"That's right. He's improving wonderfully. Langridge will have to look to his pitching arm."
At that moment the wealthy youth passed by Phil and Sid. He heard what they said, and if they could have seen his face then they would have been somewhat puzzled at the look on it. But neither Tom nor any of his friends saw.
It was the next day after the scrub game that as Tom was alone in his room, "boning" away on Latin, a knock sounded on the door.
"Come!" he cried, and, much to his surprise, Langridge entered.
"You're becoming a regular greasy dig, aren't you?" he asked pleasantly.
"Well, I've got to do some studying, you know. That's what I came here for."
"Yes, I know and all that sort of thing, but if you're going in for athletics you can't pound away at your books too hard."
"Oh, I guess what pounding I do won't hurt me," and Tom laid aside the volume, the while wondering why Langridge had called on him. Tom distinctly was not in the rich youth's set.
"I hope not," and the other's manner was becoming more and more cordial. "But I say, Parsons, don't you want to help us get one in on the sophs?"
"Sure. You can always count on me. What is it this time?"
