A BASEBALL MEETING
"Swat 'em, freshmen! Swat 'em!" was the rallying cry of the first-year
lads.
"Get the clapper! Get the clapper! Don't let them get away with it!"
implored the sophomores.
There was a confused mass of arms, legs and bodies. The mass swayed, now
this way, now that. Tom Parsons, the Snail, Ed Kerr and some others who
had remained behind to manage the rope, threw themselves into the fray.
Their help turned the tide of battle, and the sophomores, who were
outnumbered, turned and fled, leaving the freshmen victors of the fight.
"Have you got the clapper, Langridge?" called Kerr anxiously.
"Of course," and the lad addressed produced the unwieldy souvenir from
underneath his coat.
"Then get it to our room and hide it," went on Kerr. "They'll not give
up yet. We've got to expect a hunt for it to-night."
Kerr and Langridge, who roomed together, started away, the clapper of
the bell safe in their possession, while the others brought up the rear,
a guard against a possible unexpected attack. But none was made, and
presently the long, iron tongue was safely hidden in the rooms of the
freshmen.
"I say," remarked Tom Parsons to Sidney Henderson, when the excitement
had somewhat calmed down, "I wonder if I'd better report to the proctor,
or to Dr. Churchill to-night. I've just entered, you know."
"What's the use?" asked his companion. "You're to room with me--that's
settled. Mr. Zane, the proctor, won't want to be disturbed. Besides, I
rather think that Dr. Churchill, our venerable and respected head--by
the way, we call him Moses, you know--I say I don't believe he'd thank
you for coming."
"Why not?"
"Well, you see, there's been more or less of doings to-night. Of course,
the faculty are not supposed to know that we take the bell clapper, but
you can bet they do know. They pretend not to, and take no notice of it.
If you were to go and ring Moses up at this hour, he'd have to become
aware--take cognizance, he'd call it--of our little racket. That might
make trouble. No, on the whole, let the proctor and Moses alone."
"Why Moses?"
"What's that?"
"I say--why Moses?"
"Oh, I see. Well, we call him that from his name. Church and hill. Moses
went up on a hill to preach about the church, hence--aha! see?"
"You needn't draw a map," answered Tom, "even if I am from the country."
"That's so, you're from Northville, where dad used to live."
"That's right."
"Well, I wouldn't boast of it, if I were you--especially when any of the
fellows are around."
"Why not?"
"Well, of course it's all right with me--I understand, but they might
make fun of you--rig you, you understand."
"Yes, I understand, but I don't mind being 'rigged,' as you call it. I
fancy I can do some 'rigging' on my own hook."
"All right, it's your funeral. I've warned you."
"Thanks. But if you think it's all right for me to go right to your
room, and bunk, without telling Dr. Churchill--excuse me, Moses--why,
I'm willing."
"That's all right. Come on, we'll go to my room. There may be some
excitement after a bit."
"How?"
"Well, the sophs may try to get the clapper back. They generally do.
We'll have to help fight 'em in that case."
"Of course. By the way, what do you fellows do with the bell tongue,
anyhow?"
Sid told about the watch charms.
"You'll get one," he added. "That was a good throw you made."
"Well, maybe. It was hard to see in the dark. I guess What's-his-name
could have made it, only he tired himself all out."
"Oh, you mean Langridge."
"Is that his name?"
"Yes. I don't like him very well, but he's got lots of dough, and the
fellows hang around him. He's manager of the baseball team."
"He is?"
"Yes. Got the election because he's willing to spend some of his money
to support the team."
"Well, that's white of him."
"Oh, yes, Fred's all right, only for what ails him. He's got some queer
ways, and he thinks some of us ought to bow down to him more than we do.
But I won't, and I guess Kerr is getting sick of him. Some fellows think
he got to be manager, and keeps the place, because he used some money.
There's been talk about it."
"Who's Kerr?"
"The fellow with the black hair. He's catcher on the nine."
"I see."
"Are you going to play ball?" asked Henderson as they entered the room
Tom was to share.
"I'd like to. Is there any chance?"
"Guess so. The nine's not all made up yet. They're going to have a
meeting to-morrow, or next day, and try out candidates. You'll have as
good a chance as any one. Where do you play?"
"I've been pitching."
Henderson uttered a low, long whistle.
"What's the matter?"
"That's Langridge's pet place. He thinks he's a regular Christy
Mathewson."
"Well, I haven't disputed it," replied Tom quietly. "But if you don't
mind, I'm going to take off my shoes; my feet are tired. Think any sophs
will come?"
"It isn't likely now. They'd been here some time ago if they were
coming. Guess I'll turn in. I've got to get up early and do some boning
on my trigonometry. It's rotten stuff, ain't it?"
"Oh, I rather like it."
"Um!" was all the answer Sid made, as he prepared for bed, while Tom
also undressed.
Tom Parsons had come to college, not because he wanted to have "a good
time," nor because it was the fashion, nor because his father had the
money to send him. Tom came because he wanted to gain knowledge, to fit
himself for a place in life, and he earnestly wanted to learn. At the
same time he did not belong to the class known as "digs." Tom was a
sport-loving lad, and it needed but a look at his well-set head, on
broad shoulders, his perfectly rounded neck, his long, lithe limbs,
small hips and deep chest, to tell that he was an athlete of no little
ability.
Tom's hair was inclined to curl, especially when he was warm from
running or wrestling, and when it clung about his bronzed forehead in
little brown ringlets, he was an attractive figure, as more than one
girl had admitted. But Tom, to give him his due, never thought about
this.
He was tall and straight, and he could do more than the regulation on
the bars, or with dumbbells, while on the flying rings, or at boxing,
you would want to think twice before you challenged him.
But Tom's specialty, if one may call it such, was on the baseball
diamond. He had played in all the positions ever since he was a little
lad, and he and the other country boys laid out a diamond in a stubble
field, with stones for bases, and a hickory club for a bat. But Tom
had a natural bent toward pitching, and he gradually developed it,
principally by his own unaided efforts, together with what he could pick
up out of athletic books, or what was told to him by his companions. In
twirling the ball Tom's muscles, hardened by work on the farm, served
him in good stead.
For Tom Parsons was a farmer lad, though, perhaps, not a typical one.
His father was fairly well-to-do, and had a large acreage in the town of
Northville. Tom was an only son, though there were two sisters, of whom
he thought the world.
When Tom had finished his course at the village academy, and had
expressed a wish to go to college, his father consented. He furnished
part of the money, and the rest Tom supplied himself, for he was an
independent sort of lad, and thought it his duty to take part of his
savings to gain for himself a better education than was possible in his
home town.
So Tom, as you have seen, came to Randall, and of the manner of his
arrival, due to a combination of circumstances, you have been duly
informed. He made two resolutions before coming. One was to stand
well in his classes, and the other--well, you shall learn the other
presently.
Tom slowly undressed. He was not used to change, for he had been a "home
boy" for years, though he was no milksop, and did not in the least mind
roughing it. But, after the reaction of the night, when he was in the
little room with the lad who was to be his chum, he felt a bit lonely.
It was new and strange to him, and he thought, not without a bit of
regret, of the peaceful farmhouse in Northville, with his mother and
father seated in the big, comfortable dining-room, talking, and the
girls reading books, or sewing, under the light of a big lamp.
Tom looked slowly about the little room that was to be his "home" for
some time to come.
Randall was not a rich college, and, in consequence, the dormitories and
study apartments were not elaborately furnished. There was a sufficiency,
and that was all. Of course, there was nothing to prevent the students
from adding such articles to their rooms as they wanted, or thought they
desired, and some, whose parents were wealthy, had nicely furnished
studies.
But the one occupied by Sid and Tom was quite plain. There was a worn
rug on the floor, so worn, in fact, that the floor showed through it in
several places. But Sid remarked that it was a virtue rather than
otherwise, for it obviated the necessity of being careful about spilling
things on the rug, and also did away with the necessity of a door mat.
"They can't harm the rug, no matter how much mud they bring in," Sid had
said, when Tom suggested getting a new one.
There were two small iron cots or single beds in the apartment, a bureau
for each lad, a closet for clothes, but which closet contained balls,
gloves, bats, sweaters, old trousers and other sporting "goods," almost
to the exclusion of clothes. And then the closet did not contain it all,
for many articles overflowed into the room, and no amount of compression
sufficed to get things entirely within the closet. There was always
something sticking out. Several old chairs, one a lounging one with a
broken set of springs in the seat, a sofa that creaked in every joint,
like an old man with rheumatism, a table with a cover spotted with ink,
a shelf of books, an alarm clock, some cheap pictures, prints from
sporting papers, and water pitchers and bowls completed the furnishings.
Tom wondered, as he fell asleep, whether the sophomores would make a
further attempt to regain the clapper, but they did not, and the night
was undisturbed by further pranks. At chapel next morning Dr. Churchill,
after the usual devotions, announced with a twinkle in his deep-set eyes
that the reason there was no bell to call the students to worship was
because the tocsin was clapperless.
"It mysteriously disappeared during the night," went on the president,
"and--er--well, ahem! I think matters may take their usual course," he
finished quickly, trying hard not to smile.
It was always this way. By "usual course" Dr. Churchill and the students
understood that the freshmen would meet, make up by contributions enough
to buy a new clapper, and the incident would be closed until another
year brought new freshmen to the college.
This course was followed. Langridge, who was president of the class,
called a meeting that afternoon, the amount needed was quickly
subscribed, and the money was taken to Dr. Churchill.
"Why do you encourage that nonsense?" asked Professor Emerson Tines, the
Latin instructor (dubbed "Pitchfork" by the college lads in virtue of
his name). "Why do you submit to it?"
He happened to be with the president when Langridge brought in the
money.
"I don't submit to it, Professor Tines."
"But you encourage it."
"No; I simply ignore it."
"But the clapper is taken year after year."
"Is it?" asked the doctor innocently. "Well, now, so I have been informed
by the janitor, but, you know, of my own knowledge I am not aware of it.
It is simply hearsay evidence, and I never like to depend on that."
"But, my dear sir, don't you _know_ that the clapper is taken by the
first-year pupils?"
"Perhaps I do," answered the good doctor with a smile, "but I'm not
going to admit it. I was young once myself, Professor Tines."
"So was I!" snapped the Latin teacher as he went to his own apartments.
"I--I doubt it, and that's not hearsay evidence, either, I'm afraid,"
murmured Dr. Churchill, as he resumed his study of ancient Egyptian
hieroglyphics.
Tom Parsons, after chapel, introduced himself to Dr. Churchill and the
proctor, and was properly enrolled on the college books. He was assigned
to his classes, and soon began to feel himself at home among the
students.
"Well, are you going?" asked Sid of Tom that afternoon, as they came
from the last recitation.
"Going where?"
"To the baseball meeting. Didn't you see the notice?"
"No."
His roommate showed it to Tom. It was a note on the bulletin board in
the gymnasium, stating that all interested in the baseball nine, whether
as players or as supporters, were invited to meet in the basket-ball
court that afternoon.
"Of course I'm going," declared Tom.
The size of the throng that gathered in the gymnasium was proof enough
of the interest taken in affairs of the diamond by the Randall students.
There was talk of nothing save bases, balls, strikes, sacrifices, bunts,
home runs, fielding, pitching, catching, and what-not. Langridge called
the meeting to order, and in a few words explained that the object of it
was to get the team in shape for the spring games.
"I understand that there are a number of new men with us this year," he
went on in easy tones. There was no use in denying that the well-dressed
lad knew how to talk, and that to get up in front of a throng did not
embarrass him. "I hope, as manager as well as a player," he went on,
"that we shall find some good material. The team needs strengthening in
several places, and it is up to us to do it. Now I have a list here of
the former players, and the names of some who have already signified a
desire to try for places this year. I'll read them."
It was quite a long list, and Tom Parsons, listening to it, began to
wonder if he would have any chance among so many.
"If there are any others who would like to put their names down as
candidates, I'll take them," announced Fred.
Several stepped forward, and their names were noted, together with the
positions they desired to play.
"Go on up," urged Sid to Tom.
The country lad advanced to where Langridge stood.
"I'd like to try for a place," he said.
"Oh, you would, eh?" asked the other, and the sneer in his voice was
evident. "Well, don't you think you'd better wait until the hayseed is
out of your hair?" and he laughed.
"Here's a comb," retorted Tom quickly, extending a small pocket one.
"Maybe you'll give me a hand. I can't see the back of my head."
"That's one on you, Langridge," cried Phil Clinton. "That's the time you
got yours good and proper."
Tom was smiling good-naturedly, but the other was scowling.
Tom looked Langridge straight in the eye, and the other turned aside.
The country lad put back the comb into his pocket.
"What's your name?" growled Langridge, though he knew it full well.
"Tom Parsons."
"Where do you want to try for?"
"Pitcher."
There was some confusion in the room, but it ceased at Tom's reply.
"Pitcher!" exclaimed Langridge.
"I said pitcher," replied Tom quietly.
"Why--er--I'm pitcher on the 'varsity nine!" fairly snarled Langridge.
"That is, I was last year and expect to be again. Do you mean pitcher on
the scrub?"
"On the 'varsity," spoke Tom, smiling the least bit.
Langridge shot a look at him from his black eyes. It was a look that
boded Tom no good, for the former pitcher had recognized in the new
arrival a formidable rival.
"Put his name down," called Sid. "You might get a sore arm, and we'd
need a substitute."
Langridge glanced quickly at the speaker.
"His name is down," he answered quietly--more quietly than any one
expected him to speak. "Are there any others?"
No one answered.
"We'll meet for practice to-morrow afternoon," went on Langridge. "Of
course, it's understood that no one plays on the team who doesn't
contribute his share of expenses," and he looked straight at Tom
Parsons.
Without a word the country lad drew out a wallet, none too well filled,
to judge by the looks of it.
"What's the tax?" he asked, still smiling.
"The--er--the finance committee attends to that," was the answer
Langridge made. "They'll meet to-night."
Evidently he had not expected so ready a compliance on Tom's part.
"Well, if it's all settled, I move we adjourn," suggested Ed Kerr.
"Let's have a scrub game, for luck."
At that moment a lad came hurrying into the gymnasium.
"Where's Langridge?" he asked excitedly.
"Here," replied the baseball manager. "What's up?"
"Hazing!" was the somewhat breathless answer. "The sophs are going to
try it on to-night, to get square about the bell clapper. I just heard
it."
"That's the stuff!" cried Phil Clinton. "Now we'll get a chance to have
some fun."
"And I'll pay 'em back for slashing my hat," added Ford Fenton. "My
uncle says----"
But what his respected relative had remarked was not learned, as the
boys rushed from the room to prepare for the ordeal that they knew
awaited them.