LANGRIDGE AND GERHART PLOT
"Some of you fellows run for Dr. Marshall!" called Mr. Lighton to the
throng that gathered about the prostrate lad.
"I'll go," volunteered Joe Jackson.
"No, let me," said his twin brother. "It was my fault. I slipped and
fell on him."
"It wasn't any fellow's fault in particular," declared the captain. "It
was likely to happen to any one. But suppose you twins both go, and then
we'll be sure to have help. If Dr. Marshall isn't in the college,
telephone to Haddonfield for one. Phil's shoulder must be snapped back
into place."
As the twins started off Phil opened his eyes.
"Hurt much, old chap?" asked Tom, holding his chum's hand.
"No--not--not much," but Phil gritted his teeth as he said it. His
shoulder, with the bunch of padding on it, stood out oddly from the rest
of his body.
"Put some coats under him," ordered the coach. "Shall we carry you
inside, Phil?"
"No; don't move me. Is my arm broken?"
"No; only a dislocation, I guess. You'll be all right in a few days."
"Soon enough to play against Boxer Hall, I hope," said Phil with a faint
smile.
"Of course," declared the coach heartily. "We'll delay the game if
necessary."
"Here comes Dr. Marshall," called Ed Kerr, as the college physician was
seen hurrying across the campus, with the Jersey twins trailing along
behind.
The doctor, after a brief examination, pronounced it a bad dislocation,
but then and there, with the help of the captain and coach, he reduced
it, though the pain, as the bone snapped into place, made Phil sick and
faint. Then they helped him to his room, where he was soon visited by
scores of students, for the quarter-back was a general favorite.
"Now I think I will have to establish a quarantine," declared Dr.
Marshall, when about fifty lads had been in to see how the patient was
progressing. "I don't want you to get a fever from excitement, Clinton.
If you expect to get into the game again inside of two weeks, you must
keep quiet."
"Two weeks!" cried Phil. "If I have to stay out as long as that I'll be
so out of form that I'll be no good."
"Well, we'll see how the ligaments get along," was all the satisfaction
the doctor would give the sufferer.
Tom and Sid remained with their chum, and, after the physician had left,
they made all sorts of insane propositions to Phil with a view of making
him more comfortable.
"Shall I read Greek to you?" offered Sid. "Maybe it would take your mind
off your trouble."
"Greek nothing," replied Phil with a smile. "Haven't I troubles enough
without that?"
"If I had some cheese I would make a Welsh rarebit," Tom said. "I used
to be quite handy at it; not the stringy kind, either."
"Get out, you old rounder!" exclaimed Sid. "Welsh rarebit would be a
fine thing for an invalid, wouldn't it?"
"Well, maybe fried oysters would be better," admitted Tom dubiously. "I
could smuggle some in the room, only the measly things drip so, and
Proc. Zane has been unusually active of late in sending his scouts
around."
"I'll tell you what you can do, if you want to," spoke Phil.
"What's that?" asked Tom eagerly.
"Send word to my sister, over at Fairview. She may hear something about
this, and imagine it's worse than it is. I'd like her to get it
straight. I got a letter from dad to-day, too, saying mother was a
little better. I'd like sis to read it."
"I'll go myself, and start right away!" exclaimed Tom enthusiastically.
"I can get permission easily enough, for I've been doing good work in
class lately. I'll come back on the midnight trolley."
"You're awfully anxious to go, aren't you?" asked Sid.
"Of course," replied Tom. "Why do you speak so?"
"I believe Miss Madge Tyler attends at Fairview," went on Sid to no one
in particular, and there was a mocking smile on his face.
"Oh, you just wait!" cried Tom, shaking his fist at his chum, who sank
down into the depths of the old easy chair, and held up his feet as
fenders to keep the indignant one at a distance. "You'll get yours good
and proper some day."
"Well, if you're going, you'd better start," said Phil. "I forgot,
though. You've never met my sister. That's a go!"
"Can't you give me a note to her?" asked Tom, who was fertile in
expedients where young ladies were concerned.
"I guess so. Lucky it's my left instead of my right shoulder that's out
of business. Give me some paper, Sid."
"Tom doesn't need a note," was the opinion of the amateur woman-hater.
"He'll see Miss Tyler, and she'll introduce him."
"That's so," agreed Tom, as if he had just thought of it. "That will do
first rate. Never mind the note, Phil," and he hurried off, lest
something might occur that would prevent his visit.
He readily obtained permission to go to Fairview Institute, and was soon
hurrying along the river road to catch a trolley car. As he crossed a
bridge over the stream, he heard voices on the farther end. It was dusk,
now, and he could not see who the speakers were. But he heard this
conversation:
"Did you hear about Clinton?"
"Yes; he's laid up with a bad shoulder. Well, it may be just the chance
we want."
"That's odd," thought Tom. "I wonder who they can be? Evidently college
fellows. Yet how can Phil's injury give them the chance they want?"
He kept on, and a moment later came in sight of the speakers. He saw
that they were Fred Langridge and Garvey Gerhart.
"Good evening," said Tom civily enough, for, though he and Langridge
were not on the best of terms, they still spoke.
"Off on a lark?" asked the former pitcher with a sneer. "I thought you
athletic chaps didn't do any dissipating."
"I'm not going to," said Tom shortly, as he passed on.
"Do you suppose he heard what we said?" asked Gerhart, as the shadows
swallowed up Tom.
"No; but it doesn't make much difference. He wouldn't understand. Now,
do you think you can do it?"
"Of course. What I want to do is to keep him laid up for several weeks.
That will give me an opportunity of getting back on the eleven. He was
responsible for me being dropped, and now it's my turn."
"But are you sure it will work?"
"Of course. I know just how to make the stuff. A fellow told me. If we
can substitute it for his regular liniment it will do the trick all
right."
"That part will be easy enough. I can think up a scheme for that. But
will it do him any permanent harm? I shouldn't want to get into
trouble."
"No, it won't harm him any. It will make him so he can't use his arm for
a while, but that's what we want. The effects will pass away in about a
month, just too late to let him get on the eleven."
"All right; if you know what you're doing, I'll help. Now then, where
will we get the stuff?"
"I know all about that part. But let's get off this bridge. It's too
public. Come to a quieter place, where we can talk."
"I know a good place. There's a quiet little joint in town, where we can
get a glass of beer."
"Will it be safe?"
"Sure. Come on," and Langridge and his crony disappeared in the
darkness, talking, meanwhile, of a dastardly plot they had evolved to
disable Phil Clinton.
Tom kept on his way to the trolley.
"I wonder what Langridge and Gerhart meant?" he thought as he quickened
his pace on hearing an approaching car. "Perhaps Gerhart thought he had
a chance to get back on the team, because Phil is laid up. But I don't
believe he has."
But Tom's interpretation of the words he had heard was far from the
truth. Phil Clinton was in grave danger.