."
"Oh, we've got plenty of time. I fancy it won't be until after dark. The only thing is for all of us freshmen to keep together if we go out. For if they catch two or three of us alone they'll put it all over us. But I guess there won't be any scrub game now. The sophs would break it up."
"When do we have any rest from them?"
"In about two weeks. After the pole rush."
"The pole rush?"
"Yes. It's an old college custom, as Fenton's uncle would say. We freshmen form a ring about the big flag-pole on a certain night and the sophs try to pull us away. If they make us leave inside of fifteen minutes it means we can't wear the class college colors until next term. If we win, why, we sport a hat like Fenton had—the one Morse and Denfield slashed up."
"I see. But, say, I'd like to know more about the ball team. Does Langridge run it all?"
The two lads by this time were in their room, where they proceeded to hide under the beds and bureaus their choicest possessions against the prospective raid. It was close to the supper hour and they did not have much time.
"No, Langridge doesn't run everything," answered Sid. "He's manager, that's all."
"That seems a lot."
"Well, it is in a way, though it's only because he has plenty of cash and isn't afraid to spend it. But he couldn't be elected captain. He tried, but was defeated his first term, though he made the managership."
"Who is captain?"
"Bricktop Molloy was last year, but this season we're going to have a new one. I guess Dan Woodhouse stands as good a show as any one. He's a senior and a fine player."
"Woodhouse—that's an odd name."
"Yes, we call him Kindlings for short. I'm going to vote for him."
"So will I then; I'll depend on your say-so."
"I fancy you threw a scare into Langridge," went on Sid as he carefully slid under a mat at the edge of the bed a picture of a football game.
"How so?"
"Telling him you wanted to try for pitcher. It was like stepping on his corns. He thinks he's got a cinch on that position. Always has ever since he helped win a game last year."
"Has he?"
"Well, I don't know. It depends on who is captain. Langridge wants to see Ed Kerr elected captain. If that happens, he and Ed will run things to suit themselves. Ed's quite a chum of Langridge, though Ed's a better fellow all around. The only reason some of the fellows won't vote for Ed is that he's too thick with Langridge. But if old Kindlings is elected he'll not take any orders from Langridge."
"Langridge doesn't seem to be very popular with you," observed Tom.
"He isn't. I don't like him. Yet he's all right in a way. You see, he's pretty well off in his own right. His father died, leaving him quite a sum, and when his mother died he got more. His uncle is his guardian, but he doesn't look after Fred very closely, and Fred does pretty much as he pleases. Now that isn't good for a lad, though I don't mind admitting I wish I had plenty of money. But Langridge is something of a sport. He has good clothes—better than most of us here—he has all he wants to spend, and he's liberal with it. He has quite a following and lots of fellows like him. He doesn't care what he does with his money, and that's the whole thing in a nutshell. That's why he's manager and for no other reason. But, as I said, Woodhouse won't stand for any of his dictation.'
"Maybe I'll get a chance then," mused Tom.
"I guess you will. I'd like to see another good pitcher on the nine. Maybe we'd win more games if we had a good one."
"I don't know whether I'm a good one or not," answered Tom. "I want to try, though. Back home they used to say I had a good delivery."
Sid did not answer at once. He was thinking that to pitch on a country nine was vastly different from doing the same thing on a good-sized college team. But he did not want to discourage his roommate.
"Well," he said after a pause, in which he surveyed the somewhat dismantled room, "I don't know whether it's pitching, or catching, or fielding, or what it is our team needs, but it's something. We're at the bottom of the league and have been for some years."
"What league is that?"
"Oh, I forgot you didn't know. Well, it's the Tonoka Lake League. You see, our college, Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute have a triangular league for the championship. But we haven't won it in so long that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary, as the legal documents have it. Last year we had a good chance to be second, but Langridge got a glass arm in the final game and we were dumped. That's why I say we need a new pitcher, and I'm glad you're going to try for it."
"Maybe I'll do worse."
"Well, Langridge sure does deliver a good ball," said Sid slowly; "the only trouble is that he"
He stopped suddenly and seemed embarrassed.
"Well?" asked Tom questioningly.
"Maybe you'll find it out for yourself," concluded Sid Henderson. "There's the supper gong. Come on. There'll be hot work after a bit."
Puzzling somewhat over the answer his chum had made to the question regarding Langridge and wondering what it was he might find out for himself, Tom followed Sid to the dining hall, where throngs of students were already gathered.
There was something in the air that told of mischief to come. The sophomores, who dined together, maintained a very grave and decorous air, utterly out of keeping with their usual mood. There was silence instead of talk and laughter at their table.
"They're almost as dignified as the seniors," remarked Phil Clinton to Tom as he took a seat next to him. "It means trouble. Look out."
"Oh, we're looking out," replied Tom.
Few lingered over the meal, and, going back to their room, Sid and Tom took their best clothes and him them in a closet at the end of the long corridor. It was a closet used for the storage of odds and ends.
"There, I don't believe they'll find them there," spoke Sid. "Now we're ready for them."
On their way back to their apartment they heard some one preceding them down the long hall.
"Who's that?" asked Sid.
"I don't know," replied Tom. "Let's take a look. Maybe it was some one spying on us."
They hastened their steps and saw some one hurry around a corner.
"Did you see him?" asked Tom.
"Yes," answered Sid slowly.
"Was it a soph?"
"It was Langridge," came the hesitating answer.
"I wonder what he was doing up here?" inquired Tom.
"I wonder too," added his chum.
There was a rush of feet in the hall below and the sound of voices in protest.
"Here they come!" cried Sid. "The hazers! Come on!" And he slid into the room, followed by Tom. They slammed the portal shut and bolted it.
The noise below increased, and there was the sound of breaking doors.
"Do they smash in?" asked Tom, to whom a college life was a new experience.
"Sure, if you don't open."
"Going to open?"
"I am not. Let 'em break in. They'll have to pay for the damage."
In spite of lively scenes on the floor below, the noise was kept within a certain range. Neither the freshmen nor the sophomores desired to have their pranks interrupted by the college authorities, which would be sure to be the case if the fun grew too hilarious.
The noise seemed to be approaching the room of Sid and Tom.
"Here they come," whispered the country youth.
Sid nodded and there was a grim smile on his face. An instant later the door was tried.
"The beggars have locked it!" some one exclaimed.
"Break it in!" another added.
"Ask 'em to open first," counseled a third. "We've smashed so many now that we'll have a pretty bill to pay."
"Oh, blazes, give it your shoulder, Battersby," exclaimed a loud voice.
"Going to open, fresh?" called out a student on the other side of the portal.
"Nope!" cried Sid.
There was a moment's pause and then some one hurled himself at the door. The bolt held for a few seconds, but on a second rush there was a splintering of wood, the screws pulled out and the portal flew open, giving admittance to a crowd of sophomores.