Part 35 (1/2)

”Oh, I saw you going off with her. I admire your taste, old man, but it must be hard on Langridge.”

”It's his own fault.”

”So I understand. I heard about it.”

”Um,” murmured Tom, for he did not want to talk about Miss Tyler and her affairs--at least not yet. There are some things that one likes to ponder over, and think about--all alone.

The game with Fairview was looked forward to with more than ordinary interest, for the season was about half over, and a partial estimate could be made of the chances for the champions.h.i.+p. Up to this time the three teams in the league had been running nearly even, with Randall, if anything, a trifle in the lead, not so much regarding the number of games won, but counting form. In the last two weeks, however, Fairview and Boxer had been doing some hard work, and in games between those colleges Fairview had some the best of it. If, on the occasion that was approaching, Randall won, it would put her nine in the lead, and if, on the contrary, she lost it would mean that she would be the ”tail-ender,”

though only a few points behind Boxer, which would be second.

”We've just got to win!” declared Sid, one afternoon, following a severe game with the scrub, who had played the 'varsity to a tie in eleven innings.

”That's right,” admitted the coach. ”But I think we will. We have improved all around lately.”

This was true, more especially in the case of Langridge. Since the affair of the junior dance he had not spoken to Tom, and had taken pains to avoid him. But the 'varsity pitcher was certainly doing better work.

The day before the game with Fairview, Coach Lighton called Tom to one side.

”I think you had better prepare to go as a sub to-morrow,” he said.

”Why, is Langridge----” burst out Tom, a wild hope filling his heart.

”No, it isn't our pitcher. But I understand Sid is falling back in his Latin, and he may not be allowed to play. In that case I'll have to do some s.h.i.+fting, and I _may_ be able to give you a place in the field.”

”Well, I don't want to see Sid left, but I would like a chance.”

Tom was in rather a quandary. He had arranged to take Miss Tyler, and he could not, if he went with the team as a sub. He hardly knew what to do about it, and was on the point of going over to see her, and explain, when Sid came bursting into the room.

”Blood! blood! I want blood!” he cried as he threw his Latin grammar against the wall with such force that the covers came off.

”What ho! most worthy knight!” replied Tom gently. ”In sooth, gentle sir, what hath befallen thee?”

”Heaps!” replied Sid. ”Oh, Pitchfork, would I had thee here!” and he wadded up the table cover, and pretended to choke it.

”What now?” asked Tom.

”Oh, he put me through a course of sprouts for further orders this afternoon,” explained Sid. ”Thought he'd catch me, but I managed to wiggle through. Nearly gave me heart disease, though, for fear I'd have to be out of the game to-morrow. But I managed to save myself, much to the surprise of Pitchfork. Now I want my revenge on him.”

”What can you do?”

”I don't know--nothing, I guess. I wish--hold on!” Sid struck a thoughtful att.i.tude, looked fixedly at the floor, then at the ceiling, and finally cried: ”Eureka!”

”Has some one been playing hob with your crown?” asked Tom, referring to the exclamation said to have been made by the ancient king, when he discovered, in his bath, a means of finding out if his jeweler had cheated him.

”No, but I've found a way to get even with Pitchfork.”

”How?”