A JOKE ON THE PROCTOR
For a moment neither Tom nor Phil answered. There was an embarrassed
silence, but it only affected the three chums, for all about them was
a rollicking, shouting crowd of students intent on arranging for a
celebration in honor of the nine, and Sid--the player who had done so
much to help win.
"Have you _got_ to go?" asked Tom, in a low voice. "Can't you put it
off, Sid?"
"I've got to go. I can't put it off," was the reply, as Sid turned and
limped away.
"Oh, I say! Where's he going?" demanded Snail Looper. "We want to form a
procession and carry him."
"Oh, he'll be back--later," answered Phil, for both he and Tom wished to
conceal, as long as possible, the growing mystery that seemed to be
enveloping their chum.
There was no time for longer talk with Sid, as he had hurried off as
fast as his injured foot would let him, though Mr. Leighton had advised
him to stay in his room for a couple of days.
"Where do you s'pose he's going?" asked Tom of Phil.
"Give it up, unless he's going to call on Miss Harrison, and it doesn't
seem very likely. He'd be more cheerful if it was that. As it is he acts
as if he was going to a funeral."
"That's right. He got another one of those queer letters, and, as usual,
when he does, he scoots off somewhere. Do you know what I think?"
"You think of so many things, Tom, I can't be sure."
"No joking. I mean we ought to follow him, and see where he goes so
mysteriously. Maybe we could help him."
"Oh, we couldn't do that, but I'd do anything else to help Sid."
"No, of course it wouldn't be fair to play the spy; but, just the same,
I wish I knew what was worrying him."
A moment later the two players were caught up in a rush of enthusiastic
students that involved the whole nine except Sid, and were carried
off to an impromptu celebration. Bonfires were blazing, and
hastily-organized banquets were in order.
"Why, you'd think we'd won the championship to see the way they take
on," remarked Holly Cross.
"Well, we're in line for it, after the way we beat Wescott," said Tom.
"It's the best nine Randall has had in many a year, if I do say it
myself," and Tom looked proudly on his team.
"My uncle says----" began a voice.
"Smother him!"
"Into the lake with him!"
"Make him eat soft soap!"
"Choke him with a double ice-cream cone!"
These cries, and many more, greeted the almost fatal announcement of
Ford Fenton. Much abashed, he turned aside from the crowd into which he
had made his way.
"I wouldn't stand for that, if I were you," remarked Bert Bascome to
him. "Why don't you go back at 'em."
"Oh, I don't know," replied Ford hesitatingly.
"You'd have been manager of the team if some of the mollycoddles around
here had had any spunk," went on the sporty freshman. "I'm not done yet,
either. I'll make the team wish, before the season is over, that Ed Kerr
hadn't been manager."
"You'll not do anything rash, will you?" asked Ford, who was somewhat
afraid of his wealthy chum, who proposed daring pranks sometimes.
"I don't know," answered Bascome with a superior air. "If I had some
one to help me I know what I'd do. Come over here, I want to talk to
you," and he led Ford off to where a number of freshmen of Bascome's
crowd were looking on at the celebration in honor of the nine, but
taking no part. Tom saw Ford going off with Bascome, the enthusiastic
welcome of the players having calmed down for a moment.
"I don't like that," he observed to Phil. "Bascome is a chap likely to
get Ford into trouble. There's a fast set in the freshie crowd this
year."
"Yes, we didn't take enough temper out of 'em with the hazing last fall.
Have to do the job over again, I guess. But come on, enjoy life while
you can," and the two were once more caught up in the happy rush.
The celebration went on the better part of the evening, and when Phil
and Tom got to their room Sid was not there. He came in later, narrowly
missing detection by the proctor, and said little. He was limping quite
badly.
"How's the foot?" asked Tom.
"Not much better," answered Sid. "I shouldn't have gone out to-night,
only--I had to."
He was dead lame the next day, and for two days after that had to stay
in bed, his place on the nine, in practice games, being taken by Pete
Backus, who did not do half badly.
The game with Fairview was approaching and it was likely to be a
severely-contested one. Tom was a little anxious but seemed more at ease
when Dr. Marshall, the college physician, gave it as his opinion that
Sid could play, his foot having almost healed.
"And you've got to bat as you did before too, old sport," insisted Tom,
with a laugh. "Why didn't you spring that left-hand racket before?"
"Well, you see I wasn't at all sure of it. When I was a kid I always
batted left handed. Then I broke my shoulder and I had to bat right
handed after it mended, for it was stiff. Then later I found I could bat
either way, but I favored right, until lately, when I began practicing
left again."
"We'll keep you for a pinch hitter," declared Tom. "I must revise the
batting order, and get you up first, after this."
Sid got into practice a few days before the Fairview game, but was so
stiff that it was decided to have some one run for him, after he had
gotten to first.
The day before the game, when Sid, Phil and Tom were in their room, Sid
putting some strips of adhesive plaster on his lame foot, there came a
cautious knock at the door. Dutch Housenlager was at once admitted.
"Are you fellows game?" was his first question.
"For what?" asked Phil.
"For a joke on Proc. Zane?"
"Oh, we're always ready for that!" exclaimed Sid. "He has caught me once
this term, and nearly twice. What's the joke?"
"I'll explain," went on Dutch, fairly bubbling over with mirth. "Only
you fellows may have to stand for part of it."
"How?" asked Tom. "We'll do our share, of course."
"We want to use one of your windows for part of the trick. May we?"
"Sure," answered Phil. "We'll stand for anything short of setting fire
to the college, and we'll throw in a hazing of Pitchfork if it's
possible."
"Oh, he'll get his some day," replied Dutch, "but just now we're after
Zane. Here's a cord. When you hear three tree-toad whistles down below,
lower it from your window, and then at two tugs haul up."
"You're not going to pull the proctor up here, are you?" inquired Phil
in some alarm.
"No, but I wish we could. He's been on the job pretty brisk, lately.
Just haul the cord, and then I'll be back to explain more," and leaving
a stout string in Tom's hands Dutch hurried away. The three chums tried
to guess what was to follow, and made all sorts of wild hazards, in the
midst of which they were interrupted by hearing from below the cautious
imitation of the trill of a tree-toad, thrice repeated.
"Lower the cord," whispered Phil, and Tom dangled it from the window. In
a few minutes he felt two tugs, which was the signal for hauling up, and
he pulled until he had hoisted to his window sill a coil of strong wire.
The inseparables were wondering what it was for, when Dutch reappeared.
"Anything heavy we can fasten this to?" he asked, as his eyes roved
about the room.
"There's the alarm clock," replied Sid. "It wakes us out of a heavy
sleep, sometimes."
"Rotten joke," commented Dutch. "Here, this will do," and he approached
the old sofa, holding the coil of wire.
"It won't damage it; will it?" cried Phil in some alarm.
"Impossible, son! Impossible!" replied Dutch. "I only want to anchor the
wire to the sofa. There we are," and he rapidly made a loop in the wire,
and strung it around the ancient piece of furniture. Then the other end
of the wire was dangled out of the window. It was promptly pulled taut,
and seemed to be stretched out for some distance.
"That's the stuff!" commented Dutch. "Holly and the rest of the boys are
on the job."
"But what are you going to do?" asked Tom, much mystified.
"You'll soon see," answered Dutch, as he hurried from the room again.