THE POLE RUSH
Tom managed to strike out the next man, but the third batter knocked a
two-bagger, and Kerr, who followed, sent a beautiful long fly to right
field, where Jerry Jackson muffed it. There was wild delight on the part
of Pete Backus and his men when they got in three runs before Tom
managed to strike out another player, retiring the side.
"Well, that's not so bad," spoke Bricktop, but there was some dubiousness
in his tone.
"My pitching was bum," acknowledged Tom, "but I'll do better next
inning."
"Of course you will, me lad," said Captain Molloy kindly. "It's a new
ground to you."
There was a confident air about Langridge when he took his position in
the box and it was somewhat justified when he struck out the first two
men in quick succession.
"He's doing better than I thought he would," said Sid.
"He's a good pitcher," admitted Tom honestly, for he saw that his rival
had something that he himself lacked--a better control of the ball,
though Tom could pitch a swifter curve.
Tom was third at the bat. Now a good pitcher is usually a notoriously
bad hitter. Tom proved an exception to the rule, though perhaps he had
not developed into such a good pitcher yet that it applied in his case.
He faced Langridge confidently and even smiled mockingly as a swift ball
came in. Tom was a good judge of it and saw that it was going wild, so
he did not attempt to strike it. His judgment was confirmed when the
umpire sang out:
"Ball one!"
Langridge looked annoyed and sent in a swift one. Tom's bat met it
squarely and it went well over the center fielder's head.
"Go on! go on, me brave lad!" yelled Molloy, his brogue very pronounced.
"That's the stuff!"
"Take two bases! take two!" cried Phil.
"Make it three! make it three!" begged Sid, and three Tom made it, for
he was a swift runner, and the ball rolled provokingly away from the
fielder who raced after it.
"Well, you can bat, anyway, me lad," observed Molloy as Tom came in on a
safe hit made by Sid a little later.
"Does that mean I can't pitch?" asked Tom with a smile.
"Not a bit of it. It only accentuates it, so to speak. You're all
right--_facile princeps_ as the old Romans have it--which, being
interpreted, means you can come in and sit at our training table."
Tom's side only gathered in two runs, however, and from then on up to
the eighth inning the team Langridge was on held the lead, the score at
the beginning of the ninth inning being 10 to 8 in favor of Backus'
men. That inning Tom and his chums rather went to pieces as regarded
fielding, nor did Tom shine brilliantly in the box. He struck out two
men and then he seemed to lose control of the ball. The bases were
filled, two men knocking a one and two bagger respectively and another
getting his walking papers. Then Tom got nervous, and just when he
should have held himself well in hand to keep the score down, he gave
another man a chance to amble easily to first on four balls and forced
in a run.
There were cries of derision from the opposing players and an ominous
silence on the part of Captain Molloy and his men. The next man got a
one-bagger and the player who followed him knocked a pop fly, which
Molloy, who was on third, missed. The inning ended with three more runs
in favor of Langridge and his mates, making the score 13 to 8.
"Six runs to win and five to tie," murmured Molloy. "Can we do it,
boys?"
"Sure," said Phil Clinton confidently. Phil always fought to the last
ditch. But it was not to be. Tom made one run and Sid another, but that
was all. Langridge struck out his last man with the bases full and the
game ended.
"I thought you were a pitcher," sneered Langridge as the teams filed off
the field, and there were several laughs at Tom's expense, for he had
not made a good showing in the box.
"Sure he can pitch," cried Molloy, coming to Tom's defense. "The ground
was new to him, that's all."
"Rats!" retorted Langridge, and Tom was too humiliated to make a reply.
"Just the same he'll make a good pitcher," said Mr. James Lighton, the
coach of the 'varsity, who had strolled out to watch the practice. "He
has a swift ball, but he lacks control. We can make a first-class
pitcher of him, Molloy."
"I'm sure I hope so," murmured the red-haired youth. "We didn't do very
well last year with Langridge, though he seems to have improved to-day."
"So will young Parsons," declared the coach. "You watch him. I'll take
him in hand as soon as the team is in shape. He'll probably have to go
on the scrub first, but he won't stay there long."
But Tom did not hear these comforting words, and it was with rather a
bitter feeling in his heart that he went to his room to dress for
supper.
"You'll be better next game," said Sid, trying to console him.
"Maybe there won't be any next game for me," was Tom's reply. "I saw
Kerr and Langridge talking together, and I'm sure it was about me."
"That's all right. Kerr isn't going to be captain of the 'varsity."
"Are you sure?"
"Sure. I've got a straight tip. We've votes enough to elect old Kindlings
Woodhouse."
And so it proved the next day, when the election was held. Dan Woodhouse
received forty more ballots than did Kerr and his election, after the
first test, was made unanimous, a compliment always paid. Then baseball
matters began in earnest. Candidates were chosen, Coach Lighton ordered
regular practice and established a training table. Tom was much chagrined
when he found that he was named for pitcher on the scrub, while Langridge
got the coveted place as pitcher on the 'varsity, but Sid told his chum
that the scrub was but a stepping stone to the final goal. And when the
coach began to take Tom in hand and give him some much-needed instruction
about control Tom began to feel that, after all, perhaps he had a chance.
It was about a week later, following some rather hard practice on the
diamond, that a hurried knock was heard on the door of the room occupied
by Sid and Tom.
"Come," called Sid, looking up from his Latin book.
"Pole rush to-night!" cried Dutch Housenlager, poking his head in and
rapidly withdrawing it, as though he feared a book would be hurled at
him. "Meet on the campus at eight o'clock. Old clothes--it's going to be
a hard fight."
"That's the stuff!" exclaimed Sid, throwing his book across the room.
"Come on, Tom. We'll have a battle royal with our traditional enemies,
the sophs."
The pole rush was like the cane or cannon rushes held in other colleges.
Half a dozen of the strongest of the freshmen formed a circle, with
linked arms about the big flag pole on the campus. About them in
concentric circles their chums formed a series of defensive rings.
Then the sophomores came at them with a rush, seeking to displace the
first-year lads and arrange themselves in a circle about the pole. If
they succeeded in doing this inside of fifteen minutes it meant that the
freshmen could wear no college colors their first term. It was to this
rush that Tom, Sid and their friends hurried when Dutch and some others
went about to the various rooms sounding the rallying cry.
Out on the campus that soft spring evening was a motley crowd of
students. On one side were gathered the sophomores and on the other the
freshmen.
"My, there are a lot of 'em," remarked Phil Clinton. "I shouldn't wonder
but they've rung in some seniors on us."
"No, they wouldn't do that," declared Sid. "They're a big class."
Langridge and some others were going about selecting the men who were to
form the first circle about the pole. Tom and Phil, who were both sturdy
lads, were chosen for this honor.
"In place! in place!" cried the impatient sophomores.
"Line up! line up, fellows!" shouted Langridge.
Tom and his chums took their positions. The protectors formed about
them.
"Hold fast, everybody!" cautioned Phil as he grasped Tom's arm.
"Here they come! here they come!" was the warning cry, and with a rush
the sophomores hurled themselves against the mass of lads about the
pole.