CHAPTER XXIII
HALED TO COURT
Our heroes were in a quandary. They had gotten on the trail of the mystery, and it diverged in two directions. Both paths seemed to lead to one or the other of two students—Bascome or Lenton. To accuse either, or to question them, would mean serious trouble, for it would be considered as an insult. Tom and his chums realized that.
"But what gets me, if either one of them did take our clock and chair, is what their motive could have been," spoke Tom. "Why in the mischief should they take our battered old ticker, leave another in its place, and then make the exchange again?"
"It's just as easy to answer as to say who has our chair," declared Phil. "It isn't in Bascome's room, that's certain."
"And Lenton hasn't it," asserted Tom. "I found that out, all right."
It was the morning after the sensational discovery of the letter, and they were still discussing it, without apparently getting anywhere. They had tacitly agreed that, without more evidence than they now possessed, it would be folly to go to Bascome again.
"Let's get out of here," proposed Tom, after some more talk on the subject. "We're almost late for chapel as it is."
It is doubtful if either of the three chums gave much consideration to the services that morning. Their minds were too much filled with other matters.
Dr. Churchill made an announcement to the effect that there might soon be some news to communicate in the matter of the suit against the college.
"At present," he stated, "the matter is in the hands of the lawyers, and we hope to effect a compromise. If we arrive at one, I shall be most happy to let you young gentlemen know of it. Of course, too, there is the possibility of unfavorable news. But, in any event, I know that you will be loyal to the college."
'You bet!" cried Bean Perkins, fervently, and he was not rebuked, for the devotional exercises were over.
"I wonder what Prexy meant by bad news?" asked Holly Cross, as he walked over the campus with Tom and several other chums.
"He didn't mean that we're going to lose the game with Fairview Saturday, I hope," put in Kindlings. "We're going to have long practice this afternoon, and I want every fellow to show up. Simpson, I'm going to give you a chance at left guard in the second half of the game."
"Thanks!" exclaimed the big Californian, fervently.
The practice on the gridiron that afternoon was the hardest to which the players had yet been subjected. The scrub had been instructed to play for all they were worth against the 'varsity, and the inducement was held out that if any of the second team outplayed the man against him on the regular eleven, that he could replace him in the Fairview game.
This was enough to stir the blood of the scrubs, and they went at the 'varsity hammer and tongs. The result was rather a surprise, for the regulars developed unexpected strength in the line. And even Snail Looper proved that he could do well when he wanted to, for when the backs were sent against him and Bascome, the two held well together, and the wave of human beings, of whom one had the ball, was dashed back, failing to gain in several cases.
There was one particularly hot scrimmage, and Andrews, who was playing left half-back on the scrub, went at the line like a stone from a catapault He broke through, and Pete Backus and Sid Henderson, who tried to tackle him, missed. Andrews was gathering his speed for a spring down the field for a touchdown, when Phil Clinton, who had circled out of the press, was after him like a shot, and after a daring tackle threw him heavily.
But, somehow or other, Phil slipped, and his foot was doubled under him. When he got up he limped painfully.
"What's the matter?" demanded Mr. Lighton, anxiously, as he ran up.
"Twisted my ankle."
"Is it sprained?"
"No, only a little. I'll be all right in a minute."
They had his shoe off in a jiffy, and massaged the ankle, but it did little good, and wanting to save his quarter-back for the big game on Saturday, Captain Woodhouse sent in Art Benson, as a substitute. Phil retired to the side lines, tears of chagrin in his eyes, but his friends comforted him with the thought that he would be all right by Saturday if he rested, while, if he didn't he couldn't play against Fairview.
The game went on, and, as if nerved by Phil's injury, the 'varsity played like fiends. They rushed the unfortunate scrub team all over the field, and rolled up more touchdowns than they had previously done in practice that season.
"I guess we'll come out all right," spoke Kindlings, gleefully, to the coach, as they walked from the field, discussing some new plays that had been tried.
"I'm more hopeful," answered Mr. Lighton.
A hot bath, a rub down and a vigorous massaging of his ankle with liniment, made Phil feel much better, and that night, propped up in an easy position on the sofa—the seat of honor—the quarter-back received his friends, several of whom dropped in to inquire after him.
Will you be fit, old man?" asked Holly Cross, anxiously. "I hear that Fairview has it in for us for keeps."
"Sure I'll be on hand," declared Phil, gamely. "This isn't anything."
"I hope not," remarked Kindlings, with a dubious shake of his head. "We can tell better in the morning." For he well knew that such injuries as Phil's often became worse in a few hours than they seemed at first.
The captain's apprehension was realized, for the next morning Phil could not step on his foot, and Dr. Marshall, the college physician, was summoned.
The doctor looked at the swollen ankle, felt of it gently, thereby causing Phil to wince with pain, and then announced:
"No playing for you, Clinton."
"But I've got to play, doctor. I've got to be in the game against Fairview Saturday. That's three days off. Won't it be well then?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Well enough to play if I wear a leather protector?"
"If you play, you may be out of the game the rest of the season," was the solemn answer. "I must forbid it. You may do yourself serious injury. What you need is complete rest."
Phil gasped, and held back the exclamation that sprang to his lips—an exclamation partly of bitterness and partly of pain, for the physician was rebandaging the foot. Then he turned his face to the wall, and when the doctor was gone, Tom and Sid sat in silent communion with their chum. For they knew how he felt, and knew that mere words could only make the wounded spirit more sore. Silence was the best balm, and silence there was, with only the fussy clock to mark the passage of the seconds.
Phil's ankle was even worse the next day, and it was announced that he would not be in the Fairview game, which news cast a gloom over Randall, and caused rejoicing in the camp of their rivals, for Fairview was none too sure of a victory, though they had a fine eleven. Benson, the substitute quarter, was slated for the contest.
There was hard practice every available moment up to the night before the game, and though the team was rather demoralized, the captain and coach, by vigorous words, kept the players up to the mark.
"We're going to win! We're going to win!" they said over and over again.
There was a noticeable air of something portending when Dr. Churchill and his colleagues took their seats on the platform at chapel the next morning. The president's voice was solemn as he read the Scriptures, more solemn as he offered prayer, and when he advanced to the edge of the rostrum to make an announcement, there was a long breath of expectation from the students.
"Is it about football or the trouble, I wonder?" whispered Holly Cross.
"Quiet," begged Tom.
"Young gentlemen," began the president, "I regret to say that I have bad news for you. Randall College has lost the first skirmish in the legal battle. The directors have been summoned to court to show cause why they should not vacate the land whereon our buildings stand. The matter had assumed a serious phase, all through the loss of that quit-claim deed."