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."

"Yes, we'll need all the support we can get. I declare I'm as nervous as a girl, and I've got to buckle down and prepare for a Latin exam, too."

"Can't you let it go?"

"No, it's too risky. I'm only on the team now by the epidermis of my molars, as the poet says. If I flunk in Latin it will mean that I can't play against Fairview."

"Then don't flunk, for the team needs you."

"It needs more than me, but I'm going to try and forget it now and bone away."

Tom hoped to have the pleasure of taking Miss Tyler to the game with Boxer Hall, which was to take place on the grounds of that inst.i.tution, but the girl sent back a regretful little note, saying she had arranged to go with Langridge or, at least, he was to bring her home.

"Hang it!" exclaimed Tom. "I thought she was done with him."

And, somehow, there was a rather bitter feeling in his heart as he prepared to accompany the other fellows to the great game that Sat.u.r.day afternoon. He almost made up his mind that he would not bother to speak to Miss Tyler again and then he thought such a course would be silly and he tried to be more philosophical about it, though it was difficult.

Never had there been such a crowd out to witness a game on the Boxer diamond. The grandstand was packed long before the teams trotted out for practice and the bleachers were overflowing. A fringe of spectators packed the side lines, and what with the yelling and cheering of the rival factions, the waving of the colors, the tooting of the auto horns in the throng of machines that had brought parties to the contest, there was an air of excitement that might have excused even more veteran players from getting nervous, for the game meant much to both colleges. If Boxer won, it would have a chance to play Fairview for the championship, but if Randall won the privilege would fall to that college. And that both teams had determined to win goes without saying.

Almost at the last minute Coach Lighton had told Tom to get ready to go as a subst.i.tute, and it was in his field uniform then instead of his ordinary clothes that Tom went to the game. But he had slender hopes of pitching, for Langridge seemed in unusually fine form and that morning at Randall had done some good work. But the orders of the coach could not be disobeyed. So Tom took his place on the bench with the other Randall lads, and, after some practice on the field, his eyes roved over the grandstand in search of a certain face. He fancied he saw where Miss Tyler sat, but he could not be sure.

"Langridge will probably go home with her," thought Tom. "He didn't bring her here, for he came in with us."

He had little more time for thought, however, as the umpire was getting the new ball from the foil cover and was about to call the game.

Boxer had won the toss and elected to bat last, so it was the turn of the visitors to get up first and show what they could do. Langridge was greeted with a cheer from a crowd in the Randall section of the grandstand as he went to the bat. He was popular with the large ma.s.s of students in spite of his ways. He seemed in good form and there was a confident air about him as he swung his willow stock to and fro.

"Play ball!" called the umpire.

Dave Ogden, with a calculating glance at the batsman, tied himself into rather a complicated knot and threw the horsehide. It was right over the plate and Langridge struck viciously at it, but made a clean miss. There was a groan from the Randall supporters and the team looked glum.

Langridge, however, was not disconcerted. He was as confident as ever.

Once more the ball was hurled toward him. He stepped right up to it, for he knew a pitcher's tricks and there was a resonant crack that made the hearts of his chums leap. He had lined out a "beaut."

"Go on! go on! go on!" yelled Coach Lighton. "Leg it, Langridge, leg it!"

Langridge was running low and well. The Boxer right fielder had m.u.f.fed the ball, but made a quick recovery and threw to first. It seemed that Langridge was safe, but the umpire, who had run down toward the bag, called him out.

A groan went up from the Randall sympathizers and the team joined in.

"That'll do!" cried Captain Woodhouse sharply to his men. "Don't dispute any decisions. Leave that to me. We'll accept it. You're up, Kerr."

Kerr was a notoriously good hitter and Ogden gave him his walking papers. Sid Henderson was next at the bat and he knocked a little pop fly, which the second baseman neatly caught, and Sid, shaking his head over his hard luck, went to the bench.

Captain Woodhouse himself was next to try, and there was a grim look on his face as he went into the box. It was justified, for he made a safe hit and went to second on a swift grounder that Dutch Housenlager knocked, the ball rolling between the shortstop's fingers. The Randalls would have scored if Bricktop Molloy had hit harder or higher, but the shortstop made as pretty a catch as was seen on the grounds that day, leaping high for the ball, and with Bricktop out it was all over, and a goose egg went up on the scoreboard as the result of the first half of the initial inning.

"Now, Langridge, don't let them get any hits off you," implored Kindlings as he and his men went to the field.

"Of course not," promised the pitcher easily.