CHAPTER XXXI
LANGRIDGE APPEALS
While the stage coach in which the players had come from Randall was being gotten ready to take the victorious nine back Tom strolled across the diamond toward the grandstand. He wanted to be alone for a moment and think, for he had many ideas in his mind, and they were not all connected with his recent work in the pitcher's box. A certain bright-eyed girl figured largely in them.
"I thought she'd given him up," he said to himself. "Well, of course, it's none of my affair, but"
There generally was a "but," Tom felt. The crowd was nearly gone and he was about to turn back and join his chums.
Suddenly he became aware of a girlish figure alone in the big stand. He looked to make sure who it was, for at the first glimpse he had felt that it was she of whom he was thinking. As he did so the girl looked at him. It was Miss Tyler, and Tom noticed that there were tears in her eyes. He saw nothing of Langridge as he hastened toward her.
"Why, Madge—Miss Tyler!" he exclaimed, "what is the matter? Have you lost anything? Are you alone? I thought Fred Langridge was going"
She stamped her little foot.
"Please don't speak his name to me!" she exclaimed.
Tom opened his eyes.
"Why—why" he stammered.
"He came over to me in in no proper condition to escort me home," she went on tearfully. "Oh, Tom, I'm—I'm so miserable!"
She acted as though she were going to break down and cry in real earnest, and Tom was on the anxious edge, for he hated to see girls weep. But she mastered herself with an effort.
"May I take you back to Haddonfield?" he asked.
"Yes," she said, and she came down from the upper part of the stand to join him. They walked off the field, both silent for a time, and Tom was wondering what would be the safest subject to talk about. But Miss Tyler spoke first.
"You did fine work," she said. "I'm—I'm glad you got the chance to pitch."
"So am I," declared Tom, "but I'm sorry for" He did not know whether or not to mention his rival's name. But she understood.
"So am I—I'm very sorry for him. It's all his horrid money that's doing it. He wants to be what the boys call a 'sport.' But he isn't. He's unfair to himself—to me. But I'm done with him! I shall never speak to him again."
Tom was both glad and sorry.
"Do you think you will win from Fairview?" asked the girl after a pause.
"I think so."
"I hope you do. I want to see that game, but I don't"
"Won't you let me take you?" asked Tom quickly. "We are going in a number of autos and there'll be lots of room."
"Oh, I didn't mean to hint so broadly," she exclaimed, and her face crimsoned.
"I was going to ask you, anyhow," declared Tom. "Will you go?"
"Yes," she replied softly.
"And help me to pitch to win," added Tom, and he tried to look into her face, but she averted her eyes.
There was great celebrating in Randall that night. Some of the boys wanted to light historic bonfires along the river, which blazes were always kindled on great occasions, but Mr. Lighton reminded the lads that they had still to win the contest with Fairview before they would be champions, and he urged that the game was no easy one. So milder forms of making glad were substituted. Tom was the hero of the hour, and he felt that there had been made up to him everything that he had suffered in being kept so long on the scrub.
It was dark in the apartments of Langridge. No one had seen him since the game and few cared about him.
"He got just what was coming to him," declared Sid vindictively. "He'd have thrown the game for a drink of liquor and a cigarette. Pah! I've no use for such a chap."
"Well, maybe he didn't mean to do it," replied Tom, who could afford to be generous. "He may have taken some to steady his nerves and it went to his head."
"Rats! It ought to have gone to his pitching arm. But I've got to bone away. Exams are getting nearer and nearer every day, and the closer they come the less I seem to know about Latin. From now on I'm going to think, eat, sleep and dream in Latin."
The following Saturday the team went to the Indian school at Carlisle and played a game with the red men. It was a hard-fought battle and the aborigines made the mistake of putting in a lot of substitutes for the first few innings, for they had a poor opinion of Randall. But the visitors rolled up a good score and Tom was a whirlwind at pitching, holding the red men down to a low score. Then the Indians awakened and sent in some of their best players, but the Randalls had the game "in the refrigerator," as Holly Cross said, and took it home with them, despite the war cries of the redskins and their efforts to annex the scalp-locks of the palefaces.
The winning of this game against what was generally considered to be a much stronger team than that of Randall did much to infuse an ag; gressive spirit into the latter players. The trip, too, acted as a sort of tonic.
"Boys, I think we're fit to make the fight of our lives a week from to-day," declared Captain Woodhouse as he and the team were on their way back to college. "We'll wipe the diamond up with Fairview and then maybe that banner won't look fine at the top of our flagstaff."
"That's what!" cried Phil Clinton. "I'm ready to play 'em now."
"Same here!" cried Pete Backus, giving a great jump up into the air, seemingly to justify his title of "Grasshopper."
"My uncle says" began Ford Fenton, but Holly Cross gave such an imitation of an Indian war whoop that what the former coach had said was lost "in the shuffle."
"Great work, old man!" cried Phil Clinton to Tom as he linked his arm in that of the new 'varsity pitcher.
"That was a fine catch of yours, to return the compliment," said Tom with a laugh.
"Don't go forming a mutual admiration society," advised Mr. Lighton. "Play ball—that's the thing to do."
"It's queer what's become of Langridge," remarked Tom to Sid when they were in their room a few nights later, talking over the approaching final game with Fairview. "He seems to have dropped out of sight."
"That's where he'd better stay," declared Sid. "He'll never be any more account to the team. We'll have a new manager when we whip Fairview."
"If we only do!"
"Oh, we will. I only hope I can play."
"Why, is there any chance that you won't?"
"Well, I'm pretty shaky in Latin, and Pitchfork has warned me that if I slump, it's me to the bench for the rest of this term. I'm going over and see Bricktop Molloy. He's a fiend at Latin. Rather study it than eat. He's been coaching me lately, and I want to get the benefit of it. So I'll just go and bone with him a bit."
"Go ahead, old man. Wish I could help you, but I've got to look after my own rations. I'm none too safe."
Sid went out and Tom was left alone with his books. But somehow he could not study. He took no sense of the printed page. There was an uneasiness in his mind and he could not put his thoughts into form.
"Hang it all!" he exclaimed, "I guess I'm thinking too much of baseball."
He got up to take a turn in the corridors to change the current of his thoughts when there came a knock at the door.
"Come!" he cried, thinking it would prove to be some of his chums. The portal slowly swung and Tom, looking at the widening crack, saw the pale face of Langridge.
"May I come in?" asked the former pitcher, and his voice trembled.
"Of course," answered Tom heartily. "Where have you been keeping yourself?"
"It doesn't much matter. I—I've come to ask a favor of you, Parsons."
"A favor of me?"
"Yes, and it's a mighty big one."
There was a dogged, determined air about him as he stood there facing his rival who had supplanted him, and Tom wondered what was coming next.
"Why, I'll do anything I can for you, Langridge, of course."
"Wait until you hear what I want. There's no use beating about the bush, Parsons. I've been mighty mean to you. I've played a low-down hand against you, but I'm not going to apologize—not now. I thought it was fair—in war, you know. I didn't want you to pitch in my place, but you've done me out of it."
"I think I acted square," said Tom quietly.
"Yes, you did. You were white. I wasn't. I didn't play fair about that wire nor yet about sneaking in the dormitory that night. You did. I suppose you know—about the night you were captured—the night of the freshman dinner."
"I think you knew it was I before you" began Tom.
"Yes, I knew it was you before I kicked you," went on Langridge, and he spoke as if he was getting through a disagreeable confession. "I—I didn't mean to boot you so hard, though. I thought maybe you'd give up pitching if you got a good crack on the arm, but you didn't."
"No, I'm not that kind."
"So I see. Well, you've got what you wanted and I got what I never expected. Now I want you to do me a favor."
"What is it?"
"I want you to refuse to pitch in the Fairview game."
Tom wondered whether he had heard aright.
"You want me to refuse" he began.
"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.