Then the "rooters" seeing their game took up cries of derision against the pitcher, in an endeavor to "get his goat."

Langridge bit his lips and threw in a fierce ball. There were two out, but it looked as if it would go on that way indefinitely. Frank Sullivan, a good batter, hit it fairly, but Joe Jackson, out in left field, made a desperate run for it, and got the ball. It was a sensational catch, and was roundly applauded.

When Randall came to the bat for the last time the score was 12 to 2 in favor of their opponents.

"We can't win," said Kindlings hopelessly.

"No, but for the love of Mike, don't let them roll up any bigger score against us, or they'll put us out of the league," begged Bricktop Molloy. "Speak to Langridge, and tell him to hold hard."

"What's the use speaking to him?" asked Kerr gloomily. "He'll go off his handle if I do. He told me never to speak to him again, just because I called him down a bit. Land knows he needed it!"

"We've got to make a change," decided the coach. "I'll not let Langridge pitch next inning. If he does I'll resign, and I'll tell him so."

He walked over to the pitcher, and soon the two were in earnest conversation.

Randall could not make another run, for Sellig was doing his best and they did not get a hit off him.

"Our only chance is to strike them out," murmured Kerr as he arose from the bench to take his place. "Who's going to pitch, Mr. Lighton?"

"Tom Parsons."

"Tom Parsons? What's the matter with our regular subst.i.tute, Evert?"

"His arm is no good and he's out of practice. I'm going to put Tom in."

And much to his astonishment Tom was summoned from the grandstand, where he was talking to Miss Tyler about the slump.

"Me pitch? Are you sure Mr. Lighton sent you for me?" he asked Jerry Jackson, who had brought the message.

"Sure. Come on and get into part of a uniform."

"Yes, do go," urged Miss Tyler. "I--I hope you beat them."

"It's too late for that now," replied Tom sadly as he walked down from the stand.

A little later he was in the box, facing Roger Barns, one of the best hitters on the Fairview team. Tom was nervous, there is no denying that, but he held himself well in control. It was the goal of his ambition--to pitch on the 'varsity, and he was now realizing it. True, it was almost an empty honor, but he resolved to do his best, and this thought steeled his nerves, even though the crowd hooted at him.

And he struck out the first three men up, at which his college chums went wild, for it was all they had to rejoice over in the game.

CHAPTER XXVI

THE FRESHMAN DINNER

They wanted Tom to ride back to the college with the team and the subst.i.tutes, but he would not leave Miss Tyler, and, though he was torn between two desires, he went back to the girl.

Moreover, he had an idea that it would not be altogether pleasant riding in the same stage with Langridge, who, he had heard whispered, made strenuous objection when Coach Lighton ordered him to give place to Tom.

"He'll be down on me more than ever," thought Tom as he made his way back to the grandstand, which was rapidly emptying. "Well, I can't help it."

"Your arm must be much better," remarked Miss Tyler as Tom came up to her. "You pitched finely."

"Well, I've had plenty of practice," was his answer. "I fancy Langridge was tired out," he added generously. "It's no fun to pitch a losing game."

"But you did."

"Oh, well, it was my first chance on the 'varsity, and I would have welcomed it if the score had been a hundred to nothing."

"Will you pitch regularly now?"

"I don't know. I hope----"

But Tom stopped. He had almost forgotten that Miss Tyler was very friendly to Langridge, in spite of the little scene at the dance.

For two days after the disastrous game with Fairview Langridge sulked in his room and would not report for practice. He talked somewhat wildly about Tom, the latter heard, and practically accused him of being responsible for his disgrace. He even said Tom was intriguing against him to win away his friends; meaning Kerr especially, for the 'varsity catcher announced that he was done with Langridge as far as sociability was concerned. But Kerr, hearing this, came to Tom's defense, and stated openly that it was Langridge himself who was to blame.

Mr. Lighton would stand for no nonsense, and ordered Evert into the pitcher's box, promising that Tom should have the next chance. He would have made Tom the regular subst.i.tute but for the fact that Evert, by right of seniority, was ent.i.tled to it. Hearing this news, Langridge came out of his sulks and resumed practice.

"I have a large framed picture of Randall winning the league pennant,"

announced Sid gloomily one night as he and Tom were sitting in their room. "Our stock is about fifty below par now, and with only a few more games to play, we've practically got to win them all in order to top the league."

"Maybe we'll do it," said Tom, in an endeavor to be cheerful.

"We might, if you pitched, but Langridge is that mean that he'll keep in just good enough form so Mr. Lighton won't send him to the bench, and that's all. He won't do his best--no, I'll not say that. He is doing his best, but--well, something's wrong, and I guess I'm not the only one who knows it."

"No," said Tom quietly. "I do and have for some time. It's been a puzzle to know what to do; keep still and let the 'varsity be beaten or squeal on Langridge."

"Oh, one can't squeal, you know."

"No, that's what I thought, especially in my case. It would look as if I was grinding my own ax."

"That's so. No, you can't say anything. But it's tough luck. Maybe something will turn up. We've got a couple of games on our own grounds next, and we may do better. If we don't, we may as well order our funeral outfits. Well, I'm going to bone away at this confounded Latin.

Ten thousand maledictions be upon the head of the Roman who invented it!"

Sid opened his book, and studied for half an hour. Tom likewise was busily engaged, and only the ticking of the clock was heard, when suddenly there came a gentle tap on the door.

"Who's there?" demanded Tom.

"Yellow, sky-blue and maroon," was the reply, which indicated that a freshman was without, that being the pa.s.sword.

"Flagpole," answered Sid, which being translated meant that it was safe to enter, no member of the faculty nor scout of the proctor's being nigh.

Dutch Housenlager pushed open the portal and entered. He looked carefully around, and then, coming on tiptoe to the middle of the room, after having carefully shut the door, said in a whisper:

"It's all arranged!"