sake of Langridge. If he did not and if Langridge went away disheartened, it might mean that he would plunge deeper into dissipation. Then there came to Tom the thought of the nine. Was it fair to the others, to the college?
Something told him it was not, that it was his duty to pitch—to do his best—to win for the sake of the college and the nine. Langridge might possibly do it, but it was doubtful. The former pitcher could not be sure of himself, sure that he had mastered his desire for stimulant. Then Tom decided, not on his own account but for the sake of the team and the college
"I can't do it, Langridge," he replied, and his voice showed the anguish he felt at the pain he inflicted.
"Then you'll pitch?" asked his rival.
"Yes, I feel that I must. The team depends on me, and and I can't go back on them."
Langridge must have seen that Tom's answer was final, for without a word he turned and left the room.
Then Tom felt a wave of remorse sweep over him. After all, had he done right? Had he done the best thing? He was almost on the point of rushing after Langridge and telling him he could pitch in the final game, for the memory of his face haunted Tom. But when his hand was on the knob of the door Sid entered.
