A SOPHOMORE TRICK
While knowing nothing of the efforts Coach Lighton was making in his
behalf, Tom continued hard practice at his pitching. Every day he made
some improvement until his friends on the scrub regarded him as a
marvel. But, as if some mysterious whisper had come to Langridge, the
latter also showed improvement. He spent more time in practice and at
one game, when it looked as if the scrub would beat the 'varsity,
chiefly due to Tom's fine pitching, Langridge saved the day by brilliant
work in the box. The coach was pleased at this and Tom could not help
feeling that his chances were farther away than ever.
There were many other phases of college life, aside from baseball, that
appealed to Tom. He liked his studies and he gave them more attention
than perhaps any other lad of the sporting set. He was not a "greasy
dig," by which was meant a student who burned midnight oil over his
books, but he stood well in his classes, for learning came naturally to
him.
Not so, however, to his roommate. Poor Sid had to "bone" away rather
hard to get along, and, as he was required to put in a certain amount of
time on the diamond, his lessons sometimes suffered. He was warned one
day by Professor Tines, in the Latin class, that if he did not show more
improvement he would be conditioned and not allowed to play on the team.
"And that mustn't happen," declared Captain Woodhouse. "Take a brace,
Sid. Don't go throwing us down now. It's too late to break in another
first baseman."
Sid promised, and, for a time, stood better in his class. In the
meanwhile other sports went on at Randall College. The crew was out
every day on the river and the 'varsity eight-oared shell, several
doubles and some singles held impromptu races. A freshman eight was
formed and Tom was asked to join, but he wisely refused, for he reasoned
that he could not give enough time to it to become a member of a racing
crew without sacrificing either baseball or his studies, and he would do
neither.
"But you'll never make the 'varsity nine," argued Captain Bonsell, of
the freshman crew. "Much better to train with us, for I'll promise you a
place in the boat when it comes to the championship race. You'll never
be the 'varsity pitcher."
For Bonsell had looked with envy on Tom's big muscles.
"Well, I'm not going to give up until the last game," declared Tom
stoutly. "Maybe I'll get a chance at the tail end. Langridge can't last
forever, though far be it from me to wish him any bad luck."
"I see," spoke Bonsell with a laugh, "the survival of the fittest. I
wish you luck, old man."
So Tom practiced and practiced and practiced until on the scrub his name
became one to conjure with. But Langridge remained in his place on the
'varsity and Evert was the substitute pitcher. Between Tom and Langridge
there was more than ever a coldness. It was not due to the sneaking act
of the rich lad in not absolving Tom from blame in the wire episode, but
might more properly be ascribed to the incident connected with Miss
Tyler, though neither youth was willing to admit this. In spite of
himself, Tom found that he was entertaining a certain indescribable
feeling toward the girl. Often, at night, he would recall her laughing,
tantalizing face as she walked away with Langridge.
"Hang it all!" Tom would exclaim to his pillow. "He's not fit for her!
She ought to know it. I practically told her, yet she went off with him,
after all. Confound it all, I can't understand girls, anyhow."
But Tom might well have been comforted, for no one else does either,
though many believe that they do.
But, though part of Tom's coldness toward Langridge was based on the
latter's meanness about the wire and though probably the 'varsity pitcher
kept aloof from Tom for the same reason, there was no disposition on
Tom's part to complain or "squeal." As far as the faculty was concerned,
Tom was guilty of the prank that had had so nearly a fatal ending. But he
did not complain. He had given his word.
"Well, Tom, old man, going along?" asked Sid one day as he came in from
a biology lecture and tossed his text-book under the bed, though he knew
he would have to crawl for it afterward.
"Going along where?"
"The team's going to Dodville for a game with a big prep. school there.
Not much as regards a game, but it will be fun. It's a nice trolley
trip, and I hear all the subs are going."
"But I'm not a sub."
"Well, you're a scrub, and that's almost the same. Come along and root
for us, anyhow, though I guess we'll wipe up the earth with the preps."
"I thought we had a game with Boxer to-morrow."
"We did, but they canceled it, as they have to fill in a postponed game
with Fairview, so we've shifted our schedule. Will you come?"
"Sure, if there's room."
"Of course there is. Langridge has hired two special trolleys. You know
he's not going to play the regular 'varsity team. Only freshmen are to
be allowed on it. It's more for practice than anything else."
"Oh!" exclaimed Tom. It was on the tip of his tongue to ask if Sid
thought there might be a chance to do some pitching, but he thought
better of it.
The Dodville Preparatory School had a good nine and a reputation of
putting up a hard game, but Langridge was set on the idea of playing
only freshmen against them, and thus it was decided. On the afternoon of
the game the team, many supporters and the scrubs and substitutes
boarded two trolleys for the trip to the grounds.
It was a jolly crowd, and the way was enlivened by songs and jokes. Tom
was in the first car with Sid and some others of his particular chums.
Langridge was also there, but he kept rather away from Tom.
Out on the platform with the motorman was an individual with a slouch
hat pulled down over his eyes and his coat collar turned up.
"Who's that, a tramp?" asked Tom as he noticed the man.
"Looks like it," admitted Sid. "Begging a ride maybe on the strength of
this being a special. Well, let him go. If you call attention to him,
some of the fellows may make a row and create a rough house. Don't say
anything."
Tom did not, but he noticed that the tramp appeared to be very friendly
to the motorman and talked frequently with him. The electric line to
Dodville ran through a stretch of country not thickly populated, and at
one point it switched over another trolley road which ran to a distant,
thriving village. The boys were so engrossed in their fun, laughing and
joking that they paid little attention to matters outside, and the time
passed quickly. Holly Cross was giving (by request) an imitation of a
well-known vaudeville performer when Sid, who happened to look out of
the window, exclaimed:
"Say, fellows, where, for the love of tripe, are we? This isn't the road
to Dodville."
"Aw, what's eatin' you?" demanded Dutch Housenlager. "Could the trolley
car go off by itself on a road alone? Answer me that!"
"I don't know what it could do, it's what it has done," retorted Sid. "I
know this road. It goes to Fayetmore, which is next door to Squankum
Center. Fellows, we're five miles from Dodville!"
"Get out!" cried Langridge, unwilling to believe it.
"Fact!" asserted Sid. "We're five miles out of our way, on the wrong
road, and the game starts in less than an hour. They'll call it a
forfeit on us and never stop twitting us about this."
"Ah, you must be wrong," declared Holly Cross. "Don't you s'pose the
motorman knows the way? It isn't as if this was an auto."
Sid pulled open the front door. The tramp, who had been talking to the
motorman, had gone.
"I say," began the first baseman, "is this the road to Dodville? Aren't
you on the wrong line?"
"Why, sir, I don't rightly know," replied the motorman somewhat timidly.
"You don't know?" repeated Sid incredulously.
"No. I--I hope this is the right road."
"You hope so!" cried Langridge. "Well, I should say yes. Why don't you
know?"
"Well, you see, I'm new on this section of the line. To-day is my first
run. I took the turn back there where the gentleman told me to."
"What gentleman?"
"The one who was out here on the platform with me. He said he was your
manager."
"Manager!" fairly yelled Langridge. "Why, I'm the manager of this team."
"Can't help it. That's what the gentleman said. He said he knew the road
to Dodville, and when I got to the switch he told me to come this way."
"What was his name?" demanded Langridge, who was beginning to "scent a
rodent," as Holly Cross said.
"He gave me his card," went on the motorman, who had halted his car in
the midst of a lonely stretch of woods.
"Let's see!" cried Sid.
The trolley man fumbled in his pocket for it. Tom looked back, but could
not see the other special car. That had probably been some distance
behind the first one and had doubtless gone the right road, the motorman
not suspecting that his predecessor was not ahead of him.
Sid took the bit of pasteboard which the man held out to him. He looked
at it and then uttered an exclamation.
"It's a trick!" he cried, "a soph trick! Listen to this, fellows. This
is Fenmore's card, and he's written on it this message: 'This is only
part of what we sophs owe you freshies for the pavilion game. There is
more coming. Hope you have a nice picnic in the woods.' That fellow on
the platform was Fenmore," went on Sid. "No wonder he kept his hat
down."
"And here we are--part of the team--out here in the wilderness, five
miles from the game, which starts in half an hour!" cried Langridge in
disgust. "Say, those sophs got back at us all right. We're in a nice
pickle!"