TOM'S CURVES
There was lively practice of the Randall nine the following week, and
Coach Lighton said some things that hurt, but they were needed. Nor was
Langridge spared, though he affected not to mind the sharp admonition
that he must pitch more consistently.
The nine played a game Saturday with an outside team, more for practice
than anything else, and won it "hands down," as Holly Cross said. But,
after all, it was not much credit to the 'varsity, for their opponents
were not as good as the college scrub. Holly caught, the period of
Kerr's suspension not being up yet.
Tom kept at his practice, but he was more than glad when he could resume
his class work again and take his place on the second nine.
"Now we'll tackle work together," said the coach one afternoon to Tom,
for Mr. Lighton had not been allowed to give him directions during the
suspension weeks. "I hope you haven't gone stale, Parsons."
"I hope not. Kerr and I have been sort of practicing together."
"That's good. I hope, before the season is over, that you and he will go
into a regular game together. If not, you'll have your 'innings' next
year, if you progress as you have been doing."
Tom was glad of the praise, but he would have been more glad of a chance
to get on the 'varsity. Still he determined to do his best on the scrub,
but it was hard and rather thankless work.
Mr. Lighton put him through a hard course of "sprouts" that afternoon.
With some members of the scrub to bat against him, Tom sent in swift and
puzzling balls, for all the while his ability to curve was increasing
and his control was improving. That afternoon he struck out six men in
succession, retiring them without having given any one of them more than
two balls. It was very good work, and the fact that the men were not
extraordinary good hitters did not detract from it.
"That's fine!" cried Mr. Lighton enthusiastically. "I'm going to----"
But what he was going to do he did not say.
"They ought to make you substitute pitcher on the 'varsity team," was
the opinion of Dutch Housenlager when the practice was over. "Rod Evert
isn't one-two-six with you, and he doesn't do any practicing to speak
of."
"Maybe he feels that he doesn't have to, for Langridge seems to make
good nearly every time," spoke Tom.
"Aw, rats! All that keeps Langridge manager is his money. He certainly
runs the financial end of the game to perfection. And if he wasn't
manager he wouldn't be pitcher. But the fellows know he takes a lot of
responsibility from them, and they're just easy enough to let things
slide. Some day we'll be up against it. Langridge will be knocked out of
the box, Evert won't be in form, and we'll lose the game."
"Unless they call on 'yours truly,'" interjected Tom with a laugh.
"Exactly," agreed Dutch seriously. "That's my point. I wish they'd name
you for sub. I'm going to ask----"
"No, no!" expostulated Tom quickly. "If I can't get there on my own
merits, I don't want it. No favors, please. I can wait."
"Well, just as you say, of course. But say, there's the Grasshopper.
Watch me make him jump."
He pointed to Pete Backus, a tall student, who seemed to be measuring
off a certain distance on a grassy stretch down near the river.
"Looks as if he was going to jump without you making him," observed Tom.
"Oh, he's always jumping. He thinks he's great at it. Wants to make the
track team, but he can't seem to do it. He'll do his distance easily
one day and fall down the next. You can't depend on him. But I'll make
him jump now. Sneak down behind those bushes."
Tom followed Dutch softly. There were no other students about and they
managed to gain the screen of the bushes unobserved by the Grasshopper,
who was intent on measuring distances with a pocket tape. The two
conspirators could see where he had been practicing the broad jump.
The Grasshopper stood close to a clump of elder bushes, with his back to
them. He was preparing for another test. Dutch Housenlager, who was not
happy unless he was engaged in some joke or horse play, silently cut a
long pole and fastened to it a big pin, which he extracted from some
part of his garments. Then, seeing a good opening that gave access to a
tender part of the rear elevation of the Grasshopper's legs, he thrust
with no gentle hand just as poor Pete was about to throw himself forward
in a standing broad jump.
"Wow!" cried the punctured one.
But it was so sudden that he did not have time to stop his leap, which
he was on the verge of making, and he sprang through the air like an
animated jumping-jack.
"Fine! fine!" cried Dutch, rising up from his place of concealment.
"That's the time you beat your own record, Grasshopper."
Pete turned. He looked over the space he had covered. His heels had come
down at least a foot beyond where he had previously landed. The look of
anger on his face, as he felt of his pricked leg, turned to one of
satisfaction.
"By Jove! I believe you're right," he exclaimed. "I have done better
by--let's see"--and he measured it--"by fourteen inches."
"I told you so," called Dutch, still laughing. "Next time you want to
jump, just let me get in the bushes behind you. It'll be good for an
extra foot every time."
"Um," murmured the Grasshopper, still rubbing his leg reflectively. "It
was an awful jab though, Dutch."
"What of it? Look at your distance," and once more Pete looked happy as
he again measured the space he had covered.
"Poor old Grasshopper," commented Dutch as he and Tom strolled along the
campus, leaving the jumper still at his practice. "Poor old Grasshopper!
He'll never make the track team."
The next few days saw Tom putting in all his spare time practicing
curves under the watchful eye of Mr. Lighton. The 'varsity played with
the scrub and narrowly escaped a good drubbing. Langridge seemed to be
asleep part of the time and issued a number of walking papers. It was
after the contest, which the regulars had pulled out of the fire with
rather scorched fingers, that the coach called Captain Woodhouse and
Langridge to him.
"I rather think we'd better make a little shift," he said.
"In what way?" asked Langridge quickly.
"Well, I think we ought to name Parsons as substitute pitcher on
the 'varsity. He's been doing excellent work, fully equal to yours,
Langridge. Of course he's a little uncertain yet, but one big game would
take that out of him. I'd like to see him pitch at least part of the
game against Boxer next week."
"Does that mean you're dissatisfied with me?" asked Langridge quickly,
and his face flushed.
"Not necessarily. But I think it rather risky not to provide better than
we have for a substitute pitcher. Evert is available, of course, but as
he is a junior his studies are such that he can't devote the necessary
time to practice. Parsons ought to be named."
"Do you demand that in your official capacity as coach, Mr. Lighton?"
asked Kindlings. "Because if you do, I'll agree to it at once."
"No, I merely make that suggestion to you."
The captain looked at the manager. Langridge stood with a supercilious
smile on his face.
"I presume I shall have something to say as manager," he remarked.
"Certainly," admitted the coach gravely.
"Then I say Parsons shan't act as substitute pitcher. I'm good for the
season, and I'm going to play it out. I see his game. He wants to oust
me and he's taken this means of doing it. He got you to plead for him,
Mr. Lighton. I'll not stand for it."
"You're entirely mistaken, Langridge," said the coach, with the least
suspicion of annoyance in his even voice. "It is my own idea. Parsons
does not even know that I have spoken to you; in fact, I believe that he
would not allow me to."
Langridge was sneering now.
"I guess he would," he said.
"Then you, as manager, don't want Parsons as substitute pitcher?" asked
the coach.
"No!" snapped Langridge.
"Of course if you order it, Mr. Lighton," began honest Kindlings with an
uneasy look at the coach--"of course if you make a point of it----"
"No, I don't," and Mr. Lighton spoke quietly. "That was not my
intention--just yet. Parsons will remain on the scrub then, at least for
the present. Later I may--er--I may make a point of it," and he turned
and walked away.