The Winning Touchdown/Chapter 27
CHAPTER XXVII
THE DANCE CARD
"You look all right, Sid; you'll pass!"
"Hey! What's that?" and Sid Henderson swung around from the mirror over his bureau, with a somewhat guilty flush on his face.
"I said you'd do," repeated Tom, with a mischievous grin, as he stood in the doorway of the room, having paused in the act of entering. "What were you doing, putting on a beauty mark, or looking to see if you needed a shave?"
"I was trying to get my tie straight," growled Sid, as he fastened his low cut vest, for he was in his evening clothes.
"Get out, you musty old misogynist!" exploded Phil, following Tom into the room. "We know what you were doing, all right. You wanted to see if you were good-looking enough, so that you could dance with Mabel all the evening."
Sid looked around for something to throw at his tormenting roommates, but nothing was handy. Besides, he might crack the stiff bosom of his shirt, the snowy expanse of which reflected back the glow of the incandescent light.
"If you fellows are going to the racket, it's about time you togged up," went on Sid, as he carefully took a seat in a chair. He did not sink luxuriously onto the sofa this time, for fear of "mussing himself up," as Holly Cross would have said.
"Oh, we'll be ready in jig time!" cried Phil, throwing his coat on one chair, his vest on another, and, almost before the garments had landed in "artistic confusion," he was changing his shoes.
"We went to a football meeting," explained Tom, as he shed his ordinary raiment and proceeded to "tog up."
"Anything doing?" asked Sid, as he manicured his nails.
"Oh, for the love of tripe! Look at him!" cried Phil, with his head half way through a clean shirt. "Say, you'd think he was going to a coming-out party, instead of to a Fairview frat. dance. Oh, Tom, is my back hair on straight?" and Phil, who had uttered the last in a shrill falsetto voice, tried to look at the after-portion of his shock of football hair.
"Say, when you fellows know how to act like gentlemen instead of like a bunch of rough-necks, I'll talk to you," spoke Sid, with dignity. "I asked you a question, Tom."
"Oh, yes, about the football meeting," went on the end. "Well, you needn't get on your ear just because we jollied you a little. Stand the gaff like a man. No, there wasn't much doing. We talked over some new plays. Incidentally we tried to explain the slump Randall seems to be up against, but we couldn't. Where were you?"
"Don't ask him. He was up here fussing worse than a girl," broke in Phil. "Hannibal's henpecked hyperbolas! But do you remember the time, Tom, when we couldn't get Sid to look at a girl, much less to take one to a dance? Now he feels hurt if he doesn't do the Cubanola Glide with one at least once a week. Vanity, thy name is Sid Henderson!"
"Oh, cheese it, for cats' sake!" begged Sid, in despair. Then Phil, who seemed to take delight in "rigging" his chum, glanced at the battered old alarm clock, which was again on duty.
"Cæsar's grandmother!" cried the quarter-back. "I'll be late," and forthwith he began to make motions "like a fellow dressing in a hurry," as he said afterward, and Sid was left in peace to complete his immaculate attire, while Tom, too, seeing the need of haste, left off "badgering" Sid.
It was the occasion of one of the several dances that the girls of Fairview Institute had arranged, and to which they were allowed to ask their friends. Of course, Miss Philock, the preceptress, was chief chaperone, and there were other elderly teachers who took part.
Tom, Phil and Sid, together with a number of other students from Randall, had been invited, and this was the evening when "event number six, in the free-for-all-catch-as-catch-can style of dancing would be pulled off," as Holly Cross remarked, when he was preparing for it. It was about a week after Dr. Churchill had so taken the wind out of the sails of Dutch Housenlager in the physics class, and in the meanwhile life at the college had gone on much as
The affair took place in the Fairview gymnasium, which was appropriately decorated for the purpose. Tom and his three chums—for Frank Simpson went with them—had called for Miss Tyler and her friends, Ruth and Mabel. Frank was to escort a new girl, Miss Helen Warden, to the dance.
"You're a little late," chided Ruth, as she greeted her brother and the others.
"It was Sid's fault," asserted Phil, with a wink at Tom. "He would insist on changing his togs at the last minute."
"And the hairdresser disappointed him, and he had to curl it himself," put in Tom.
"You—you" spluttered Sid, and then he choked back his justifiable wrath.
"Don't mind them," sympathized Mabel Harrison. "We know some secrets as well as they, Sid."
"Oh, I'll get back at 'em some time," predicted the stocky half-back.
There was quite a throng at the dance when our friends arrived, and shortly after the girls came from the dressing rooms, the orchestra began a dreamy waltz. The lads led out their partners, and the gymnasium presented a brilliant and animated scene.
"Did you see him?" called Tom to Phil, as the two young men and their pretty partners swung near each other in the middle of the big waxed floor.
"Who?" asked Phil, slowing up.
"Langridge," was the reply, and then they were too far apart for more conversation.
"Oh, dear, did he come?" asked Ruth of Tom, and she seemed distressed. "I do hope he and Phil"
"No danger," interrupted Tom. "We'll keep clear of him. What girl has he?"
"I can't imagine. I'll look when I see him dancing with her."
Tom pointed out his former enemy, as he swung his partner around again, and Ruth exclaimed:
"Oh, she's that new girl! Miss Rossmore is her name. I guess she doesn't know Mr. Langridge—very well."
"Probably not," agreed Tom, and then the dance came to an end in a crash of melody. There was applause for an encore, and once more the strains were taken up, and the youths and maidens were treading the misty mazes of the waltz.
The custom prevailed at these fraternal society affairs of the lads taking their partners' dance programmes and filling the cards for them. This was usually done in advance, and insured a girl plenty of dancers with partners of whom her escort approved. For he would only put down, or allow their owners to, the names of his own friends. It was a sort of "clearing-house" of dances, and the lads lobbied among themselves, and "split" numbers with each other at their own sweet will, in order to "fill in."
"I've got to get one more partner for you," remarked Tom, when the second half of the waltz had come to an end. "I'll be back in a moment, and leading Ruth over to where her friends were seated, Tom scurried off toward some of his chums, in order to impress one of them into service for his fair partner. There was one vacant waltz on her card, and Tom himself had been booked for that number with Miss Tyler.
"I want one for Miss Clinton," called the pitcher, as he slid into the group of his chums.
"Put me down!" exclaimed Jerry Jackson eagerly. "She's one of the best waltzers here. Put me down, Tom."
"All right," and Tom reached in his pocket for the card. It was not there, and a puzzled look came over his face. "Jove, I must have lost it!" he exclaimed blankly, as he looked back over the route he had taken. As he did so he saw Garvey Gerhart approaching, holding out one of the dance orders.
"I think you dropped this," murmured the crony of Langridge. "I just picked it up."
"Thanks—very much," exclaimed Tom, in relief, and taking the card, he had the Jersey twin scribble his name on the only vacant line.
"I put our friend Jerry down for you," he explained to Ruth, as he joined her.
"Thanks," she murmured. "Oh, there's that lovely two-step. I can't dance that enough!" and her little foot tapped the floor impatiently. Tom led her out as the music welled forth.
All too soon it was nearing the end of the little affair, for, though it was not late, the rules of Fairview forbade any extended festivities. Tom, who had been dancing with Miss Harrison, was walking over to claim Ruth for the next number, when he saw Langridge stepping toward her.
"Confound him!" thought Tom, an angry flush mounting to his face, "is he going to speak to her again?"
Such was evidently the intention of the former Randall bully. He was smiling at Phil's sister, who at first did not notice him. Langridge and Tom reached her at about the same time, and what was our hero's surprise to hear his enemy say:
"I believe this is our dance. Miss Clinton?"
She turned in astonishment, a wave of color surging into her fair face.
"Our dance—yours" she stammered.
"I have your name down on my card," went on Langridge calmly, "and I believe if you will look at yours that you will find mine on it."
Hastily Ruth caught up her dance order, which dangled from her fan. As she scanned the names, the color of her face deepened.
"Why—why—it—it is here," she murmured, "I did not know—Tom, did you"
"Most certainly not!" declared Tom, as emphatically as he could without attracting too much attention. "I think you are mistaken, Mr. Langridge," he added stiffly. "I booked no dance for Miss Clinton with you."
"Perhaps you had better look at the card," replied the bully, sneeringly.
Tom gave it a hasty glance. There was no doubt of it. There, in bold writing, on a line where he was sure he had scribbled his own name, was that of Langridge. It was the last dance but two, and Tom had the last one. He was also sure he had this one, and yet the name of his enemy
"There must be some mistake," he said, in confusion, for sometimes mistakes would occur in the indiscriminate trading of cards among friends.
"But I'm sure I never gave you that card to fill out, Mr. Langridge."
The bully shrugged his shoulders.
"I don't know that you figure in this at all," he said, with a sneering air. "I have this dance with Miss Clinton. May I have the honor?" and he bowed gracefully to the confused girl, and held out his arm.
"I—I don't" she began, in distress.
"This is not your dance," declared Tom, glaring at Langridge, reaching out his hand toward his own partner.
The rivals faced each other. Rivals again, though on a different field than the baseball diamond. An angry light gleamed in Tom's eyes—on the face of Langridge there was a supercilious sneer. They stood thus, at one side of the ballroom floor. The music was playing softly, and some were dancing, but the impending scene between Tom and Langridge was attracting attention.
Ruth realized it, and was very much distressed. Tom was determined not to give way, but he realized that to make further claim against Langridge would have the effect of causing a most unpleasant affair. He felt that there was something wrong somewhere.
It was Frank Simpson who saved the day. The big Californian had seen at a distance what took place, and had guessed what was going on. Also he had overheard a little of the conversation, and he was able to fill in the rest.
He sauntered slowly up to the trio, and, with an air of good fellowship, which he assumed for the occasion, he clapped Langridge lightly on the back.
"Hello, old man!" he exclaimed. "We'll meet soon on the gridiron, I hope."
"Yes," answered Langridge stiffly, turning aside. "Miss Clinton, will you" He paused suggestively.
"No!" whispered Tom. "Your name never got on her card right."
"Take care!" almost hissed Langridge.
"No, it is you who must take care!" broke in Simpson, leaning forward as if he was talking on ordinary topics to the three. The crowd saw, and taking the very view of the little gathering that the big Californian wished them to, they turned aside. "It is you who must take care, Mr. Langridge," went on Frank. "I saw you write your name on Miss Clinton's card."
"What!" The bully's eyes blazed.
"Easy now," cautioned Simpson, in calm tones. "Tom, you dropped your partner's card a while ago, didn't you?"
"Yes!" The end was beginning to understand now.
"I happened to be standing behind a pillar," went on Frank, "when I saw Langridge pick it up. I saw him erase a name and substitute another, but I thought nothing of it at the time, as lots of the fellows had girls' cards, filling them out. Then I saw Mr. Langridge hand the dance order to a friend of his, who started toward you with it, Tom, just as you discovered your loss."
"Gerhart—he handed it to me!" gasped Tom. "I see now! Langridge, you"
"He tried to play a sneaking trick, and was caught at it!" broke in Simpson. "Now, Mr. Langridge, I'd advise you to leave this dance!" and the voice of the big Californian grew stern as he looked full into the eyes of Langridge.
Without a word, but with a glance of hate at Tom, the bully swung around and crossed the room, threading his way amid the dancers.
"Thanks, old man!" exclaimed Tom, fervently, to Frank. "You save us—saved Miss Clinton—an unpleasant time."
"Indeed you did," spoke Ruth, holding out her little hand. "I don't know how I can repay you. I did not look at my card when Tom handed it back to me, but when I saw—saw that name there, I—I knew I had never let him put it down."
"Here!" exclaimed Tom, taking the order. He scratched out the offending name. "It's gone now," he added, with a laugh.
"I am in your debt, Mr. Simpson," went on Ruth.
"Then repay me sometime by saving a dance for me," spoke the lad from the Golden West, as he bowed and moved away.
"I think this is our dance—now!" spoke Tom, with a smile.
"Oh—Tom!" exclaimed the girl, "I—I think I'd rather sit it out."