DARK DAYS
Sid was waiting for Tom outside the proctor's office.
"Well?" he asked eagerly as his chum appeared, but it needed only a look
at the downcast face to tell that it was not "well" but "ill."
"Rusticated!" exclaimed Tom.
"For how long?"
"Two weeks."
"On your own account, or----"
"Mainly because I wouldn't tell, I guess. Being out late just once isn't
so monstrous."
"Of course not. Still you couldn't tell."
"Certainly not. It's tough, though. Suspended twice in the first term! I
wonder what dad and the girls'll say."
"Don't tell 'em."
"Oh, I'll have to, but I guess they'll understand."
"It certainly is rocky," admitted Sid, "but, do you know, I envy you a
bit. It's getting mighty hard in class now. I have to bone away like a
Trojan. Pitchfork has it in for me on Latin. I wish I had a vacation."
"Without baseball?" asked Tom.
"N-o--no, of course not without being on the team. But two weeks are
soon over."
"Not soon enough," and Tom darted away.
"Where you going?"
"Back and study. I can't afford to fall behind in my work."
"My, but aren't you the grinder, though!" exclaimed Sid, but there was
something of envy in his tone for all that. He went into recitation,
while Tom continued on to their common room. He was walking along the
path that led past Booker Memorial Chapel and paused for a moment to
admire the effect of the early sun shining through a stained glass
window. The combination of colors was perfect, and Tom, as he stood and
looked at a depiction of a biblical scene which represented the Good
Samaritan ministering to the stranger, felt somehow that it was a role
that he himself had had a part in.
Then came a revulsion of feeling.
"Oh, pshaw! You're getting sentimental in your old age!" he exclaimed
half aloud. "You've got to have your share of hard knocks in this world,
and you've got to take what comes. But it's queer," he went on in his
self-communing, "how Langridge seems to be getting mixed up with me.
This is twice I've had to suffer on his account. I'd like--yes, hang it
all, what's the use of pretending to yourself--I'd like to take it out
of him--in some way. It's not fair--that's what!"
The thought of Langridge brought another sort of musing to Tom. He saw a
certain fair face, with pouting lips and bright, dancing eyes, a face
framed in a fluffy mass of hair, and he fancied he could hear a little
laugh, a mocking little laugh.
"Worse and worse," growled Tom to himself. "You're getting dopy. Better
go take a long walk."
He kicked impatiently at a stone in the path and wheeled around just as
a voice exclaimed:
"Ah, Parsons, admiring the windows? The color effects are never so
beautiful as early morning and the evening. The garish light of day
seems to make them common. But--er--are you going to recitation? If so,
I'll walk along with you," and genial Dr. Churchill, with a friendly nod
of his head and a twinkle in his deep-set eyes, came closer to the lad.
Tom wondered if the good doctor knew of the punishment that had just
been meted out. If he did not he soon would have the report of the
proctor for confirmation.
"I've been suspended," blurted out Tom. "I was going to my room to
study."
"Suspended, Parsons! This is the second time, isn't it?" There was
surprise and dismay in the doctor's voice.
"Yes, sir, but----" Tom paused. How much should he tell, how much leave
unsaid?
"How did it happen?" asked the head of the college, and he placed his
arm on Tom's shoulder in a friendly fashion. Tom said afterward that it
was just as if he had been hypnotized. Before he knew it he was telling
the whole story.
"But I never mentioned the name of Langridge," he protested to Sid, to
whom later he related all the events. "I never even hinted at it, but
for all that I believe Moses knew. He's a regular corkscrew."
Dr. Churchill was silent after the recital, a recital rather brokenly
made, but containing all the essential facts.
"Suspended for two weeks!" he murmured when Tom had finished.
"With no athletics," added Tom. "Not even to see the games that are to
be played here, and there are to be two."
"Hum," mused the doctor. "Well, you know we must have discipline here,
Parsons. Without it we would soon have chaos. But--ah--er--hum! Well,
come and see me this evening. I will have a talk with Mr. Zane. He has
to be strict, you know, very strict under certain circumstances,
but--er--um--come and see me to-night."
"What do you s'pose he wants?" asked Sid when Tom had told him of the
meeting.
"Blessed if I know, unless it's to give me a lecture on my conduct."
"No, Moses isn't that kind."
"He's going to restore to you all the rights and privileges of a
student," declared Phil Clinton, who, together with some others of Tom's
chums, was in his room.
"My uncle says----" began Ford Fenton, but instantly there was a
protesting howl.
"Give me that water pitcher!" demanded Sid of Phil.
"This isn't fit to drink," was the remonstrance.
"I know it, but Fenton needs a bath, don't you, Ford? Your uncle! Say,
the next time you say that we'll make you repeat the first book of Caesar
backward, eh, fellows?"
"That's right," came in a chorus.
"Well," went on Fenton in somewhat aggrieved tones, "he once told
me----"
"Write it out," expostulated Phil.
"Move he be given leave to print," came from Sid, who had once heard a
long debate in Congress.
There was laughter and more chaffing of luckless Fenton, whose uncle,
from his own making, was like unto a millstone hung about his neck.
"Well, all the same, I'd like to know what Moses wants of you," said
Phil, and the others agreed with him.
"I'll let you know when I come back," said Tom. "It's early; you can all
stay here for a while."
He returned in half an hour from his call on the head of the college.
"Well?" demanded his chums of him.
"Great!" he cried. "He received me in his study. Say, were you ever
there? It's a fine place. Books, books, books all over. The floor was
piled full of them. There was a fire going on the grate and he was
sitting there, reading some book with the queerest letters in it."
"Sanskrit," ventured Phil.
"I guess so. Well, he brought up a chair for me, and----"
"Oh, for the love of Dionysius! give us some facts," cried Sid. "What
happened?"
"Well, he said he'd had a talk with the proctor and he removed the worst
part of my suspension. I can go to the two games here with Boxer Hall
and Fairview, but I can't play. I couldn't, anyhow, on account of my
arm, so that's all right. And I can attend the special lectures in
biology, which I hated to miss. I can't recite for two weeks, but I
don't mind that. It's all right. I'll vote for Moses every time!"
"I should say yes," agreed Phil. "He's white, he is. But Zane--ugh!
He's----"
"Treason," counseled Sid quietly. "The walls may not have ears, but the
keyhole has. Better cut it, fellows, the time is almost up, and Zane's
scouts will be sneaking around."
The other lads departed, leaving Tom and Sid alone.
"What about your pitching?" asked Sid.
"Well, I'll have to give my arm a rest, Mr. Lighton says, so this comes
in the nature of a special providence. It isn't so bad as it looked at
first."
But, in spite of his philosophy, there were dark days for Tom. It was
hard to be deprived of the chance to play on the scrub and he missed the
daily recitations. His arm, too, began to trouble him, and he was
obliged to go to a doctor for treatment, though the medical man said all
it needed was a little massage and rest. Tom, in his eagerness to excel,
had overworked the muscles.
Meanwhile the 'varsity nine was kept busy at practice or with league and
other games. Word came that both the Boxer and Fairview nines had
greatly improved, chiefly by shifting their players about, and the
Randall coach and captain wore serious looks as they "sized up" the work
of the Randall team.
There came a contest with Fairview Institute on the Randall diamond. It
was a "hot" game and Fairview won.
There was anguish of heart among the Randall students and it was not
assuaged when, the next week, Boxer, playing on the Randall grounds,
took away a game with them, the score being 8 to 2.
"Two drubbings in two successive weeks," exclaimed Kindlings. "What are
we going to do?"
"One thing we've got to do is to improve in pitching," declared the
coach, and when some one brought word of this to Tom his heart, that had
been heavy during the two weeks of suspension, grew lighter.
"Maybe I'll get a chance," he said to Sid. "It would make up for
everything if I did."
"No one wants to see you in the box any more than I do, old chap," spoke
Sid fervently.