Part 42 (1/2)
A GREAT GAME
Sid Henderson fairly burst into the room where Tom Parsons was studying.
The first baseman strode over to the window, looked out as though he was glaring at some attacking force and then throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed:
”It's rotten, that's what it is!”
”What?” asked Tom, looking up from his book. ”Has Pitchfork been at you again about the Latin?”
”No, this is worse. I don't see how we're going to win the game to-morrow. And if we lose!”
”Why, what's the matter?” asked Tom, for he had seldom seen his chum so excited.
”Matter enough. Langridge is pitching fierce ball. We just had some light work and arranged a code of signals for him and Kerr. Why, you'd think our pitcher didn't have to practice! He seemed to think that all he had to do was to stand up in front of the Boxer players and they'd strike out just to please him. It makes me sick! But that's not the worst of it.”
”Well, what is?” asked Tom, smiling at Sid's vehemence. ”Might as well get it out of your system and you'll feel better.”
”Oh, you know what it is as well as I do,” went on Sid. ”There's no use trying to ignore it any longer. I've tried to fight shy of it and so have some of the other fellows, but what's the use? It's enough to make a fellow disgusted so he'll never play on the nine again.”
”You mean----” began Tom.
”I mean that Langridge isn't playing fair. He doesn't train. He's been drinking and smoking on the sly and staying up nights gambling. There's no use mincing words now. I caught him drinking in his dressing-room to-day, and he was in a blue funk for fear I'd tell. Said he had a weak heart and the doctor had told him to take it. Weak heart! Rats! He drinks because he likes it. I tell you if we don't look out, we'll be the laughing stock of the Tonoka Lake League. Langridge can put himself on edge with a drink of that vile stuff and do good work for one or two innings, maybe. Then he'll go all to pieces and where will we be? I know. We'll be tailenders, and it will be his fault. It's a shame! Some one ought to tell Lighton.”
”Why don't you?” asked Tom quietly.
”Oh, you know I can't. No one could go peach like that.”
”I know. I asked you about it once when I discovered what ailed Langridge. You remember what you said?”
”Yes, and I almost wish I'd told you to go and tell. The team would be better off now, even if it was against tradition and ethics and all that rot. It makes me sick! Here we are to go up against a hard proposition to-morrow and every other fellow on the team is as fit as a fiddle except Langridge. He seems to think it's a joke.”
”What do the other fellows say?”
”Well, they don't know as much about him as you and I do. But they are grumbling because Langridge doesn't put enough ginger into his work.”
”What about Mr. Lighton?”
”I don't know. Sometimes I think he suspects and then again I'm not sure. If he really knew what Langridge was doing, I don't believe he'd let him pitch. But you know Langridge has plenty of money and he hasn't any one like a father or mother to keep tabs on him, so he does as he pleases. He's practically supported the team this year, for we haven't made much money. I suppose that's why Kindlings stands for him as he does. Maybe that's why Mr. Lighton doesn't send him to the bench.
Langridge's money will do a great deal.”
”Oh, I shouldn't like to think that because of it he is kept on the team when there's a chance of our losing the pennant.”
”Neither would I. Maybe I'm wrong about the coach, but what's the use of saying anything? Langridge will pitch for us against Boxer Hall, and--no, I'll not say what I was going to. I believe if we lose that game there'll be such a howl that he won't dare pitch against Fairview.
That will give you a chance, Tom, for the last game of the season.”
”What about Evert?”
”Oh, he's practically out of it. He hasn't had any practice to speak of and wouldn't last two minutes. You're in good trim. You did some great work on the scrub yesterday.”
”Yes, but it's not likely to amount to anything. However, I'm going along and root for you to-morrow.”