One of the Latin students strolled over toward where the ball players were.

"How's Henderson doing?" asked Kindlings.

"Sweating like a cart horse," was the characteristic answer. "It's a stiff exam all right."

There was a groan in concert and the anxious waiting was resumed.

Fifteen minutes pa.s.sed. Several more students had come from the room.

"Where can he be?" murmured Tom.

"There he comes!" cried Phil Clinton as Sid appeared, coming slowly toward the group.

"I'll bet he failed," said Kindlings solemnly. Certainly in Sid's approach there was not the air of a conqueror.

All at once he stopped, bent down to the ground and appeared to be tearing something to pieces.

"What's he doing?" asked Tom.

"Let's go see," proposed Kerr.

They advanced and beheld a curious sight. Sid was tearing up a book and making a little heap of the leaves. A moment later he touched a match to the pile, and the paper began to burn.

"What in the world are you doing?" called Tom.

"Did you pa.s.s?" fairly roared Kindlings.

"Sure," replied Sid as calmly as if he had always expected to. "I pa.s.sed with honors, and now I'm destroying the evidence. I'm applying the torch to Caesar's Commentaries and I'll never open a book like it again in my life. Come on, fellows, join the festive throng. Tra la la! Merrily do we sing."

He began prancing about and the others, with yells of joy, joined in.

Sid would cover first base for them in the big game.

With a tooting of auto horns, the waving of many flags, shouts, cheers, yells of encouragement, laughter from many pretty girls, the waving of handkerchiefs, renditions of the college yell the ball nine and its supporters started the next day in a long cavalcade for Fairview.

Several automobiles had been provided for the use of the team, and in one of these rode Tom and Miss Tyler, whom he had called for at her home that morning. A number of ladies went along as chaperones for the girls of Haddonfield.

Dr. Churchill and most of the faculty also went to the game.

"Aren't you coming, Professor Tines?" asked the head of the college as he and the other instructors were about to start.

"No, I don't care much for baseball. I shall remain here and arrange for another Latin examination for some of the students."

Sid groaned and his chums laughed, whereat Professor Tines frowned.

"Do you think you'll win?" asked Miss Tyler as she sat next to Tom.

"I'm sure of it," he answered promptly.

When the Randall team and its supporters arrived they found a big throng present to greet them. Even their opponents sent out a ringing cheer of welcome. The Fairview nine was out on the diamond practicing.

"Snappy work," observed Tom critically as the batting and catching was under way.

"Oh, we can do just as good," a.s.serted Kindlings. "Don't get nervous now. You've got to pitch your head off."

Some one started the Randall college song, "_Aut vincere aut mori_," and as the beautiful strains floated over the diamond when the players poured out from the dressing-rooms the team came to a sudden halt.

"That's it, fellows," said Kindlings solemnly, "'Either we conquer or we die!' Play for all that's in you and then some more," and he laughed.

Auto horns tooted blatantly, girls cried in their clear, shrill voices, the lady contingent of Fairview rendering some weird yells. Then there were the hoa.r.s.e voices of the boys, to which answered the cheers of Randall. The grandstand and bleachers were waving geometrical figures of brilliant hues. It was an inspiring sight. No wonder that the players felt nerved to do their best, for on the result of the game depended much.

Kindlings missed the call when the coin was spun, and he and his men had to start the hitting. But they did not mind this, and when, in the revised batting order, Kerr went up first, he "poked his stick into the horsehide for a two-bagger," as Holly Cross said. There was a yell that could have been heard a mile and every Randall lad was on his feet shouting:

"Go on! go on! go on!"

But Kerr stopped at second prudently, for he would have been nabbed at third. This opened the game and the play at once became hot. Randall scored two runs that inning and Tom, giving walking papers to a particularly heavy hitter, managed to come out of the initial ordeal without a hit being registered against him.

The Randall boys went wild then and began the song, "When Fairview awoke from her sweet dream of peace," which was repeated again and again.

But the next three innings saw only the negative sign chalked up in the frame on the scoreboard given over to Randall, while in the last half of the fourth Fairview secured a run, for one of the players "got the Indian sign" on Tom, to quote Holly Cross, who was an expert in diamond slang, and "bit his initials in the spheroid for a three-bagger." The run would not have been scored, for there were two men out, only Joe Jackson made what seemed to be an inexcusable fumble, and the runner came in. Still it looked safe for Randall until the fatal seventh inning.

For some teams this is held to be a lucky one, but it was not for Randall. Tom was doing his best, but in delivering one ball he gave his arm a peculiar wrench, and a sharp twinge of pain in the region where Langridge had kicked him made him wince. After that he could not control his curves so well, and three men made safeties off him, a trio of runs being registered. The score was 4 to 2 in favor of Fairview at the close of the seventh. Kindlings looked grave and Coach Lighton paced nervously to and fro.

"What's the matter, old man?" the captain asked Tom.

"Nothing much," was the answer. "I gave my arm a little twist, that's all."

"Come inside and we'll ma.s.sage it," proposed Mr. Lighton, who was always ready for emergencies, and he and Kindlings rubbed some liniment on Tom's joint. It felt a little better, and Tom said so, though when he went into the box, following an inning when Bricktop Molloy brought in one run, the pitcher was in considerable misery. He shut his teeth grimly, however, and resolved to do his best, though to deliver his most effective curves meant to give himself much pain.

Tom only allowed two hits and one run came in, making the score at the ending of the eighth inning 5 to 3 in favor of Fairview.

How the co-eds shouted and cheered then and there was corresponding gloom among the Randallites until once more that grand old song, "_Aut vincere aut mori_," welled forth and gave confidence to an almost despairing nine.

"It's about our last chance, fellows," said Kindlings grimly as he walked to the bat.

He waited for a good ball, though two strikes were called on him, and then, with a mighty sweep of his strong arms, he sent the sphere away out into the field.

"A good hit! Oh, a pretty hit!" yelled Phil Clinton. "Run, old man!

Run!"

And how Kindlings could run! On and on he leaped, around first base, speeding toward second, while the stands were in a frenzy of excitement.

"Third! third!" cried the coach, for the left fielder was still after the ball.

Kindlings was running strong, and he had now started home. Would he reach it? The fielder had the ball now. With a terrific heave he sent it to the third baseman, but Kindlings was half way home. Then ensued a curious scene. The baseman was afraid to throw the ball to the catcher, for Kindlings, who was tall and was running upright, was in the way. The baseman started to trail the captain down. There was a race. Kindlings looked back and decided to keep on to home. The catcher was leaping about excitedly.

"Throw the ball! throw the ball!" he yelled. But the baseman thought he could outrun Kindlings. He almost succeeded and then, when he saw it was too late, he tossed the ball over the captain's head to the catcher.

Kindlings dropped and, amid a cloud of dust, slid home.

Like a flash the hand of the catcher holding the ball shot toward him.

There was a moment of suspense.