A FIRE ALARM
"Well," remarked Phil ruefully, as he and Tom, rather sore and bruised,
went to their room. There was an air of quietness about the sophomores.
They did not cheer and sing, but back on the knoll the victorious
freshmen made the night hideous with their college cries.
"Is that all?" inquired Tom, for Phil had uttered only the one word.
"That's all, son, as Bricktop Molloy would say. 'Sufficient unto the day
is the evil thereof.' We were dumped good and proper."
"With plenty of gravy on the side," added Sid.
"I was afraid of it," spoke Tom solemnly. "I said they were too many for
us."
"Listen to old 'I told you so,'" mocked Phil. "Next he'll be telling us
that he predicted we'd lose the football championship. You make me
tired!"
"I'm tired already," retorted Tom good naturedly. "Some one gave me an
extra good poke in the ribs the last minute."
"It was Gerhart," declared Sid. "I saw him. I had a good notion to punch
him for you."
"I'd just as well you didn't," went on Tom. "There's no love lost
between us and his crony, Langridge, now. No use making matters worse.
But he certainly managed the freshies well. That was a good trick, lying
down and making a mat of themselves."
"Yes; hereafter I suppose it will be the regular practice for future
classes," said Phil. "We'll have to think up a new plan to break up that
kind of interference. My, but I'm lame!"
"Better not let Lighton hear you say that."
"Why?"
"He'd lay you off from football. There are three candidates for every
position on the 'varsity this term, and we fellows who have made the
eleven will have to take care of ourselves."
"That's so," admitted Tom. "Well, a hot bath will fix me up, and then
for some good sleep."
"I wish I could snooze," spoke Phil.
"Why can't you?" asked Sid.
"I've got to bone away on Greek. Got turned back in class to-day, and
Pitchfork, who's a regular fiend at it, as well at Latin, warned me that
I'd be conditioned if I didn't look out."
"You want to be careful, son," cautioned Sid. "Remember how I nearly
slumped in Latin before the big ball game last year, and only just got
through by the skin of my teeth in time to play? Don't let that happen
to you. It isn't good for the constitution; not a little bit."
The three chums went to the gymnasium and had a warm shower, followed by
a brisk rub-down, after which they all felt better. Then, in their room,
they talked the walk rush all over again, until Phil threw books at Sid
and Tom to make them keep quiet so that he might study.
The week that followed was marked by some hard practice on the gridiron,
for there was in prospect a game with the Orswell Military Academy, the
eleven of which was seldom defeated. Therefore, Coach Lighton and
Captain Cross worked their men well.
Phil, in particular, received some very special instructions about
running the team. Some new plays were practiced, and a different
sequence was planned.
"I want three corking good plays to be worked in sequence when we get to
within reaching distance of the twenty-five-yard line," said the coach.
"Maybe we can try for a field goal, but the chances are against it if
the wind blows. A good sequence will do wonders."
Then the coach explained the sequence plays. They were to be three,
in which the right-half, the full-back and the left-tackle would
successively take the ball, without a word being spoken after the first
signal for the play had been given. The plays were to be executed in
quick succession, and the coach depended on that to demoralize the cadet
eleven.
"There'll probably be such cheering when we get to within twenty-five
yards of their goal that it will be hard to hear signals, anyhow," Mr.
Lighton went on. "So memorize these plays carefully, and we'll try to
work them. When Clinton remarks: 'We have twenty-five yards to go,
fellows; walk up together, now,' that will be the signal for the
sequence plays."
They tried them against the scrub, and did remarkably well. Then came a
day of hard work, followed by some light practice, and a rest on the
afternoon preceding the game with the cadets.
There was a big attendance at the grounds, which adjoined the military
academy, about twenty miles from Randall College. In their first half
the home eleven, by dint of trick plays and much kicking, so wore out
the Randallites that they could not score, while Orswell made two
touch-downs. But it was different in the second half, and after a
touch-down gained by a brilliant run on Tom's part, there came a second
one, which resulted from the sequence plays. Right through the line in
turn went Kindlings Woodhouse, Holly Cross and Ed Kerr. The twenty-five
yards were made in three minutes of play, and the score tied. Then, by
a skilful forward pass and some line bucking, another touch-down was
made, and then, as if to cap the climax, Holly Cross kicked a beautiful
field goal.
"Wow! Hold me from flying!" cried Phil, as he tried to hug the entire
team after the referee's whistle blew. His fellows had responded nobly
to the calls he made on them, and he had run the team with a level head.
"Boys, I'm proud of you," said the coach. "It's the biggest score
against the Orswell cadets in many a year."
And there was much rejoicing in Randall College that night, so that
Professor Tines felt called upon to remonstrate to Dr. Churchill about
the noise the lads were making.
"Why, I'm not aware of any unusual noise; not from here," spoke the
venerable president, in his comfortable study, with a book of Sanskrit
on his knee.
"You could hear it if you went outside," said the Latin teacher.
"Ah, yes, doubtless; but, you see, my dear professor, I'm not going
outside," and Dr. Churchill smiled benevolently.
"Humph!" exclaimed Mr. Tines, as he went back to his apartments. "If I
had my way, football and all sports would be abolished. They are a
relic of barbarism!"
It was late when Phil and Tom got to their room that night. They
narrowly escaped being caught by Mr. Snell, one of the proctor's scouts,
and dashed into their "den" at full speed.
"Can't you make less row?" demanded Sid, who was studying. "You've put
all the thoughts I had on my essay out of my head."
"Serves you right for being a greasy dig!" exclaimed Tom. "Why don't you
be a sport? You're getting to be a regular hermit."
"I want my degree," explained Sid, who was studying as he had not
thought of doing his first term.
It was after midnight when Tom, who did not sleep well on account of the
excitement following the football game, awoke with a start. Through the
glass transom over the door of the room he saw a red glare.
"Fire!" he exclaimed, as he jumped out of bed and landed heavily in the
middle of the apartment.
"What's that?" cried Phil, sitting up. "Is there a telegram for me? Is
there--is there----"
He was at Tom's side, hardly awake.
"It's no telegram," answered Tom quickly "Looks like a fire."
He threw open the door. The corridor was filled with clouds of lurid
smoke which rolled in great masses here and there.
"The whole place is ablaze!" cried Tom. "Get up, Sid!" and he pulled the
bedclothes from his still sleeping chum.