HALED TO COURT
Our heroes were in a quandary. They had gotten on the trail of the
mystery, and it diverged in two directions. Both paths seemed to lead
to one or the other of two students--Bascome or Lenton. To accuse
either, or to question them, would mean serious trouble, for it would
be considered as an insult. Tom and his chums realized that.
"But what gets me, if either one of them _did_ take our clock and chair,
is what their motive could have been," spoke Tom. "Why in the mischief
should they take our battered old ticker, leave another in its place,
and then make the exchange again?"
"It's just as easy to answer as to say who has our chair," declared
Phil. "It isn't in Bascome's room, that's certain."
"And Lenton hasn't it," asserted Tom. "I found that out, all right."
It was the morning after the sensational discovery of the letter, and
they were still discussing it, without apparently getting anywhere. They
had tacitly agreed that, without more evidence than they now possessed,
it would be folly to go to Bascome again.
"Let's get out of here," proposed Tom, after some more talk on the
subject. "We're almost late for chapel as it is."
It is doubtful if either of the three chums gave much consideration to
the services that morning. Their minds were too much filled with other
matters.
Dr. Churchill made an announcement to the effect that there might soon
be some news to communicate in the matter of the suit against the
college.
"At present," he stated, "the matter is in the hands of the lawyers, and
we hope to effect a compromise. If we arrive at one, I shall be most
happy to let you young gentlemen know of it. Of course, too, there is
the possibility of unfavorable news. But, in any event, I know that you
will be loyal to the college."
"You bet!" cried Bean Perkins, fervently, and he was not rebuked, for
the devotional exercises were over.
"I wonder what Prexy meant by bad news?" asked Holly Cross, as he walked
over the campus with Tom and several other chums.
"He didn't mean that we're going to lose the game with Fairview Saturday,
I hope," put in Kindlings. "We're going to have long practice this
afternoon, and I want every fellow to show up. Simpson, I'm going to
give you a chance at left guard in the second half of the game."
"Thanks!" exclaimed the big Californian, fervently.
The practice on the gridiron that afternoon was the hardest to which the
players had yet been subjected. The scrub had been instructed to play
for all they were worth against the 'varsity, and the inducement was
held out that if any of the second team outplayed the man against him on
the regular eleven, that he could replace him in the Fairview game.
This was enough to stir the blood of the scrubs, and they went at the
'varsity hammer and tongs. The result was rather a surprise, for the
regulars developed unexpected strength in the line. And even Snail
Looper proved that he could do well when he wanted to, for when the
backs were sent against him and Bascome, the two held well together, and
the wave of human beings, of whom one had the ball, was dashed back,
failing to gain in several cases.
There was one particularly hot scrimmage, and Andrews, who was playing
left half-back on the scrub, went at the line like a stone from a
catapult. He broke through, and Pete Backus and Sid Henderson, who
tried to tackle him, missed. Andrews was gathering his speed for a
spring down the field for a touchdown, when Phil Clinton, who had
circled out of the press, was after him like a shot, and after a daring
tackle threw him heavily.
But, somehow or other, Phil slipped, and his foot was doubled under him.
When he got up he limped painfully.
"What's the matter?" demanded Mr. Lighton, anxiously, as he ran up.
"Twisted my ankle."
"Is it sprained?"
"No, only a little. I'll be all right in a minute."
They had his shoe off in a jiffy, and massaged the ankle, but it did
little good, and wanting to save his quarter-back for the big game on
Saturday, Captain Woodhouse sent in Art Benson, as a substitute. Phil
retired to the side lines, tears of chagrin in his eyes, but his friends
comforted him with the thought that he would be all right by Saturday if
he rested, while, if he didn't he couldn't play against Fairview.
The game went on, and, as if nerved by Phil's injury, the 'varsity
played like fiends. They rushed the unfortunate scrub team all over the
field, and rolled up more touchdowns than they had previously done in
practice that season.
"I guess we'll come out all right," spoke Kindlings, gleefully, to the
coach, as they walked from the field, discussing some new plays that had
been tried.
"I'm more hopeful," answered Mr. Lighton.
A hot bath, a rub down and a vigorous massaging of his ankle with
liniment, made Phil feel much better, and that night, propped up in an
easy position on the sofa--the seat of honor--the quarter-back received
his friends, several of whom dropped in to inquire after him.
"Will you be fit, old man?" asked Holly Cross, anxiously. "I hear that
Fairview has it in for us for keeps."
"Sure I'll be on hand," declared Phil, gamely. "This isn't anything."
"I hope not," remarked Kindlings, with a dubious shake of his head. "We
can tell better in the morning." For he well knew that such injuries as
Phil's often became worse in a few hours than they seemed at first.
The captain's apprehension was realized, for the next morning Phil could
not step on his foot, and Dr. Marshall, the college physician, was
summoned.
The doctor looked at the swollen ankle, felt of it gently, thereby
causing Phil to wince with pain, and then announced:
"No playing for you, Clinton."
"But I've _got_ to play, doctor. I've _got_ to be in the game against
Fairview Saturday. That's three days off. Won't it be well then?"
"I'm afraid not."
"Well enough to play if I wear a leather protector?"
"If you play, you may be out of the game the rest of the season," was
the solemn answer. "I must forbid it. You may do yourself serious
injury. What you need is complete rest."
Phil gasped, and held back the exclamation that sprang to his lips--an
exclamation partly of bitterness and partly of pain, for the physician
was rebandaging the foot. Then he turned his face to the wall, and when
the doctor was gone, Tom and Sid sat in silent communion with their
chum. For they knew how he felt, and knew that mere words could only
make the wounded spirit more sore. Silence was the best balm, and
silence there was, with only the fussy clock to mark the passage of the
seconds.
Phil's ankle was even worse the next day, and it was announced that he
would not be in the Fairview game, which news cast a gloom over Randall,
and caused rejoicing in the camp of their rivals, for Fairview was none
too sure of a victory, though they had a fine eleven. Benson, the
substitute quarter, was slated for the contest.
There was hard practice every available moment up to the night before
the game, and though the team was rather demoralized, the captain and
coach, by vigorous words, kept the players up to the mark.
"We're going to win! We're going to win!" they said over and over again.
There was a noticeable air of something portending when Dr. Churchill
and his colleagues took their seats on the platform at chapel the next
morning. The president's voice was solemn as he read the Scriptures,
more solemn as he offered prayer, and when he advanced to the edge of
the rostrum to make an announcement, there was a long breath of
expectation from the students.
"Is it about football or the trouble, I wonder?" whispered Holly Cross.
"Quiet," begged Tom.
"Young gentlemen," began the president, "I regret to say that I have bad
news for you. Randall College has lost the first skirmish in the legal
battle. The directors have been summoned to court to show cause why they
should not vacate the land whereon our buildings stand. The matter had
assumed a serious phase, all through the loss of that quit-claim deed."