The Rival Pitchers Part 45

"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 Sat.u.r.day 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 subst.i.tutes 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 aggressive 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 t.i.tle of "Gra.s.shopper."

"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.