PROFESSOR TINES OBJECTS
"Are you going to fight him?" asked Langridge of Gerhart, when they were
beyond the hearing of Tom and Phil.
"Of course! I owe him something for being instrumental in getting me put
out of the game."
"Are you sure he did?"
"Certainly. Didn't I see him sneak up to Lighton and put him wise to the
fact that I'd taken a few whiffs? I only smoked half a cigarette in the
dressing-room, but Clinton must have spied on me."
"That's what Parsons did on me, last term, and I got dumped for it.
There isn't much to this athletic business, anyway. I don't see why you
go in for it."
"Well, I do, but I'm not going to stand for Clinton butting in the way
he did. I wish he had come at me. You'd seen the prettiest fight you
ever witnessed."
"I don't doubt it," spoke Langridge dryly.
"What do you mean?" asked his crony, struck by some hidden meaning in
the words.
"I mean that Clinton would just about have wiped up the field with you."
"I'll lay you ten to one he wouldn't! I've taken boxing lessons from a
professional," and Gerhart seemed to swell up.
"Pooh! That's nothing," declared Langridge. "Phil Clinton has boxed with
professionals, and beaten them, too. We had a little friendly mill here
last term. It was on the quiet, so don't say anything about it. Phil
went up against a heavy hitter and knocked him out in four rounds."
"He did?" and Gerhart spoke in a curiously quiet voice.
"Sure thing. I just mention this to show that you won't have a very easy
thing of it."
There was silence between the two for several seconds. Then Gerhart
asked:
"Do you think he wants me to apologize?"
"Would you?" asked his chum, and he looked sharply at him.
"Well, I'm not a fool. If he's as good as you say he is, there's no use
in me having my face smashed just for fun. I think he gave me away, and
nothing he can say will change it. Only I don't mind saying to him that
I was mistaken."
"I think you're sensible there," was Langridge's comment. "It would be
a one-sided fight. Shall I tell him you apologize?"
"Have you got to make it as bald as that? Can't you say I was mistaken?"
"I don't know. I'll try. Clinton is one of those fellows who don't
believe in half-measures. You leave it to me. I'll fix it up. I don't
want to see you knocked out so early in the term. Besides--well, never
mind now."
"What is it?" asked Gerhart quickly.
"Well, I was going to say we'd get square on him some other way."
"That's what we will!" came eagerly from the deposed quarter-back. "I
counted on playing football this term, and he's to blame if I can't."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that," came from Langridge. "I never knew
Clinton to lie. Maybe what he says is true."
"I don't believe it. I think he informed on me, and I always will. Do
you think there's a chance for me to get back?"
"No. Lighton is too strict. It's all up with you."
"Then I'll have my revenge on Phil Clinton, that's all."
"And I'll help you," added Langridge eagerly. "I haven't any use for him
and his crowd. He pushed me down stairs the other day, and I owe him
one for that. We'll work together against him. What do you say?"
"It's a go!" and they shook hands over the mean bargain.
"Then you'll fix it up with him?" asked Gerhart after a pause.
"Yes, leave it to me."
So that is how it was, that, a couple of hours later, Tom and Phil
received a call from Langridge. He seemed quite at his ease, in spite of
the feeling that existed between himself and the two chums.
"I suppose you know what I've come for," he said easily.
"We can guess," spoke Tom. "Take a seat," and he motioned to the old
sofa.
"No, thanks--not on that. It looks as if it would collapse. I don't see
why you fellows have such beastly furniture. It's frowsy."
"We value it for the associations," said Phil simply. "If you don't like
it----"
"Oh, it's all right, if you care for it. Every one to his notion, as the
poet says. But I came on my friend Gerhart's account. He says he was
mistaken about you, Clinton."
"Does that mean he apologizes?" asked Phil stiffly.
"Of course, you old fire-eater," said Langridge, lighting a cigarette.
"Is it satisfactory?"
"Yes; but tell him to be more careful in the future."
"Oh, I guess he will be. He's heard of your reputation," and Langridge
blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.
"I'll take him on, if he thinks Phil is too much for him," said Tom with
a laugh.
"No, thanks; he's satisfied, but it's hard lines that he can't play,"
observed the bearer of the apology.
"That's not my fault," said Phil.
"No, I suppose not. Well, I'll be going," and, having filled the room
with particularly pungent smoke, Langridge took his departure. If Tom
and Phil could have seen him in the hall, a moment later, they would
have observed him shaking his fist at the closed door.
"Whew!" cried Tom. "Open a window, Phil. It smells as if the place had
been disinfected!"
"Worse! I wonder what sort of dope they put in those cigarettes? I like
a good pipe or a cigar, but I'm blessed if I can go those coffin nails!
Ah, that air smells good," and he breathed in deep of the September air
at the window.
Thus it was that there came about no fight between Phil and the "sporty
freshman," as he began to be called. There was some disappointment,
among the students who liked a "mill," but as there were sure to be
fights later in the term, they consoled themselves.
Meanwhile, the football practice went on. Candidates were being weeded
out, and many were dropped. Gerhart made an unsuccessful attempt to
regain his place at quarter, but the coach was firm; and though
Langridge used all his influence, which was not small, it had no effect.
Gerhart would not be allowed to play on the 'varsity (which was the goal
of every candidate), though he was allowed to line up with the scrub.
"But I'll get even with Clinton for this," he said more than once to his
crony, who eagerly assented.
Phil, meanwhile, was clinching his position at quarter, and was fast
developing into a "rattling good player," as Holly Cross said. Tom was
not quite sure of his place at end, though he was improving, and ran
mile after mile to better his wind and speed.
"You're coming on," said Coach Lighton enthusiastically. "I think you'll
do, Tom. Keep it up."
There had been particularly hard practice one afternoon, and word went
down the line for some kicking. The backs fell to it with vigor, and the
pigskin was "booted" all over the field.
"Now for a good try at goal!" called the coach, as the ball was passed
to Holly Cross, who was playing at full-back. He drew back his foot,
and his shoe made quite a dent in the side of the ball. But, as often
occurs, the kick was not a success. The spheroid went to the side,
sailing low, and out of bounds.
As it happened, Professor Emerson Tines, who had been dubbed "Pitchfork"
the very first time the students heard his name, was crossing the field
at that moment. He was looking at a book of Greek, and paying little
attention to whither his steps led. The ball was coming with terrific
speed directly at his back.
"Look out, professor!" yelled a score of voices.
Mr. Tines did look, but not in the right direction. He merely gazed
ahead, and seeing nothing, and being totally oblivious to the football
practice, he resumed his reading.
The next moment, with considerable speed, the pigskin struck him full in
the back. It caught him just as he had lifted one foot to avoid a stone,
and his balance was none too good. Down he went in a heap, his book
flying off on a tangent.
[Illustration: "The pigskin struck him full in the back"]
"Wow!" exclaimed Holly Cross, who had been the innocent cause of the
downfall. "I'll be in for it now."
"Keep mum, everybody, as to who did it," proposed Phil. "The whole crowd
will shoulder the blame."
The players started on the run toward the professor, who still reclined
in a sprawling attitude on the ground. He was the least liked of all
the faculty, yet the lads could do no less than go to his assistance.
"Maybe he's hurt," said Tom.
"He's too tough for that," was the opinion of Bricktop.
Before the crowd of players reached the prostrate teacher he had arisen.
His face was first red and then pale by turns, so great was his rage. He
looked at the dirt on his clothes, and then at his book, lying face
downward some distance away.
"Young gentlemen!" he cried in his sternest voice. "Young gentlemen, I
object to this! Most emphatically do I object! You have gone entirely
too far! It is disgraceful! You shall hear further of this! You may all
report to me in half an hour in my room! I most seriously object! It is
disgraceful that such conduct should be allowed at any college! I shall
speak to Dr. Churchill and enter a most strenuous objection! The idea!"
He replaced his glasses, which had fallen off, and accepted his book
that Tom picked up.
"Don't forget," he added severely. "I shall expect you all to report to
me in half an hour."
At that moment Dr. Albertus Churchill, the aged and dignified head of
the college, and Mr. Andrew Zane, a proctor, came strolling along.
"Ah! I shall report your disgraceful conduct to Dr. Churchill at once,"
added Professor Tines, as he walked toward the venerable, white-haired
doctor. "I shall enter my strongest objection to the continuance of
football here."
There were blank looks on the faces of the players.