This course was followed. Langridge, who was president of the cla.s.s, called a meeting that afternoon, the amount needed was quickly subscribed, and the money was taken to Dr. Churchill.

"Why do you encourage that nonsense?" asked Professor Emerson Tines, the Latin instructor (dubbed "Pitchfork" by the college lads in virtue of his name). "Why do you submit to it?"

He happened to be with the president when Langridge brought in the money.

"I don't submit to it, Professor Tines."

"But you encourage it."

"No; I simply ignore it."

"But the clapper is taken year after year."

"Is it?" asked the doctor innocently. "Well, now, so I have been informed by the janitor, but, you know, of my own knowledge I am not aware of it.

It is simply hearsay evidence, and I never like to depend on that."

"But, my dear sir, don't you _know_ that the clapper is taken by the first-year pupils?"

"Perhaps I do," answered the good doctor with a smile, "but I'm not going to admit it. I was young once myself, Professor Tines."

"So was I!" snapped the Latin teacher as he went to his own apartments.

"I--I doubt it, and that's not hearsay evidence, either, I'm afraid,"

murmured Dr. Churchill, as he resumed his study of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics.

Tom Parsons, after chapel, introduced himself to Dr. Churchill and the proctor, and was properly enrolled on the college books. He was a.s.signed to his cla.s.ses, and soon began to feel himself at home among the students.

"Well, are you going?" asked Sid of Tom that afternoon, as they came from the last recitation.

"Going where?"

"To the baseball meeting. Didn't you see the notice?"

"No."

His roommate showed it to Tom. It was a note on the bulletin board in the gymnasium, stating that all interested in the baseball nine, whether as players or as supporters, were invited to meet in the basket-ball court that afternoon.

"Of course I'm going," declared Tom.

The size of the throng that gathered in the gymnasium was proof enough of the interest taken in affairs of the diamond by the Randall students.

There was talk of nothing save bases, b.a.l.l.s, strikes, sacrifices, bunts, home runs, fielding, pitching, catching, and what-not. Langridge called the meeting to order, and in a few words explained that the object of it was to get the team in shape for the spring games.

"I understand that there are a number of new men with us this year," he went on in easy tones. There was no use in denying that the well-dressed lad knew how to talk, and that to get up in front of a throng did not embarra.s.s him. "I hope, as manager as well as a player," he went on, "that we shall find some good material. The team needs strengthening in several places, and it is up to us to do it. Now I have a list here of the former players, and the names of some who have already signified a desire to try for places this year. I'll read them."

It was quite a long list, and Tom Parsons, listening to it, began to wonder if he would have any chance among so many.

"If there are any others who would like to put their names down as candidates, I'll take them," announced Fred.

Several stepped forward, and their names were noted, together with the positions they desired to play.

"Go on up," urged Sid to Tom.

The country lad advanced to where Langridge stood.

"I'd like to try for a place," he said.

"Oh, you would, eh?" asked the other, and the sneer in his voice was evident. "Well, don't you think you'd better wait until the hayseed is out of your hair?" and he laughed.

"Here's a comb," retorted Tom quickly, extending a small pocket one.

"Maybe you'll give me a hand. I can't see the back of my head."

"That's one on you, Langridge," cried Phil Clinton. "That's the time you got yours good and proper."

Tom was smiling good-naturedly, but the other was scowling.

Tom looked Langridge straight in the eye, and the other turned aside.

The country lad put back the comb into his pocket.

"What's your name?" growled Langridge, though he knew it full well.

"Tom Parsons."

"Where do you want to try for?"

"Pitcher."

There was some confusion in the room, but it ceased at Tom's reply.

"Pitcher!" exclaimed Langridge.

"I said pitcher," replied Tom quietly.

"Why--er--I'm pitcher on the 'varsity nine!" fairly snarled Langridge.

"That is, I was last year and expect to be again. Do you mean pitcher on the scrub?"

"On the 'varsity," spoke Tom, smiling the least bit.

Langridge shot a look at him from his black eyes. It was a look that boded Tom no good, for the former pitcher had recognized in the new arrival a formidable rival.

"Put his name down," called Sid. "You might get a sore arm, and we'd need a subst.i.tute."

Langridge glanced quickly at the speaker.

"His name is down," he answered quietly--more quietly than any one expected him to speak. "Are there any others?"

No one answered.

"We'll meet for practice to-morrow afternoon," went on Langridge. "Of course, it's understood that no one plays on the team who doesn't contribute his share of expenses," and he looked straight at Tom Parsons.