The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 3
CHAPTER III
A BASEBALL MEETING
"Swat 'em, freshmen! Swat 'em!" was the rallying cry of the first-year lads.
"Get the clapper! Get the clapper! Don't let them get away with it!" implored the sophomores.
There was a confused mass of arms, legs and bodies. The mass swayed, now this way, now that. Tom Parsons, the Snail, Ed Kerr and some others who had remained behind to manage the rope, threw themselves into the fray. Their help turned the tide of battle, and the sophomores, who were outnumbered, turned and fled, leaving the freshmen victors of the fight.
"Have you got the clapper, Langridge?" called Kerr anxiously.
"Of course," and the lad addressed produced the unwieldy souvenir from underneath his coat.
"Then get it to our room and hide it," went on Kerr. "They'll not give up yet. We've got to expect a hunt for it to-night."
Kerr and Langridge, who roomed together, started away, the clapper of the bell safe in their possession, while the others brought up the rear, a guard against a possible unexpected attack. But none was made, and presently the long, iron tongue was safely hidden in the rooms of the freshmen.
"I say," remarked Tom Parsons to Sidney Henderson, when the excitement had somewhat calmed down, "I wonder if I'd better report to the proctor, or to Dr. Churchill to-night. I've just entered, you know."
"What's the use?" asked his companion. "You're to room with me that's settled. Mr. Zane, the proctor, won't want to be disturbed. Besides, I rather think that Dr. Churchill, our venerable and respected head by the way, we call him Moses, you know I say I don't believe he'd thank you for coming."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, there's been more or less of doings to-night. Of course, the faculty are not supposed to know that we take the bell clapper, but you can bet they do know. They pretend not to, and take no notice of it. If you were to go and ring Moses up at this hour, he'd have to become aware—take cognizance, he'd call it—of our little racket. That might make trouble. No, on the whole, let the proctor and Moses alone."
"Why Moses?"
"What's that?"
"I say—why Moses?"
"Oh, I see. Well, we call him that from his name. Church and hill. Moses went up on a hill to preach about the church, hence—aha! see?"
"You needn't draw a map," answered Tom, "even if I am from the country."
"That's so, you're from Northville, where dad used to live."
"That's right."
"Well, I wouldn't boast of it, if I were you—especially when any of the fellows are around."
"Why not?"
"Well, of course it's all right with me—I understand, but they might make fun of you—rig you, you understand."
"Yes, I understand, but I don't mind being 'rigged,' as you call it. I fancy I can do some 'rigging' on my own hook."
"All right, it's your funeral. I've warned you."
"Thanks. But if you think it's all right for me to go right to your room, and bunk, without telling Dr. Churchill—excuse me, Moses—why, I'm willing."
"That's all right. Come on, we'll go to my room. There may be some excitement after a bit."
"How?"
"Well, the sophs may try to get the clapper back. They generally do. We'll have to help fight 'em in that case."
"Of course. By the way, what do you fellows do with the bell tongue, anyhow?"
Sid told about the watch charms.
"You'll get one," he added. "That was a good throw you made."
"Well, maybe. It was hard to see in the dark. I guess What's-his-name could have made it, only he tired himself all out."
"Oh, you mean Langridge."
"Is that his name?"
"Yes. I don't like him very well, but he's got lots of dough, and the fellows hang around him. He's manager of the baseball team."
"He is?"
"Yes. Got the election because he's willing to spend some of his money to support the team."
"Well, that's white of him."
"Oh, yes, Fred's all right, only for what ails him. He's got some queer ways, and he thinks some of us ought to bow down to him more than we do. But I won't, and I guess Kerr is getting sick of him. Some fellows think he got to be manager, and keeps the place, because he used some money. There's been talk about it."
"Who's Kerr?"
"The fellow with the black hair. He's catcher on the nine."
"I see."
"Are you going to play ball?" asked Henderson as they entered the room Tom was to share.
"I'd like to. Is there any chance?"
"Guess so. The nine's not all made up yet. They're going to have a meeting to-morrow, or next day, and try out candidates. You'll have as good a chance as any one. Where do you play?"
"I've been pitching."
Henderson uttered a low, long whistle.
"What's the matter?"
"That's Langridge's pet place. He thinks he's a regular Christy Mathewson."
"Well, I haven't disputed it," replied Tom quietly. "But if you don't mind, I'm going to take off my shoes; my feet are tired. Think any sophs will come?"
"It isn't likely now. They'd been here some time ago if they were coming. Guess I'll turn in. I've got to get up early and do some boning on my trigonometry. It's rotten stuff, ain't it?"
"Oh, I rather like it."
"Um!" was all the answer Sid made, as he prepared for bed, while Tom also undressed.
Tom Parsons had come to college, not because he wanted to have "a good time," nor because it was the fashion, nor because his father had the money to send him. Tom came because he wanted to gain knowledge, to fit himself for a place in life, and he earnestly wanted to learn. At the same time he did not belong to the class known as "digs." Tom was a sport-loving lad, and it needed but a look at his well-set head, on broad shoulders, his perfectly rounded neck, his long, lithe limbs, small hips and deep chest, to tell that he was an athlete of no little ability.
Tom's hair was inclined to curl, especially when he was warm from running or wrestling, and when it clung about his bronzed forehead in little brown ringlets, he was an attractive figure, as more than one girl had admitted. But Tom, to give him his due, never thought about this.
He was tall and straight, and he could do more than the regulation on the bars, or with dumbbells, while on the flying rings, or at boxing, you would want to think twice before you challenged him.
But Tom's specialty, if one may call it such, was on the baseball diamond. He had played in all the positions ever since he was a little lad, and he and the other country boys laid out a diamond in a stubble field, with stones for bases, and a hickory club for a bat. But Tom had a natural bent toward pitching, and he gradually developed it, principally by his own unaided efforts, together with what he could pick up out of athletic books, or what was told to him by his companions. In twirling the ball Tom's muscles, hardened by work on the farm, served him in good stead.
For Tom Parsons was a farmer lad, though, perhaps, not a typical one. His father was fairly well-to-do, and had a large acreage in the town of Northville. Tom was an only son, though there were two sisters, of whom he thought the world.
When Tom had finished his course at the village academy, and had expressed a wish to go to college, his father consented. He furnished part of the money, and the rest Tom supplied himself, for he was an independent sort of lad, and thought it his duty to take part of his savings to gain for himself a better education than was possible in his home town.
So Tom, as you have seen, came to Randall, and of the manner of his arrival, due to a combination of circumstances, you have been duly informed. He made two resolutions before coming. One was to stand well in his classes, and the other—well, you shall learn the other presently.
Tom slowly undressed. He was not used to change, for he had been a "home boy" for years, though he was no milksop, and did not in the least mind roughing it. But, after the reaction of the night, when he was in the little room with the lad who was to be his chum, he felt a bit lonely. It was new and strange to him, and he thought, not without a bit of regret, of the peaceful farmhouse in Northville, with his mother and father seated in the big, comfortable dining-room, talking, and the girls reading books, or sewing, under the light of a big lamp.
Tom looked slowly about the little room that was to be his "home" for some time to come.
Randall was not a rich college, and, in consequence, the dormitories and study apartments were not elaborately furnished. There was a sufficiency, and that was all. Of course, there was nothing to prevent the students from adding such articles to their rooms as they wanted, or thought they desired, and some, whose parents were wealthy, had nicely furnished studies.
But the one occupied by Sid and Tom was quite plain. There was a worn rug on the floor, so worn, in fact, that the floor showed through it in several places. But Sid remarked that it was a virtue rather than otherwise, for it obviated the necessity of being careful about spilling things on the rug, and also did away with the necessity of a door mat.
"They can't harm the rug, no matter how much mud they bring in," Sid had said, when Tom suggested getting a new one.
There were two small iron cots or single beds in the apartment, a bureau for each lad, a closet for clothes, but which closet contained balls, gloves, bats, sweaters, old trousers and other sporting "goods," almost to the exclusion of clothes. And then the closet did not contain it all, for many articles overflowed into the room, and no amount of compression sufficed to get things entirely within the closet. There was always something sticking out. Several old chairs, one a lounging one with a broken set of springs in the seat, a sofa that creaked in every joint, like an old man with rheumatism, a table with a cover spotted with ink, a shelf of books, an alarm clock, some cheap pictures, prints from sporting papers, and water pitchers and bowls completed the furnishings.
Tom wondered, as he fell asleep, whether the sophomores would make a further attempt to regain the clapper, but they did not, and the night was undisturbed by further pranks. At chapel next morning Dr. Churchill, after the usual devotions, announced with a twinkle in his deep-set eyes that the reason there was no bell to call the students to worship was because the tocsin was clapperless.
"It mysteriously disappeared during the night," went on the president, "and—er—well, ahem! I think matters may take their usual course," he finished quickly, trying hard not to smile.
It was always this way. By "usual course" Dr. Churchill and the students understood that the freshmen would meet, make up by contributions enough to buy a new clapper, and the incident would be closed until another year brought new freshmen to the college.
This course was followed. Langridge, who was president of the class, called a meeting that afternoon, the amount needed was quickly subscribed, and the money was taken to Dr. Churchill.
"Why do you encourage that nonsense?" asked Professor Emerson Tines, the Latin instructor (dubbed "Pitchfork" by the college lads in virtue of his name). "Why do you submit to it?"
He happened to be with the president when Langridge brought in the money.
"I don't submit to it, Professor Tines."
"But you encourage it."
"No; I simply ignore it."
"But the clapper is taken year after year."
"Is it?" asked the doctor innocently. "Well, now, so I have been informed by the janitor, but, you know, of my own knowledge I am not aware of it. It is simply hearsay evidence, and I never like to depend on that."
"But, my dear sir, don't you know that the clapper is taken by the first-year pupils?"
"Perhaps I do," answered the good doctor with a smile, "but I'm not going to admit it. I was young once myself, Professor Tines."
"So was I!" snapped the Latin teacher as he went to his own apartments.
"I—I doubt it, and that's not hearsay evidence, either, I'm afraid," murmured Dr. Churchill, as he resumed his study of ancient Egyptian hieroglyphics.
Tom Parsons, after chapel, introduced himself to Dr. Churchill and the proctor, and was properly enrolled on the college books. He was assigned to his classes, and soon began to feel himself at home among the students.
"Well, are you going?" asked Sid of Tom that afternoon, as they came from the last recitation.
"Going where?"
"To the baseball meeting. Didn't you see the notice?"
"No."
His roommate showed it to Tom. It was a note on the bulletin board in the gymnasium, stating that all interested in the baseball nine, whether as players or as supporters, were invited to meet in the basket-ball court that afternoon.
"Of course I'm going," declared Tom.
The size of the throng that gathered in the gymnasium was proof enough of the interest taken in affairs of the diamond by the Randall students. There was talk of nothing save bases, balls, strikes, sacrifices, bunts, home runs, fielding, pitching, catching, and what-not. Langridge called the meeting to order, and in a few words explained that the object of it was to get the team in shape for the spring games.
"I understand that there are a number of new men with us this year," he went on in easy tones. There was no use in denying that the well-dressed lad knew how to talk, and that to get up in front of a throng did not embarrass him. "I hope, as manager as well as a player," he went on, "that we shall find some good material. The team needs strengthening in several places, and it is up to us to do it. Now I have a list here of the former players, and the names of some who have already signified a desire to try for places this year. I'll read them."
It was quite a long list, and Tom Parsons, listening to it, began to wonder if he would have any chance among so many.
"If there are any others who would like to put their names down as candidates, I'll take them," announced Fred. Several stepped forward, and their names were noted, together with the positions they desired to play.
"Go on up," urged Sid to Tom.
The country lad advanced to where Langridge stood.
"I'd like to try for a place," he said.
"Oh, you would, eh?" asked the other, and the sneer in his voice was evident. "Well, don't you think you'd better wait until the hayseed is out of your hair?" and he laughed.
"Here's a comb," retorted Tom quickly, extending a small pocket one. "Maybe you'll give me a hand. I can't see the back of my head."
"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."
Langridge glanced quickly at the speaker.
"His name is down," he answered quietly—more quietly than any one expected him to speak. "Are there any others?"
No one answered.
"We'll meet for practice to-morrow afternoon," went on Langridge. "Of course, it's understood that no one plays on the team who doesn't contribute his share of expenses," and he looked straight at Tom Parsons.
Without a word the country lad drew out a wallet, none too well filled, to judge by the looks of it.
"What's the tax?" he asked, still smiling.
"The—er—the finance committee attends to that," was the answer Langridge made. "They'll meet to-night."
Evidently he had not expected so ready a compliance on Tom's part.
"Well, if it's all settled, I move we adjourn," suggested Ed Kerr. "Let's have a scrub game, for luck."
At that moment a lad came hurrying into the gymnasium.
"Where's Langridge?" he asked excitedly.
"Here," replied the baseball manager. "What's up?"
"Hazing!" was the somewhat breathless answer. "The sophs are going to try it on to-night, to get square about the bell clapper. I just heard it."
"That's the stuff!" cried Phil Clinton. "Now we'll get a chance to have some fun."
"And I'll pay 'em back for slashing my hat," added Ford Fenton. "My uncle says"
But what his respected relative had remarked was not learned, as the boys rushed from the room to prepare for the ordeal that they knew awaited them.