"That's it," went on Langridge eagerly. "Tell Kindlings—tell Lighton you can't pitch—that your arm has given out."
"But it hasn't."
"Never mind. Tell them. Tell them anything, as long as you don't pitch."
"And why don't you want me to pitch? Do you want to see your college lose? Not because I'm the best pitcher that ever happened, but you know there's no one else they can put in at this late day."
"Yes, there is."
"Who?"
"Me! I'll pitch. I want to pitch. I've just got to. You don't know what it means to me. Let me pitch this last game. Please, Parsons! It won't mean much to you and it means everything to me. I can do it. See, I—I haven't touched a drop since—since the Boxer game. I've been getting in shape. I'm as steady as a rock. I can pitch the game of my life. Come, do! Say you won't pitch. They'll give me a chance then. I want to get in the last game—and win. Will you? Will you let me get in this last game in your place?"
He was leaning forward, his hands held out to Tom, his rival, begging a boon of him.
"Will you resign in my favor?" he asked. "I know it's a big request, but will you, Parsons?"
Tom did not know what to answer.
