A MISSING PICTURE
“This is an outrage! It was done purposely! I shall demand severe
punishment for the perpetrators of it!”
Thus exclaimed Professor Emerson Tines, his voice half smothered under
the sail of the ice boat.
“Oh, what has happened? Are we sinking? Are we going through the ice?”
cried Miss Philock.
It was almost beyond the power of the lads to give any adequate
description of what had happened, so rapidly had events shaped
themselves. Tom managed to crawl out of the tilted cockpit.
“Allow me,” he said, in his best manner, as he extended his hand to help
up Miss Philock.
“Oh! Are you sure there’s no danger?” she asked, hesitating to trust
herself to him. “Is there a hole in the ice?”
“None whatever,” Tom assured her. “Unfortunately we ran you down with
the ice boat, but I trust you are not hurt.”
Just then Phil managed to scramble out of the tangle of sail and mast,
and his face was revealed in the moonlight. Miss Philock knew him for
the brother of one of her charges.
“Oh, Mr. Clinton!” she cried. “I never would have believed it of you!”
“An accident, I do assure you,” interposed Phil. “It could not be
helped. I hope you are not hurt, Professor Tines.”
“Hurt! Humph! Little you care whether I am or not. I shall report you to
Dr. Churchill as soon as I reach college. It is scandalous!”
The Latin teacher managed to scramble to his feet, ignoring the
proffered hand of Phil. Sid, Frank and Dutch managed to crawl out from
under the ice boat.
“Whew!” whistled Dutch, looking at the broken mast.
“I thought you said you could steer,” growled Frank.
“I could, only the rudder got jammed. It wasn’t my fault. Wow! This is
tough!”
By this time Tom had assisted Miss Philock to the shore, and Professor
Tines, seeing the lady, whom it developed later, he had been escorting
from a lecture, hastened to join her.
“I trust you have suffered no injuries,” he said.
“No. And you, Professor Tines?” she asked, and Tom fancied there was a
note of anxiety in her voice.
“Oh I am all right, except that I am very much upset over this
annoyance.”
“I fancy we all were,” said Miss Philock, with better grace than Tom had
dared hoped she would show. “It was an accident.”
“I am not so sure of that,” said the Latin teacher grimly.
“Oh, it was, I assure you!” broke in Dutch earnestly. “I couldn’t work
the rudder. We--we didn’t mean to do it.”
There was silence for a moment, during which the boys looked first at
the damaged and overturned ice boat, and then at the figures of the
professor, and the lady teacher of Fairview.
“I--er--I think we had better be getting on, Mr. Tines,” the lady said,
at length. “It is getting late.”
It was a gentle hint, and he took it.
“I shall see you young gentlemen later,” said the professor
significantly, as he started up the river bank with Miss Philock.
“And it’s us for a walk back,” spoke Tom slowly, when they had remained
in silence for about a minute. “Dutch, we are much obliged for your
evening of pleasure,” he added sarcastically.
“Oh, hang it all, I didn’t mean----” began the fun-loving lad.
“Oh, forget it! Of course it wasn’t your fault,” broke in Sid. “Come
on. Let’s haul the boat up on shore, and hoof it back. We can explain to
Zane.”
Fortunately for themselves our friends had held good records of late,
and the proctor did not question them too closely, as they drifted in
some time after the locking-up hour. They told of the accident, but did
not mention Mr. Tines and his companion.
“We’ll just hold that in reserve,” decided Tom. “Fancy him being out
with Miss Philock!”
Probably the walk back to Randall from Fairview gave Professor Tines a
chance to change his views regarding the happening of the night. For,
though he looked rather grimly at our heroes in chapel the next morning,
he said nothing, and there was no official report of the occurrence, for
which Tom and his chums were duly thankful.
“Pitchfork is more of a gentleman than we gave him credit for,” he
declared. “We each have something to hold over him in reserve, for I
don’t believe he’d like the story told broadcast.”
Dutch and the others clubbed together to pay for the damage to the ice
boat, and the owner said they could use it as often as they wished. But
there was no more chance that Winter for Spring came with a rush after
that last big freeze, and there were no more cold weather sports.
Now indeed did the talk turn to ball games, and track athletics. The
latter had the call, for it was something new for Randall, and the other
institutions of learning that formed the four-sided league.
Several committee meetings were held, and a more or less tentative
program was made up. Available material was talked of, and every day saw
more and more candidates in the gymnasium, out on the cinder path, or in
the hammer circle.
“Have you any line of what Boxer Hall is doing?” asked Tom of Dan
Woodhouse one afternoon, when a number of the lads were gathered in the
reading room of the gymnasium after some hard practice.
“Well, they’re going strong,” replied Kindlings. “But if we all keep on
the job here at Randall, and do our best, I think we can win. But every
fellow has got to do his best.”
“Sure,” assented Sid.
“Are Langridge and Gerhart entered?” Frank wanted to know.
“Yes; both of ’em. But don’t let that worry you. There are others at
Boxer Hall more to be feared than those two. I tell you we’re not going
to have a walkover. Exter is going to show up strong, too, for a new
college.”
A group of lads were gathered about a table on which were several
sporting papers, containing a number of photographs of athletes, and
showing scenes at various meets.
“I tell you fellows what it is,” put in Shambler, who seemed to have
gotten very much at home in the few weeks he had been at Randall,
“practice is the only thing that will help us win the championship. I
know, for I’ve been through the mill. We’ve got to practice more.”
“Did you do it at Harkness?” asked Phil.
“Yes, some, but I’ve trained by myself a lot,” and there was a trace of
boastfulness in his voice. “I’m going to make the mile run,” he added.
“And win?” asked Sid, half sarcastically, turning over a pile of papers.
“Sure,” assented Shambler. “I--er--” Suddenly he reached out and picked
a paper from amid the pile. He seemed to be nervously folding it in his
hands. “I used to be a good runner,” he went on, “and there’s no reason
why I can’t do as well again. I think I’d rather do that than be in the
high or broad jump. But of course----”
“All the candidates will have a try-out,” put in Kindlings. “The best
one wins, and he ought to be willing to do the best that’s in him for
Randall.”
“Of course,” assented Shambler, and he seemed glad of the interruption,
still nervously folding the paper.
A few minutes later he left the room rather hurriedly, and, some time
after that, Phil began looking through the pile of illustrated papers
for a certain one.
“It was here a while ago,” he said to Kindlings. “I wanted to show you
how they had the hurdles arranged at the last intercollegiate meet in
New York. It’s a good idea I think. Where the mischief is that paper?”
“Which one?” asked Tom, who was reading a book on training rules.
“The one Shambler was looking at. Oh, here he comes now. What’d you do
with that sporting paper, Shambler?” asked Phil.
“Oh--er--that paper--here it is,” and he pulled it from his pocket.
“Guess I stuck it there by mistake.”
He tossed it over, and turned into the billiard room, with a backward
glance at the lads who were now bending over the pages of the journal.
“That’s what I mean,” went on Phil, pointing to an illustration. “Hello,
the page is torn. It wasn’t a while ago.”
“What’s on the other side?” asked Kindlings half curiously.
“Some baseball nine--I can’t read all the name--it’s some professional
team,” replied Phil, “and one of the players is missing--torn off.
Well, never mind, you can see the hurdles, though. I think we might use
that kind at our meet.”
Then the two fell to talking of various forms of athletic apparatus,
eventually tossing the paper aside. Tom picked it up when his two
friends had gone in to have a game of pool.
“That page wasn’t torn before Shambler picked this paper up,” mused our
hero. “I wonder what his object was?”