Part 10 (1/2)
”I say no sneak gave you away?”
”I don't know what you mean,” and Langridge turned aside.
”Oh, yes, you do,” said Sid quickly. ”You know all right and we know, and what's more, you'll get what's coming to you all right. That's all from yours truly, but look out--that's all--look out, Fred Langridge!”
”I don't know what you're talking about,” was the cool retort, and then the students pa.s.sed into the cla.s.s room.
It was two days later that the miniature clappers, which had been made from the tongue of the big bell, were received, and a proud lot of freshmen they were, including Tom Parsons, who attached them to their watch chains.
”Now, if we win the pole rush, we'll be all to the merry,” exclaimed Phil Clinton as he walked along the campus toward the gymnasium. ”I'm just aching for a chance to pummel some of those sophs. They certainly made a rough house of my room the other night.”
”Oh, we'll get the chance all right,” remarked Sid. ”The rush is a week from to-night. But say, how about the baseball election? Isn't Langridge taking his own time calling it?”
”He sure is. He's trying to work up votes for Kerr for captain, but he can't do it. The fellows haven't anything against Ed, but he's too thick with Langridge. I'm for old Kindlings.”
”So are we,” put in Tom.
”They've got to hold the election to-morrow,” said Phil. ”That's the last day, according to the rules. Why, we haven't had a bit of practice yet. We don't know who's going on the scrub and who has a chance for the 'varsity. I hope I can get center field.”
”Had you rather play there?” asked Tom.
”I always have. I fancy I know that position better than I do any other.
But, to tell you the truth, I like football better than baseball. I'm going to try for the eleven this fall.”
”I hope you make it. But what's going on?” asked Tom as he saw a little commotion about the gymnasium.
”It's a scrub game,” exclaimed Sid. ”That's the stuff. Come on. Maybe we'll get a chance. Langridge sees that he's got to get things going.”
They hurried to the gymnasium and found that preparations were under way for a scrub game. There was also a notice on the bulletin board stating that the election for captain would be held the following day.
”I wonder if he's got enough votes for Kerr?” mused Sid. ”I hope not--for the sake of the team.”
The crowd, including students from all four cla.s.ses of the college, moved off toward the diamond. Rivalries were forgotten in the interest in the game. The lads were not in uniform, but had on old clothes.
Langridge was issuing orders and two temporary captains were chosen, they selecting their men. Bob, or ”Bricktop” Molloy, the captain of last year, had one scrub team, and Pete Backus, who rejoiced in the nickname ”Gra.s.shopper” from the fact that he was always trying to see how far and how high he could jump, had another. Langridge a.s.sumed the role of manager, though there was little to manage.
”Now play lively, boys,” he urged. ”I want to arrange for some other games this season besides those in the league, and we want to win some of 'em.”
To his delight Tom found himself chosen by Bricktop, together with Sid and Phil Clinton. Langridge held a whispered conversation with Backus, the other captain, and was promptly chosen on that hastily formed nine.
”I'll pitch and Ed Kerr'll catch,” Langridge announced, as if that settled it. And it was noticeable that Backus did not make a protest, though he was as good a catcher as was Kerr.
”Will you pitch for us, Parsons, me lad?” asked Bricktop with just a trace of rich Irish brogue. ”Sure and I heard what ye did, me lad, the night of the clapper.”
”Well, that was mostly luck, I guess,” replied Tom modestly, ”though I'd like the chance to pitch now.”
”Sure, then, an' you'll have it,” replied the Irish lad with a twinkle in his honest blue eyes. ”Come on, fellows. We're last at the bat.”
”Hold me down, somebody!” exclaimed Dutch Housenlager as he turned a hand spring and came down so close to Molloy that the former captain was nearly sent over. ”I'm feeling like a two-year-old.”