"Mayn't I even call you Miss Madge after I've been defeated in the game?" he pleaded, and he looked at her boldly. "It would be--er--well, sort of soothing to me."

"Would it?" and she laughed lightly.

"It surely would," and he bent closer toward her.

"Well, then, you may--but only on occasions of defeat."

"Then I'm going to lose every game," he added promptly as he turned at her side and walked down the steps.

Tom Parsons, strolling alone over the now vacant diamond, saw them together, and there was a strange feeling in his heart.

CHAPTER XIV

TOM'S CURVES

There was lively practice of the Randall nine the following week, and Coach Lighton said some things that hurt, but they were needed. Nor was Langridge spared, though he affected not to mind the sharp admonition that he must pitch more consistently.

The nine played a game Sat.u.r.day with an outside team, more for practice than anything else, and won it "hands down," as Holly Cross said. But, after all, it was not much credit to the 'varsity, for their opponents were not as good as the college scrub. Holly caught, the period of Kerr's suspension not being up yet.

Tom kept at his practice, but he was more than glad when he could resume his cla.s.s work again and take his place on the second nine.

"Now we'll tackle work together," said the coach one afternoon to Tom, for Mr. Lighton had not been allowed to give him directions during the suspension weeks. "I hope you haven't gone stale, Parsons."

"I hope not. Kerr and I have been sort of practicing together."

"That's good. I hope, before the season is over, that you and he will go into a regular game together. If not, you'll have your 'innings' next year, if you progress as you have been doing."

Tom was glad of the praise, but he would have been more glad of a chance to get on the 'varsity. Still he determined to do his best on the scrub, but it was hard and rather thankless work.

Mr. Lighton put him through a hard course of "sprouts" that afternoon.

With some members of the scrub to bat against him, Tom sent in swift and puzzling b.a.l.l.s, for all the while his ability to curve was increasing and his control was improving. That afternoon he struck out six men in succession, retiring them without having given any one of them more than two b.a.l.l.s. It was very good work, and the fact that the men were not extraordinary good hitters did not detract from it.

"That's fine!" cried Mr. Lighton enthusiastically. "I'm going to----"

But what he was going to do he did not say.

"They ought to make you subst.i.tute pitcher on the 'varsity team," was the opinion of Dutch Housenlager when the practice was over. "Rod Evert isn't one-two-six with you, and he doesn't do any practicing to speak of."

"Maybe he feels that he doesn't have to, for Langridge seems to make good nearly every time," spoke Tom.

"Aw, rats! All that keeps Langridge manager is his money. He certainly runs the financial end of the game to perfection. And if he wasn't manager he wouldn't be pitcher. But the fellows know he takes a lot of responsibility from them, and they're just easy enough to let things slide. Some day we'll be up against it. Langridge will be knocked out of the box, Evert won't be in form, and we'll lose the game."

"Unless they call on 'yours truly,'" interjected Tom with a laugh.

"Exactly," agreed Dutch seriously. "That's my point. I wish they'd name you for sub. I'm going to ask----"

"No, no!" expostulated Tom quickly. "If I can't get there on my own merits, I don't want it. No favors, please. I can wait."

"Well, just as you say, of course. But say, there's the Gra.s.shopper.

Watch me make him jump."

He pointed to Pete Backus, a tall student, who seemed to be measuring off a certain distance on a gra.s.sy stretch down near the river.

"Looks as if he was going to jump without you making him," observed Tom.

"Oh, he's always jumping. He thinks he's great at it. Wants to make the track team, but he can't seem to do it. He'll do his distance easily one day and fall down the next. You can't depend on him. But I'll make him jump now. Sneak down behind those bushes."

Tom followed Dutch softly. There were no other students about and they managed to gain the screen of the bushes un.o.bserved by the Gra.s.shopper, who was intent on measuring distances with a pocket tape. The two conspirators could see where he had been practicing the broad jump.

The Gra.s.shopper stood close to a clump of elder bushes, with his back to them. He was preparing for another test. Dutch Housenlager, who was not happy unless he was engaged in some joke or horse play, silently cut a long pole and fastened to it a big pin, which he extracted from some part of his garments. Then, seeing a good opening that gave access to a tender part of the rear elevation of the Gra.s.shopper's legs, he thrust with no gentle hand just as poor Pete was about to throw himself forward in a standing broad jump.

"Wow!" cried the punctured one.

But it was so sudden that he did not have time to stop his leap, which he was on the verge of making, and he sprang through the air like an animated jumping-jack.

"Fine! fine!" cried Dutch, rising up from his place of concealment.

"That's the time you beat your own record, Gra.s.shopper."

Pete turned. He looked over the s.p.a.ce he had covered. His heels had come down at least a foot beyond where he had previously landed. The look of anger on his face, as he felt of his p.r.i.c.ked leg, turned to one of satisfaction.

"By Jove! I believe you're right," he exclaimed. "I have done better by--let's see"--and he measured it--"by fourteen inches."

"I told you so," called Dutch, still laughing. "Next time you want to jump, just let me get in the bushes behind you. It'll be good for an extra foot every time."

"Um," murmured the Gra.s.shopper, still rubbing his leg reflectively. "It was an awful jab though, Dutch."

"What of it? Look at your distance," and once more Pete looked happy as he again measured the s.p.a.ce he had covered.

"Poor old Gra.s.shopper," commented Dutch as he and Tom strolled along the campus, leaving the jumper still at his practice. "Poor old Gra.s.shopper!

He'll never make the track team."

The next few days saw Tom putting in all his spare time practicing curves under the watchful eye of Mr. Lighton. The 'varsity played with the scrub and narrowly escaped a good drubbing. Langridge seemed to be asleep part of the time and issued a number of walking papers. It was after the contest, which the regulars had pulled out of the fire with rather scorched fingers, that the coach called Captain Woodhouse and Langridge to him.

"I rather think we'd better make a little shift," he said.

"In what way?" asked Langridge quickly.

"Well, I think we ought to name Parsons as subst.i.tute pitcher on the 'varsity. He's been doing excellent work, fully equal to yours, Langridge. Of course he's a little uncertain yet, but one big game would take that out of him. I'd like to see him pitch at least part of the game against Boxer next week."

"Does that mean you're dissatisfied with me?" asked Langridge quickly, and his face flushed.

"Not necessarily. But I think it rather risky not to provide better than we have for a subst.i.tute pitcher. Evert is available, of course, but as he is a junior his studies are such that he can't devote the necessary time to practice. Parsons ought to be named."

"Do you demand that in your official capacity as coach, Mr. Lighton?"

asked Kindlings. "Because if you do, I'll agree to it at once."