THE FINAL CONTEST
Langridge stood before his rival, waiting. It was quiet in the little
room, so quiet that the ticking of the alarm clock sounded loud. Outside
could be heard the tramp of feet in the corridor, students going to and
fro. Langridge glanced nervously at the door. He was plainly afraid lest
some one should enter and find him there.
It was a hard problem for Tom to solve. The appeal of the lad who had
done much to injure him moved him strongly. He knew what it would mean
to Langridge not to pitch--that he would be out of athletics for the
rest of his college course. If Tom gave way in his favor, it would mean
his rehabilitation and for Tom only a temporary loss of prestige.
"Will you do it?" asked Langridge softly.
Tom did not answer. He paced up and down the room. What ought he to say?
He felt that he could afford to sacrifice his own interests--could even
forego the high honor of pitching in what was the greatest game of the
college year--for the sake of Langridge. If he did not and if Langridge
went away disheartened, it might mean that he would plunge deeper into
dissipation. Then there came to Tom the thought of the nine. Was it fair
to the others, to the college?
Something told him it was not, that it was his duty to pitch--to do his
best--to win for the sake of the college and the nine. Langridge might
possibly do it, but it was doubtful. The former pitcher could not be
sure of himself, sure that he had mastered his desire for stimulant.
Then Tom decided, not on his own account but for the sake of the team
and the college.
"I can't do it, Langridge," he replied, and his voice showed the anguish
he felt at the pain he inflicted.
"Then you'll pitch?" asked his rival.
"Yes, I feel that I must. The team depends on me, and--and I can't go
back on them."
Langridge must have seen that Tom's answer was final, for without a word
he turned and left the room.
Then Tom felt a wave of remorse sweep over him. After all, had he done
right? Had he done the best thing? He was almost on the point of rushing
after Langridge and telling him he could pitch in the final game, for
the memory of his face haunted Tom. But when his hand was on the knob of
the door Sid entered.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom's chum, looking curiously at him.
"Nothing. Why?"
"You look as if you had been seeing ghosts."
"Well, I have--a sort of one," answered Tom with an uneasy laugh. "How'd
you make out with the Latin?"
"Pretty punk, I guess. Bricktop says I've got to put in all my spare
time boning. If I slump and can't play that last game, I'll--I'll----"
"Don't you dare slump!" cried Tom earnestly. "We can't put a new man on
first at this late day. Don't you dare slump, Sid."
"Oh, I'll try not to," and Sid dumped himself down in the easy chair and
with an air of dogged determination began devouring Latin verbs.
The 'varsity had had its final practice against the scrub, with Tom in
the box for the first team. He was beginning to take it as a matter of
course and acquiring that which he needed most--confidence in himself.
The scrub pitcher who had replaced him was good, but he was pretty well
batted, while very few hits, and these only one-baggers, were secured
off Tom.
"Boys," said Mr. Lighton two days before the game, "I think I can see
our way clear to the Tonoka Lake League pennant. Now take it easy
to-morrow, a little light exercise, be careful of what you eat, don't
get nervous, go to bed early and sleep well. Then Saturday afternoon
we'll go to Fairview and bring back the banner."
"Three cheers for our coach!" called Kerr, and Mr. Lighton, veteran that
he was, blushed with pleasure.
"I hope we win," remarked Ford Fenton as the team walked to the
dressing-rooms. "My uncle says----"
But Kerr threw his big catching mitt with such good aim that it struck
Fenton full in the face.
"Here--huh! ho! What'd you do that for?" he demanded.
"I didn't want you to wear out that uncle of yours," was the cool answer.
"It's getting warm weather now and you'd better can him so he'll keep
until next year."
Ford scowled and then laughed, for he was good-natured in spite of his
one failing.
Sid entered the room where Tom was late that afternoon with a worried
look on his face.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom in alarm.
"Pitchfork has decided to have a special Latin exam to-morrow for my
class. Wow! I was counting on it going over, but it won't, and I've got
to take it to-morrow."
"Well?"
"No, not well--bad. If I slump, do you know what it means?"
"You can't play against Fairview?"
"Exactly. Oh, Tom, I'm as nervous as a girl before her first big party.
Here, coach me a bit," and Tom, taking the books, gave Sid what help he
could until they were both so tired and sleepy that Tom insisted that
bed was the only place for them.
The news spread the next day. Sid was the only member of the team who
was in the special Latin class, and consequently the only one who had to
go through the ordeal. When he went into recitation his mates on the
team gathered in silent conclave on the diamond.
"If Sid slumps," spoke Captain Woodhouse, "I don't----"
"Don't talk about it," pleaded Bricktop Molloy.
"If he does, couldn't we play Langridge on first?" suggested Phil
Clinton. "He used to practice there."
"Langridge is down and out," declared Kerr. "I don't know what's come
over him. He won't speak to me any more. I guess he knows he's got to do
a lot of studying to pass, and he must be tutoring with some grind. He
keeps himself mighty scarce. I don't believe he'd play."
"No, we couldn't use him," said Kindlings. "It all depends on Sid. I
wish the exam was over. It's like waiting for a jury to come in."
The whole team was on tenterhooks. No one felt like talking, and some
one would start a topic only to witness it die a natural death. The
members of the nine paced to and fro on the diamond. They were waiting
for news from Sid. If he did not pass he could not play, and it
practically meant a lowering of their chances for the pennant.
An hour went by. A few lads began coming from the recitation room where
the examination was being held.
"Some of them have finished," commented Tom. "Let's ask 'em how Sid's
making out."
One of the Latin students strolled over toward where the ball players
were.
"How's Henderson doing?" asked Kindlings.
"Sweating like a cart horse," was the characteristic answer. "It's a
stiff exam all right."
There was a groan in concert and the anxious waiting was resumed.
Fifteen minutes passed. Several more students had come from the room.
"Where can he be?" murmured Tom.
"There he comes!" cried Phil Clinton as Sid appeared, coming slowly
toward the group.
"I'll bet he failed," said Kindlings solemnly. Certainly in Sid's
approach there was not the air of a conqueror.
All at once he stopped, bent down to the ground and appeared to be
tearing something to pieces.
"What's he doing?" asked Tom.
"Let's go see," proposed Kerr.
They advanced and beheld a curious sight. Sid was tearing up a book and
making a little heap of the leaves. A moment later he touched a match
to the pile, and the paper began to burn.
"What in the world are you doing?" called Tom.
"Did you pass?" fairly roared Kindlings.
"Sure," replied Sid as calmly as if he had always expected to. "I passed
with honors, and now I'm destroying the evidence. I'm applying the torch
to Caesar's Commentaries and I'll never open a book like it again in my
life. Come on, fellows, join the festive throng. Tra la la! Merrily do
we sing."
He began prancing about and the others, with yells of joy, joined in.
Sid would cover first base for them in the big game.
With a tooting of auto horns, the waving of many flags, shouts, cheers,
yells of encouragement, laughter from many pretty girls, the waving of
handkerchiefs, renditions of the college yell the ball nine and its
supporters started the next day in a long cavalcade for Fairview.
Several automobiles had been provided for the use of the team, and in
one of these rode Tom and Miss Tyler, whom he had called for at her home
that morning. A number of ladies went along as chaperones for the girls
of Haddonfield.
Dr. Churchill and most of the faculty also went to the game.
"Aren't you coming, Professor Tines?" asked the head of the college as
he and the other instructors were about to start.
"No, I don't care much for baseball. I shall remain here and arrange for
another Latin examination for some of the students."
Sid groaned and his chums laughed, whereat Professor Tines frowned.
"Do you think you'll win?" asked Miss Tyler as she sat next to Tom.
"I'm sure of it," he answered promptly.
When the Randall team and its supporters arrived they found a big throng
present to greet them. Even their opponents sent out a ringing cheer of
welcome. The Fairview nine was out on the diamond practicing.
"Snappy work," observed Tom critically as the batting and catching was
under way.
"Oh, we can do just as good," asserted Kindlings. "Don't get nervous
now. You've got to pitch your head off."
Some one started the Randall college song, "_Aut vincere aut mori_," and
as the beautiful strains floated over the diamond when the players
poured out from the dressing-rooms the team came to a sudden halt.
"That's it, fellows," said Kindlings solemnly, "'Either we conquer or we
die!' Play for all that's in you and then some more," and he laughed.
Auto horns tooted blatantly, girls cried in their clear, shrill voices,
the lady contingent of Fairview rendering some weird yells. Then there
were the hoarse voices of the boys, to which answered the cheers of
Randall. The grandstand and bleachers were waving geometrical figures of
brilliant hues. It was an inspiring sight. No wonder that the players
felt nerved to do their best, for on the result of the game depended
much.
Kindlings missed the call when the coin was spun, and he and his men had
to start the hitting. But they did not mind this, and when, in the
revised batting order, Kerr went up first, he "poked his stick into the
horsehide for a two-bagger," as Holly Cross said. There was a yell that
could have been heard a mile and every Randall lad was on his feet
shouting:
"Go on! go on! go on!"
But Kerr stopped at second prudently, for he would have been nabbed at
third. This opened the game and the play at once became hot. Randall
scored two runs that inning and Tom, giving walking papers to a
particularly heavy hitter, managed to come out of the initial ordeal
without a hit being registered against him.
The Randall boys went wild then and began the song, "When Fairview awoke
from her sweet dream of peace," which was repeated again and again.
But the next three innings saw only the negative sign chalked up in the
frame on the scoreboard given over to Randall, while in the last half of
the fourth Fairview secured a run, for one of the players "got the
Indian sign" on Tom, to quote Holly Cross, who was an expert in diamond
slang, and "bit his initials in the spheroid for a three-bagger." The
run would not have been scored, for there were two men out, only Joe
Jackson made what seemed to be an inexcusable fumble, and the runner
came in. Still it looked safe for Randall until the fatal seventh
inning.
For some teams this is held to be a lucky one, but it was not for
Randall. Tom was doing his best, but in delivering one ball he gave his
arm a peculiar wrench, and a sharp twinge of pain in the region where
Langridge had kicked him made him wince. After that he could not control
his curves so well, and three men made safeties off him, a trio of runs
being registered. The score was 4 to 2 in favor of Fairview at the close
of the seventh. Kindlings looked grave and Coach Lighton paced nervously
to and fro.
"What's the matter, old man?" the captain asked Tom.
"Nothing much," was the answer. "I gave my arm a little twist, that's
all."
"Come inside and we'll massage it," proposed Mr. Lighton, who was always
ready for emergencies, and he and Kindlings rubbed some liniment on
Tom's joint. It felt a little better, and Tom said so, though when he
went into the box, following an inning when Bricktop Molloy brought in
one run, the pitcher was in considerable misery. He shut his teeth
grimly, however, and resolved to do his best, though to deliver his most
effective curves meant to give himself much pain.
Tom only allowed two hits and one run came in, making the score at the
ending of the eighth inning 5 to 3 in favor of Fairview.
How the co-eds shouted and cheered then and there was corresponding
gloom among the Randallites until once more that grand old song, "_Aut
vincere aut mori_," welled forth and gave confidence to an almost
despairing nine.
"It's about our last chance, fellows," said Kindlings grimly as he
walked to the bat.
He waited for a good ball, though two strikes were called on him, and
then, with a mighty sweep of his strong arms, he sent the sphere away
out into the field.
"A good hit! Oh, a pretty hit!" yelled Phil Clinton. "Run, old man!
Run!"
And how Kindlings could run! On and on he leaped, around first base,
speeding toward second, while the stands were in a frenzy of excitement.
"Third! third!" cried the coach, for the left fielder was still after
the ball.
Kindlings was running strong, and he had now started home. Would he
reach it? The fielder had the ball now. With a terrific heave he sent it
to the third baseman, but Kindlings was half way home. Then ensued a
curious scene. The baseman was afraid to throw the ball to the catcher,
for Kindlings, who was tall and was running upright, was in the way. The
baseman started to trail the captain down. There was a race. Kindlings
looked back and decided to keep on to home. The catcher was leaping
about excitedly.
"Throw the ball! throw the ball!" he yelled. But the baseman thought he
could outrun Kindlings. He almost succeeded and then, when he saw it was
too late, he tossed the ball over the captain's head to the catcher.
Kindlings dropped and, amid a cloud of dust, slid home.
Like a flash the hand of the catcher holding the ball shot toward him.
There was a moment of suspense.
"Safe!" howled the umpire, and one more run went to the credit of
Randall.
Tom brought in another not so sensational, but it counted. He knocked a
pretty fly, which sailed over the second baseman's head and the pitcher
got to first, stole second and came in with a rush on a swift grounder
bunt that Phil Clinton sacrificed on under orders.