"That's one on you, Langridge," cried Phil Clinton. "That's the time you got yours good and proper."
Tom was smiling good-naturedly, but the other was scowling.
Tom looked Langridge straight in the eye, and the other turned aside. The country lad put back the comb into his pocket.
"What's your name?" growled Langridge, though he knew it full well.
"Tom Parsons."
"Where do you want to try for?"
"Pitcher."
There was some confusion in the room, but it ceased at Tom's reply.
"Pitcher!" exclaimed Langridge.
"I said pitcher," replied Tom quietly.
"Why—er—I'm pitcher on the 'varsity nine!" fairly snarled Langridge. "That is, I was last year and expect to be again. Do you mean pitcher on the scrub?"
"On the 'varsity," spoke Tom, smiling the least bit.
Langridge shot a look at him from his black eyes. It was a look that boded Tom no good, for the former pitcher had recognized in the new arrival a formidable rival.
"Put his name down," called Sid. "You might get a sore arm, and we'd need a substitute."
