"No, I don't. I told you this was a supposit.i.tious case. But, if there was one, what would you do?"

"Well, I'll give you a supposit.i.tious answer."

Sid closed his eyes. The fussy little alarm clock seemed to be counting time for him while he made up his mind.

"Why don't you tell the fellow yourself?" asked Sid so suddenly that Tom jumped.

"Would you?" he asked.

Sid arose. He came and stood close to his chum. Then he spoke.

"There be certain things, son," he said with an a.s.sumed serious air which was more than half real, "certain things that, in college, one might better ignore. If, perchance, however, one is so const.i.tuted morally that one can't; if the laws of the Medes and the Persians are so immutable that one can't rest--why, my young philosopher, take the easiest course so long as you are true to your own motto, _Dulce et decorum est pro alma mater mori_. There, I don't know whether I've got the Latin right, but it says what I mean--tell the other fellow first--Tom," and with that he went over, picked up his trigonometry and fell to studying.

It was not an easy fight that Tom had with himself that night. He went all over the ground: the arrogance of Langridge, the scene in the dressing-room, the pungent odor of liquor and then his knowledge of it.

Was it fair to the team to let the members be in ignorance of the fact that their pitcher took stimulants secretly--that he had done it before?

For Tom was sure it was not the first time. Would it not mean, in the end, that Randall would lose some deciding game and the championship?

Tom thought so and determined that it was his duty to do something. The question was, what? In a measure Sid had solved this for him, and before he fell asleep that night Tom determined to expostulate with Langridge the first chance he got.

It came sooner than he expected. There was a game with Boxer Hall on the grounds of the latter university and it was expected to be a hard one, which expectation was not unfulfilled.

For the first few innings Randall seemed to have the contest well in hand. Then, during a few minutes when his side was at bat, Langridge disappeared into the dressing-room. With a heart that beat harder than usual Tom quietly followed. He was just in time to see Langridge putting away a bottle that gave out the characteristic odor.

"Don't do that!" cried Tom quickly, but in a low voice. He was hardly conscious of what he was saying.

Langridge wheeled around and faced him.

"Don't do what?" he asked sharply, his face flushed.

"Take that liquor to brace you up. You'll only pitch the worse for it, and it's not fair to the team."

Langridge took a step toward Tom.

"What right have you got to speak so to me?" he demanded. "You're a dirty sneak, that's what you are, following in here to spy on me! I guess I know what I'm doing. Can't I take a little toothache medicine without being insulted by you? Liquor! Supposing it is? The doctor ordered it for me."

"Not in the middle of a game," said Tom quietly. "Besides, it's against training rules, and you know it. It's not fair."

"Oh, I see your game," sneered Langridge. "I know what you're after.

You want to tell some story about me, thinking that I'll be dropped and you can have my place. But you can't. I'll do you yet. I'll show 'em how I can pitch!" He was boasting now, for he was not himself. "Get out of my way, you dirty sneak!" he cried. "I'm going to bat out a home run,"

and he put some cloves in his mouth.

He almost knocked Tom over as he rushed past him and went out in time to take his place at the home plate. He did knock a home run to the delirious delight of the team, but it was short-lived joy, for, just as in the other games, Langridge went to pieces in the box, and Boxer Hall won the game by a score of 8 to 5. But the home run of Langridge so shone out that even Kerr did not have the heart to decry his friend's ragged pitching. Coach Lighton, however, shook his head, as the championship chances for Randall College seemed fading away.

"Well," thought Tom as he accompanied the defeated team back that afternoon, "I did my duty, anyhow. I expostulated with him and was insulted for my pains. I did all I could."

But that night there came to him something like a voice asking, "Did you?" Tom tossed restlessly on his bed. "What shall I do next?" he thought.

CHAPTER XVIII

SOME "OLD GRADS"

"What's the matter, old man?" inquired Sid the next morning as he rolled over in bed and looked at Tom.

"Matter? Why?"

"You look as if you'd been drawn through a knot hole, and a small one at that. What's wrong?"

"Nothing," and Tom tried to laugh it off. "I didn't sleep very well, that's all."

"For that matter, neither did I."

"Get out! I heard you snoring away like a boiler blowing off steam."

"Then I must have been tired. I never snore unless I am. Wow! ouch!

Decameron's Prothonotary!"

Sid made a face that indicated intense anguish and put his hand to his side as he turned over in bed.

"What's the matter?" asked Tom anxiously.

"Strained my side when I slid for second base that time. I didn't notice it yesterday, but it hurts like sin now. Guess I'll have to cut lectures to-day and stay in bed."

"What excuse will you give?"

"Oh, I'll say--no, I won't, either," declared Sid with a sudden change of decision. "I can't say it was playing baseball that laid me up or Moses will ask me to cut out the ball. I've got to suffer. I know what I'll do.

I'll limp in chapel and on my way to lectures. I'm not prepared in trig, anyhow, and maybe they'll let me off easy. I'm sure to slump in Latin, but maybe Pitchfork will have mercy on a gladiator who was willing to die for Caesar."

Tom felt like laughing, but he restrained himself as he saw that Sid was really suffering. The first baseman crawled out of bed with many a groan and made wry faces. He limped across the room.

"How's that?" he asked Tom. "Do I do it naturally?"

"Sure. It would deceive anybody."

"I don't want to deceive 'em. It's gospel truth. I'm as lame as a sore horse. But I'll go down."

"Let me rub it," suggested Tom, and he forgot part of his troubles in giving vigorous ma.s.sage to Sid's strained side.

"It feels better. Thanks, old man," declared the hurt one as he began to dress.

"But you're limping worse than ever."

"Sure. No use losing any of the advantages of my limp. It may save me from a discredit in Latin. Oh, if you want to know how to limp come to your Uncle Dudley."

Tom laughed and prepared for chapel. He himself was in no very jolly mood, however, for he could not help thinking of the problem connected with the discovery about Langridge. That it was a problem, and no small one, Tom was ready to admit. He felt himself in a peculiar position. He had spoken to the 'varsity pitcher and had been insulted. To let him go on in his course, breaking training and endangering the success of the nine, Tom felt would not be right. Yet if he spoke to the coach or captain about it there would be but one construction put upon his action.

Tom could fancy Mr. Lighton thanking him for the information about Langridge and could even imagine the coach acting on it and warning the pitcher. Tom could see the look on the face of Kindlings when he was told. It would be a revelation. Yet for all the service that he rendered to the team there would be but one construction put upon Tom's act by his cla.s.smates--he would be accused of informing in order to oust Langridge so that he might have the pitcher's place.