Part 41 (1/2)

”Must have been mistaken. You and I were the only ones they managed to get this far, and they wouldn't have had me, only about a dozen of them tackled me at once.”

”That's what they did to me,” admitted Tom.

”Our fellows made a mistake,” declared Phil. ”We should have been more foxy. However, I think we all got away. The last bunch the sophs tackled were too much for them, and they had to call for help. That's why those at the shack left it. But come on, we'll get to Haddonfield. It isn't very late.”

Tom did not feel much like going to a dinner, but he repressed his disinclination and bit his lips to keep back little exclamations of pain.

Phil and Tom, eluding the soph.o.m.ores who prowled about in scattered parties, found most of their chums gathered in the hall where the spread was arranged. They were greeted with cheers on their entrance and made to tell their adventures, but Tom did not mention Langridge. He explained his injured arm by saying he had twisted it in his fall.

”Hope it doesn't knock you out from pitching, old man,” spoke Sid sympathetically.

”It would if I had a chance to pitch,” responded Tom, ”but, as it is, I guess it isn't going to make much difference.”

Several other freshmen who had been caught by the soph.o.m.ores, but who managed to escape, came straggling in, filled with excitement, and the dinner was soon under way, with many a toast imbibed in cider, ginger ale or water, to the confusion of the soph.o.m.ores and the success of the freshmen.

”We fooled 'em good and proper!” cried Sid, who had been elected toastmaster. ”We put 'em to rout, and now let us eat, drink and make a big noise!”

Which they proceeded to do, undisturbed by any further attack of their traditional enemies.

Tom's arm pained him so before the dinner was over that he whispered to Phil that he was going to leave. The big center fielder agreed to accompany Tom back to college, and without saying anything to the others to break up the fun, they slipped quietly away. Dr. Marshall, of the faculty, who was a physician as well as an instructor in physics and chemistry, looked critically at Tom's arm when Phil insisted that his chum get medical aid.

”You say you got that in a fall?” asked Dr. Marshall, examining Tom's elbow, which was red and much swollen.

”In a sort of a fall--yes, sir.”

”Humph! It was a queer fall that caused that,” said the physician. ”More like a blow or a kick, I should say. You haven't been trying to ride a horse, have you?”

”No, sir.”

”Ha--hum!” e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed the doctor, but he asked no more questions, for he had been a college lad in his day and he knew the ethics of such matters. ”You can't play ball for a couple of weeks,” he went on, ”and you'll have to carry that arm in a sling part of the time.”

”Can't I pitch on the scrub?” asked Tom in dismay.

”Not unless you want to have an operation later,” replied Dr. Marshall grimly.

Tom sighed, but said no more.

Healthy blood in healthy bodies has a marvelous way of recuperating one from injuries, and in a little over a week Tom's arm was so much improved that the doctor allowed him to dispense with the sling. In the middle of the second week Tom started in on light practice at pitching, his place meanwhile on the scrub having been filled by another player.

”Now go slow, young man,” advised Dr. Marshall as Tom one day sought and obtained permission to take part in a game against the 'varsity nine.

”You're only human, you know, but”--he added to himself as Tom hurried away--”you're like a young colt. A fine physique! I wish I were young again,” and the good doctor sighed for the lost days of his youth.

In the meanwhile Tom had said nothing to Langridge. He reasoned it all out--that the 'varsity pitcher might have been captured as he was, and, in breaking loose, he might have mistaken Tom for one of the soph.o.m.ores.

Nor did Tom communicate in any way his suspicions to his chums. He knew if he began asking questions intended to disclose whether or not Langridge had been among those captured some one would want to know his object.

”I might be mistaken,” thought Tom, and he honestly hoped that he was.

”Anyhow, my arm is better, and I can pitch--at least on the scrub.”