Part 11 (2/2)

”Rats!” retorted Langridge, and Tom was too humiliated to make a reply.

”Just the same he'll make a good pitcher,” said Mr. James Lighton, the coach of the 'varsity, who had strolled out to watch the practice. ”He has a swift ball, but he lacks control. We can make a first-cla.s.s pitcher of him, Molloy.”

”I'm sure I hope so,” murmured the red-haired youth. ”We didn't do very well last year with Langridge, though he seems to have improved to-day.”

”So will young Parsons,” declared the coach. ”You watch him. I'll take him in hand as soon as the team is in shape. He'll probably have to go on the scrub first, but he won't stay there long.”

But Tom did not hear these comforting words, and it was with rather a bitter feeling in his heart that he went to his room to dress for supper.

”You'll be better next game,” said Sid, trying to console him.

”Maybe there won't be any next game for me,” was Tom's reply. ”I saw Kerr and Langridge talking together, and I'm sure it was about me.”

”That's all right. Kerr isn't going to be captain of the 'varsity.”

”Are you sure?”

”Sure. I've got a straight tip. We've votes enough to elect old Kindlings Woodhouse.”

And so it proved the next day, when the election was held. Dan Woodhouse received forty more ballots than did Kerr and his election, after the first test, was made unanimous, a compliment always paid. Then baseball matters began in earnest. Candidates were chosen, Coach Lighton ordered regular practice and established a training table. Tom was much chagrined when he found that he was named for pitcher on the scrub, while Langridge got the coveted place as pitcher on the 'varsity, but Sid told his chum that the scrub was but a stepping stone to the final goal. And when the coach began to take Tom in hand and give him some much-needed instruction about control Tom began to feel that, after all, perhaps he had a chance.

It was about a week later, following some rather hard practice on the diamond, that a hurried knock was heard on the door of the room occupied by Sid and Tom.

”Come,” called Sid, looking up from his Latin book.

”Pole rush to-night!” cried Dutch Housenlager, poking his head in and rapidly withdrawing it, as though he feared a book would be hurled at him. ”Meet on the campus at eight o'clock. Old clothes--it's going to be a hard fight.”

”That's the stuff!” exclaimed Sid, throwing his book across the room.

”Come on, Tom. We'll have a battle royal with our traditional enemies, the sophs.”

The pole rush was like the cane or cannon rushes held in other colleges.

Half a dozen of the strongest of the freshmen formed a circle, with linked arms about the big flag pole on the campus. About them in concentric circles their chums formed a series of defensive rings.

Then the soph.o.m.ores came at them with a rush, seeking to displace the first-year lads and arrange themselves in a circle about the pole. If they succeeded in doing this inside of fifteen minutes it meant that the freshmen could wear no college colors their first term. It was to this rush that Tom, Sid and their friends hurried when Dutch and some others went about to the various rooms sounding the rallying cry.

Out on the campus that soft spring evening was a motley crowd of students. On one side were gathered the soph.o.m.ores and on the other the freshmen.

”My, there are a lot of 'em,” remarked Phil Clinton. ”I shouldn't wonder but they've rung in some seniors on us.”

”No, they wouldn't do that,” declared Sid. ”They're a big cla.s.s.”

Langridge and some others were going about selecting the men who were to form the first circle about the pole. Tom and Phil, who were both st.u.r.dy lads, were chosen for this honor.

”In place! in place!” cried the impatient soph.o.m.ores.

”Line up! line up, fellows!” shouted Langridge.

<script>