The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 32
CHAPTER XXXII
THE FINAL CONTEST
Langridge stood before his rival, waiting. It was quiet in the little room, so quiet that the ticking of the alarm clock sounded loud. Outside could be heard the tramp of feet in the corridor, students going to and fro. Langridge glanced nervously at the door. He was plainly afraid lest some one should enter and find him there.
It was a hard problem for Tom to solve. The appeal of the lad who had done much to injure him moved him strongly. He knew what it would mean to Langridge not to pitch—that he would be out of athletics for the rest of his college course. If Tom gave way in his favor, it would mean his rehabilitation and for Tom only a temporary loss of prestige.
"Will you do it?" asked Langridge softly.
Tom did not answer. He paced up and down the room. What ought he to say? He felt that he could afford to sacrifice his own interests—could even forego the high honor of pitching in what was the greatest game of the college year—for the sake of Langridge. If he did not and if Langridge went away disheartened, it might mean that he would plunge deeper into dissipation. Then there came to Tom the thought of the nine. Was it fair to the others, to the college?
Something told him it was not, that it was his duty to pitch—to do his best—to win for the sake of the college and the nine. Langridge might possibly do it, but it was doubtful. The former pitcher could not be sure of himself, sure that he had mastered his desire for stimulant. Then Tom decided, not on his own account but for the sake of the team and the college
"I can't do it, Langridge," he replied, and his voice showed the anguish he felt at the pain he inflicted.
"Then you'll pitch?" asked his rival.
"Yes, I feel that I must. The team depends on me, and and I can't go back on them."
Langridge must have seen that Tom's answer was final, for without a word he turned and left the room.
Then Tom felt a wave of remorse sweep over him. After all, had he done right? Had he done the best thing? He was almost on the point of rushing after Langridge and telling him he could pitch in the final game, for the memory of his face haunted Tom. But when his hand was on the knob of the door Sid entered.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom's chum, looking curiously at him.
"Nothing. Why?"
"You look as if you had been seeing ghosts."
"Well, I have—a sort of one," answered Tom with an uneasy laugh. "How'd you make out with the Latin?"
"Pretty punk, I guess. Bricktop says I've got to put in all my spare time boning. If I slump and can't play that last game, I'll—I'll"
"Don't you dare slump!" cried Tom earnestly. "We can't put a new man on first at this late day, Don't you dare slump, Sid."
"Oh, I'll try not to," and Sid dumped himself down in the easy chair and with an air of dogged determination began devouring Latin verbs.
The 'varsity had had its final practice against the scrub, with Tom in the box for the first team. He was beginning to take it as a matter of course and acquiring that which he needed most—confidence in himself. The scrub pitcher who had replaced him was good, but he was pretty well batted, while very few hits, and these only onebaggers, were secured off Tom.
"Boys," said Mr. Lighton two days before the game, "I think I can see our way clear to the Tonoka Lake League pennant. Now take it easy to-morrow, a little light exercise, be careful of what you eat, don't get nervous, go to bed early and sleep well. Then Saturday afternoon we'll go to Fairview and bring back the banner."
"Three cheers for our coach!" called Kerr, and Mr. Lighton, veteran that he was, blushed with pleasure.
"I hope we win," remarked Ford Fenton as the team walked to the dressing-rooms. "My uncle says"
But Kerr threw his big catching mitt with such good aim that it struck Fenton full in the face.
"Here—huh! ho! What'd you do that for?" he demanded.
"I didn't want you to wear out that uncle of yours," was the cool answer. "It's getting warm weather now and you'd better can him so he'll keep until next year."
Ford scowled and then laughed, for he was good-natured in spite of his one failing.
Sid entered the room where Tom was late that afternoon with a worried look on his face.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom in alarm.
"Pitchfork has decided to have a special Latin exam to-morrow for my class. Wow! I was counting on it going over, but it won't, and I've got to take it to-morrow."
"Well?"
"No, not well—bad. If I slump, do you know what it means?"
"You can't play against Fairview?"
"Exactly. Oh, Tom, I'm as nervous as a girl before her first big party. Here, coach me a bit," and Tom, taking the books, gave Sid what help he could until they were both so tired and sleepy that Tom insisted that bed was the only place for them.
The news spread the next day. Sid was the only member of the team who was in the special Latin class, and consequently the only one who had to go through the ordeal. When he went into recitation his mates on the team gathered in silent conclave on the diamond.
"If Sid slumps," spoke Captain Woodhouse, "I don't"
"Don't talk about it," pleaded Bricktop Molloy.
"If he does, couldn't we play Langridge on first?" suggested Phil Clinton. "He used to practice there."
"Langridge is down and out," declared Kerr. "I don't know what's come over him. He won't speak to me any more. I guess he knows he's got to do a lot of studying to pass, and he must be tutoring with some grind. He keeps himself mighty scarce. I don't believe he'd play."
"No, we couldn't use him," said Kindlings. "It all depends on Sid. I wash the exam was over. It's like waiting for a jury to come in."
The whole team was on tenterhooks. No one felt like talking, and some one would start a topic only to witness it die a natural death. The members of the nine paced to and fro on the diamond. They were waiting for news from Sid. If he did not pass he could not play, and it practically meant a lowering of their chances for the pennant.
An hour went by. A few lads began coming from the recitation room where the examination was being held.
"Some of them have finished," commented Tom. "Let's ask 'em how Sid's making out."
One of the Latin students strolled over toward where the ball players were.
"How's Henderson doing?" asked Kindlings.
"Sweating like a cart horse," was the characteristic answer. "It's a stiff exam all right."
There was a groan in concert and the anxious waiting was resumed. Fifteen minutes passed. Several more students had come from the room.
"Where can he be?" murmured Tom.
"There he comes!" cried Phil Clinton as Sid appeared, coming slowly toward the group.
"I'll bet he failed," said Kindlings solemnly. Certainly in Sid's approach there was not the air of a conqueror.
All at once he stopped, bent down to the ground and appeared to be tearing something to pieces.
"What's he doing?" asked Tom.
"Let's go see," proposed Kerr.
They advanced and beheld a curious sight. Sid was tearing up a book and making a little heap of the leaves. A moment later he touched a match to the pile, and the paper began to burn.
"What in the world are you doing?" called Tom.
"Did you pass?" fairly roared Kindlings.
"Sure," replied Sid as calmly as if he had always expected to. "I passed with honors, and now I'm destroying the evidence. I'm applying the torch to Cæsar's Commentaries and I'll never open a book like it again in my life. Come on, fellows, join the festive throng. Tra la la! Merrily do we sing."
He began prancing about and the others, with yells of joy, joined in. Sid would cover first base for them in the big game.
With a tooting of auto horns, the waving of many flags, shouts, cheers, yells of encouragement, laughter from many pretty girls, the waving of handkerchiefs, renditions of the college yell the ball nine and its supporters started the next day in a long cavalcade for Fairview.
Several automobiles had been provided for the use of the team, and in one of these rode Tom and Miss Tyler, whom he had called for at her home that morning. A number of ladies went along as chaperones for the girls of Haddonfield.
Dr. Churchill and most of the faculty also went to the game.
"Aren't you coming, Professor Tines?" asked the head of the college as he and the other instructors were about to start.
"No, I don't care much for baseball. I shall remain here and arrange for another Latin examination for some of the students."
Sid groaned and his chums laughed, whereat Professor Tines frowned.
"Do you think you'll win?" asked Miss Tyler as she sat next to Tom.
"I'm sure of it," he answered promptly.
When the Randall team and its supporters arrived they found a big throng present to greet them. Even their opponents sent out a ringing cheer of welcome. The Fairview nine was out on the diamond practicing.
"Snappy work," observed Tom critically as the batting and catching was under way.
"Oh, we can do just as good," asserted Kindlings. "Don't get nervous now. You've got to pitch your head off."
Some one started the Randall college song, "Aut vincere aut mori," and as the beautiful strains floated over the diamond when the players poured out from the dressing-rooms the team came to a sudden halt.
"That's it, fellows," said Kindlings solemnly, "'Either we conquer or we die!' Play for all that's in you and then some more," and he laughed.
Auto horns tooted blatantly, girls cried in their clear, shrill voices, the lady contingent of Fairview rendering some weird yells. Then there were the hoarse voices of the boys, to which answered the cheers of Randall. The grandstand and bleachers were waving geometrical figures of brilliant hues. It was an inspiring sight. No wonder that the players felt nerved to do their best, for on the result of the game depended much.
Kindlings missed the call when the coin was spun, and he and his men had to start the hitting. But they did not mind this, and when, in the revised batting order, Kerr went up first, he "poked his stick into the horsehide for a two-bagger," as Holly Cross said. There was a yell that could have been heard a mile and every Randall lad was on his feet shouting:
"Go on! go on! go on!"
But Kerr stopped at second prudently, for he would have been nabbed at third. This opened the game and the play at once became hot. Randall scored two runs that inning and Tom, giving walking papers to a particularly heavy hitter, managed to come out of the initial ordeal without a hit being registered against him. The Randall boys went wild then and began the song, "When Fairview awoke from her sweet dream of peace," which was repeated again and again.
But the next three innings saw only the negative sign chalked up in the frame on the scoreboard given over to Randall, while in the last half of the fourth Fairview secured a run, for one of the players "got the Indian sign" on Tom, to quote Holly Cross, who was an expert in diamond slang, and "bit his initials in the spheroid for a threebagger." The run would not have been scored, for there were two men out, only Joe Jackson made what seemed to be an inexcusable fumble, and the runner came in. Still it looked safe for Randall until the fatal seventh inning.
For some teams this is held to be a lucky one, but it was not for Randall. Tom was doing his best, but in delivering one ball he gave his arm a peculiar wrench, and a sharp twinge of pain in the region where Langridge had kicked him made him wince. After that he could not control his curves so well, and three men made safeties off him, a trio of runs being registered. The score was 4 to 2 in favor of Fairview at the close of the seventh. Kindlings looked grave and Coach Lighton paced nervously to and fro.
"What's the matter, old man?" the captain asked Tom.
"Nothing much," was the answer. "I gave my arm a little twist, that's all."
"Come inside and we'll massage it," proposed Mr. Lighton, who was always ready for emergencies, and he and Kindlings rubbed some liniment on Tom's joint. It felt a little better, and Tom said so, though when he went into the box, following an inning when Bricktop Molloy brought in one run, the pitcher was in considerable misery. He shut his teeth grimly, however, and resolved to do his best, though to deliver his most effective curves meant to give himself much pain.
Tom only allowed two hits and one run came in, making the score at the ending of the eighth inning 5 to 3 in favor of Fairview.
How the co-eds shouted and cheered then and there was corresponding gloom among the Randallites until once more that grand old song, "Aut vincere aut mori," welled forth and gave confidence to an almost despairing nine.
"It's about our last chance, fellows," said Kindlings grimly as he walked to the bat.
He waited for a good ball, though two strikes were called on him, and then, with a mighty sweep of his strong arms, he sent the sphere away out into the field.
"A good hit! Oh, a pretty hit!" yelled Phil Clinton. "Run, old man! Run!"
And how Kindlings could run! On and on he leaped, around first base, speeding toward second, while the stands were in a frenzy of excitement.
"Third! third!" cried the coach, for the left fielder was still after the ball. Kindlings was running strong, and he had now started home. Would he reach it? The fielder had the ball now. With a terrific heave he sent it to the third baseman, but Kindlings was half way home. Then ensued a curious scene. The baseman was afraid to throw the ball to the catcher, for Kindlings, who was tall and was running upright, was in the way. The baseman started to trail the captain down. There was a race. Kindlings looked back and decided to keep on to home. The catcher was leaping about excitedly.
"Throw the ball! throw the ball!" he yelled. But the baseman thought he could outrun Kindlings. He almost succeeded and then, when he saw it was too late, he tossed the ball over the captain's head to the catcher. Kindlings dropped and, amid a cloud of dust, slid home.
Like a flash the hand of the catcher holding the ball shot toward him. There was a moment of suspense.
"Safe!" howled the umpire, and one more run went to the credit of Randall.
Tom brought in another not so sensational, but it counted. He knocked a pretty fly, which sailed over the second baseman's head and the pitcher got to first, stole second and came in with a rush on a swift grounder bunt that Phil Clinton sacrificed on under orders.