Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net [Illustration: HE SLAMMED IT OUT FOR A THREE-BASE HIT.] BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball BY LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF "THE RIVAL PITCHERS," "A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK," ETC. ILLUSTRATED NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK =THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES= 12mo. Illustrated THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK'S PLUCK A Story of College Football BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball (Other Volumes in preparation) CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY NEW YORK Copyright, 1911, by CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BATTING TO WIN Printed in U. S. A. CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I A STRANGE MESSAGE 1 II SID IS CAUGHT 16 III MISS MABEL HARRISON 27 IV ELECTING A MANAGER 41 V RANDALL AGAINST BOXER 59 VI THE ACCUSATION 75 VII GETTING BACK AT "PITCHFORK" 84 VIII THE ENVELOPE 92 IX A CLASH 100 X SID IS SPIKED 105 XI A JOKE ON THE PROCTOR 114 XII PLANNING A PICNIC 122 XIII A SPORTY COMPANION 131 XIV "MIND YOUR OWN BUSINESS!" 140 XV AN UNEXPECTED DEFENSE 146 XVI A SERIOUS CHARGE 152 XVII SID KEEPS SILENT 157 XVIII BASCOME GIVES A DINNER 163 XIX FAIRVIEW AND RANDALL 170 XX RANDALL SCORES FIRST 176 XXI RANDALL IN THE TENTH 183 XXII SID DESPAIRS 195 XXIII FINANCIAL DIFFICULTIES 202 XXIV PITCHFORK'S TALL HAT 209 XXV A PETITION 219 XXVI TOM STOPS A HOT ONE 226 XXVII GLOOMY DAYS 233 XXVIII A FRESHMAN PLOT 239 XXIX THE SOPHOMORE DINNER 246 XXX TOM'S LAST APPEAL 255 XXXI THE BAN LIFTED 265 XXXII A PERILOUS CROSSING 275 XXXIII THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME 284 XXXIV BATTING TO WIN 295 BATTING TO WIN CHAPTER I A STRANGE MESSAGE Sid Henderson arose from the depths of an antiquated easy chair, not without some effort, for the operation caused the piece of furniture to creak and groan, while from the thick cushions a cloud of dust arose, making a sort of haze about the student lamp, and forcing two other occupants of the college room to sneeze. "Oh, I say, Sid!" expostulated Tom Parsons, "give a fellow notice, will you, when you're going to liberate a colony of sneeze germs. I--er--ah! kerchoo! Hoo! Boo!" and he made a dive for his pocket handkerchief. "Yes," added Phil Clinton, as he coughed protestingly. "What do you want to get up for and disturb everything, when Tom and I were so nice and quiet? Why can't you sit still and enjoy a good think once in a while? Besides, do you want to give that chair spinal meningitis or lumbago? Our old armchair, that has stuck to us, through thick and thin, for better and for worse--mostly worse, I guess. I say----" "I came near sticking to it, myself," remarked Sidney Henderson, otherwise known as, and called, Sid. "It's like getting out of the middle of a featherbed to leave it. And say, it does act as if it was going to pieces every time one gets in or out of it," he added, making a critical inspection of the chair. "Then why do you want to get in or out?" asked Phil, closing a book, over which he had made a pretense of studying. "Why do you do it, I ask? You may consider that I have moved the previous question, and answer," he went on. "How about it, Tom?" "The gentleman is out of order," decided Tom, a tall, good-looking lad, with the bronzed skin of an athlete, summer and fall, barely dimmed by the enforced idleness of winter. "Sid, you are most decidedly out of order--I think I'm going to sneeze again," and he held up a protesting hand. "No, I'm not, either," he continued. "False alarm. My, what a lot of dust! But, go ahead, Sid, answer the gentleman's query." "Gentleman?" repeated the lad, who had arisen from the easy chair, and there was a questioning note in his voice. "Here! Here! Save that for the amateur theatricals!" cautioned Tom, looking about for something to throw at his chum. "Why did you get up? Answer!" "I wanted to see if it had stopped raining," announced Sid, as he moved over toward one of the two windows in the rather small living room and study, occupied by the three chums, who were completing their sophomore year at Randall College. "Seems to me it's slacking up some." "Slacking up some!" exclaimed Tom. "Stopped raining!" echoed Phil. "Listen to it! Cats and dogs, to say nothing of little puppies, aren't in it. It's a regular deluge. Listen to it!" He held up his hand. Above the fussy ticking of a small alarm clock, which seemed to contain a six-cylindered voice in a one-cylindered body, and which timepiece was resting at a dangerous angle on a pile of books, there sounded the patter of rain on the windows and the tin gutter outside. "Rain, rain, nothing but rain!" grumbled Phil. "We haven't had a decent day for baseball practice in two weeks. I'm sick of the inside cage, and the smell of tan bark. I want to get into the open, with the green grass of the outfield to fall on." "Well, this weather is good for making the grass grow," observed Tom, as he got up from his chair, and joined Sid at the window, down which rain drops were chasing each other as if in glee at the anguish of mind they were causing the three youths. "Aren't you anxious to begin twirling the horsehide?" asked Sid. "I should think you'd lose some speed, having only the cage to practice in, Tom." "I am, but I guess we'll get some decent weather soon. This can't last forever." "It's in a fair way to," grumbled Phil. "It would be a nice night if it didn't rain," came from Sid musingly, as he turned back to the old easy chair, "which remark," he added, "is one a little boy made in the midst of a driving storm, when he met his Sunday-school teacher, and wanted to say something, but didn't know what." "Your apology is accepted," murmured Tom. "I don't know what you fellows are going to do, but I'm going to sew up a rip in my pitcher's glove. I think maybe if I do the weather man will get a hunch on himself, and hand us out a sample of a nice day for us to select from." "Nice nothing!" was what Phil growled, but with the activity of Tom in getting out his glove, and searching for needle and thread, there came a change of atmosphere in the room. The rain came down as insistently, and the wind lashed the drops against the panes, but there was an air of relief among the chums. "I've got to fix a rip in my own glove," murmured Sid. "Guess I might as well get at it," and he noted Tom threading a needle. "And I've got to do a little more boning on this trigonometry," added Phil, as, with a sigh, he opened the despised book. For a time there was silence in the apartment, while the rain on the windows played a tattoo, more or less gentle, as the wind whipped the drops; the timepiece fussed away, as if reminding its hearers that time and tide waited for no man, and that 99-cent alarm clocks were especially exacting in the matter. Occasionally Sid shifted his position in the big chair, to which he had returned, each movement bringing out a cloud of dust, and protests from his chums. The room was typical of the three lads who occupied it. At the beginning of their friendship, and their joint occupation of a study, they had agreed that each was to be allowed one side of the apartment to decorate as he saw fit. The fourth side of this particular room was broken by two windows, and not of much use, while one of the other walls contained the door, and this one Sid had chosen, for the simple reason that his fancy did not run to such things as did Tom's and Phil's, and he required less space for his ornaments. Sid was rather an odd character, somewhat quiet, much given to study, and to delving after the odd and unusual. One of his fads was biology, and another, allied to it, nature study. He would tramp all day for a sight of some comparatively rare bird, nesting; or walk many miles to get a picture of a fox, or a ground-hog, just as it darted into its burrow. In consequence Sid's taste did not run to gay flags and banners of the college colors, worked by the fair hands of pretty girls, nor did he care to collect the pictures of the aforesaid girls, and stick them up on his wall. He had one print which he prized, a representation of a football scrimmage, and this occupied the place of honor. As for Tom and Phil, the more adornments they had the better they liked it, though I must do them the credit to say that they only had one place of honor for one girl's photograph at a time. But they sometimes changed girls. Then, on their side, were more or less fancy pictures--scenes, mottoes, and what not. Much of the ornamentation had been given them by young lady friends. Of course the old chair and an older sofa, together with the alarm clock, which had been handed down from student to student until the mind of Randallites ran not to the contrary, were the chief other things in the apartment, aside from the occupants thereof. Each lad had a desk, and a bureau or chiffonier, or "Chauffeur" as Holly Cross used to dub them. These articles of furniture were more or less in confusion. Neckties, handkerchiefs, collars and cuffs were piled in a seemingly inextricable, if not artistic, confusion. Nor could much else be expected in a room where three chums made a habit of indiscriminately borrowing each other's articles of wearing apparel, provided they came any where near fitting. On the floor was a much worn rug, which Phil had bought at auction at an almost prohibitive price, under the delusion that it was a rare Oriental. Learning to the contrary he and his chums had decided to keep it, since, old and dirty as it was, they argued that it saved them the worriment of cleaning their feet when they came in. Then there were three neat, white, iron beds--neat because they were made up fresh every day, and there was a dormitory rule against having them in disorder. Otherwise they would have suffered the fate of the walls, the rug or the couch and easy chair. Altogether it was a fairly typical student apartment, and it was occupied, as I hope my readers will believe, by three of the finest chaps it has been my lot to write about; and it is in this room that my story opens, with the three lads busily engaged in one way or another. "Oh, I say! Hang it all!" burst out Sid finally. "How in the mischief do you shove a needle through this leather, Tom? It won't seem to go, for me." "You should use a thimble," observed Tom. "Nothing like 'em, son." "Thimble!" cried Sid scornfully. "Do you take me for an old maid? Where did you ever learn to use a thimble?" and he walked over to where Tom was making an exceedingly neat job of mending his glove. "Oh, I picked it up," responded the pitcher of the Randall 'varsity nine. "Comes in handy when your foot goes through your socks." "Yes, and that's what they do pretty frequently these days," added Phil. "If you haven't anything to do, Tom, I wish you'd get busy on some of my footwear. I just got a batch back from the laundry, and I'm blessed if out of the ten pairs of socks I can get one whole pair." "I'll look 'em over," promised the pitcher. "There, that's as good as new; in fact better, for it fits my hand," and he held up and gazed critically at the mended glove. "Where's yours, Sid?" he went on. "I'll mend it for you." Silence was the atmosphere of the apartment for a few minutes--that is comparative silence, though the pushing of Tom's needle through the leather, squeaking as he forced it, mingled with the ticking of the clock. "I guess we can count on a good nine this year," observed Tom judicially, apropos of the glove repairing. "It's up to you, cap," remarked Sid, for Tom had been elected to that coveted honor. "You mean it's up to you fellows," retorted the pitcher-captain. "I want some good batters, that's what I want. It's all right enough to have a team that can hold down Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute, but you can't win games by shutting out the other fellows. Runs are what count, and to get runs you've got to bat to win." "Listen to the oracle!" mocked Phil, but with no malice in his voice. "You want to do better than three hundred with the stick, Sid." "Physician, heal thyself!" quoted Tom, smiling. "I think we will have a good----" He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor. Instinctively the three lads started, then, as a glance at the clock showed that they were not burning lights beyond the prescribed hour, there was a breath of relief. "Who's coming?" asked Tom. "Woodhouse, Bricktop or some of the royal family," was Phil's opinion. "No," remarked Sid quietly, and there was that in his voice which made his chums look curiously at him, for it seemed as if he expected some one. A moment later there came a rap on the door, and then, with a seeming knowledge of the nerve-racking effect this always has on college students, a voice added: "I'm Wallops, the messenger. I have a note for Mr. Henderson." "For me?" and there was a startled query in Sid's voice, as he went to the door. Outside the portal stood a diminutive figure--Wallops--the college messenger, so christened in ages gone by--perhaps because of the chastisements inflicted on him. At any rate Wallops he was, and Wallops he remained. "A message for me?" repeated Sid. "Where from?" "Dunno. Feller brought it, and said it was for you," and, handing the youth an envelope, the messenger departed. Sid took out the note, and rapidly scanned it. "See him blush!" exclaimed Phil. "Think of it, Tom, Sid Henderson, the old anchorite, the petrified misogynist, getting notes from a girl." "Yes," added Tom. "Why don't you sport her photograph, old man?" and he glanced at several pictures of pretty girls that adorned the sides of the room claimed by Phil and himself. Sid did not answer. He read the note through again, and then began to tear it into bits. The pieces he thrust into his pocket, but one fluttered, unnoticed, to the floor. "I've got to go out, fellows," he announced in a curiously quiet voice. "Out--on a night like this?" cried Tom. "You're crazy. Listen to the rain! It's pouring." "I can't help it," was the answer, as the lad began delving among his things for a raincoat. "You're crazy!" burst out Phil. "Can't you wait until to-morrow to see her, old sport? My, but you've got 'em bad for a fellow who wouldn't look at a girl all winter!" "It isn't a girl," and Sid's voice was still oddly calm. "I've got to go, that's all--don't bother me--you chaps." There was such a sudden snap to the last words--something so different from Sid's usual gentle manner--that Phil and Tom looked at each other in surprise. Then, as if realizing what he had said, Sid added: "It's something I can't talk about--just yet. I've got to go--I promised--that's all. I'll be back soon--I guess." "How about Proc. Zane?" asked Tom, for the proctor of Randall College was very strict. "I'll have to chance it," replied Sid. "I've got about two hours yet, before locking-up time, and if I get caught--well my reputation's pretty good," and he laughed uneasily. This was not the Sid that Tom and Phil--his closest chums--had known for the last three terms. It was a different Sid, and the note he received, and had so quickly destroyed, seemed to have worked the change in him. Slowly he drew on his raincoat and took up an umbrella. He paused a moment in the doorway. The rain was coming down harder than ever. "So long," said Sid, as he stepped into the corridor. He almost collided with another youth on the point of entering, and the newcomer exclaimed: "Say, fellows! I've got great news! Baseball news! I know this is a rotten night to talk diamond conversation, but listen. There's been a new trophy offered for the championship of the Tonoka Lake League! Just heard of it. Dr. Churchill told me. Some old geezer that did some endowing for the college years ago, had a spasm of virtue recently and is now taking an interest in sports. It's a peach of a gold loving cup, and say----" "Come on in, Holly," invited Tom, "Holly" being about all that Holman Cross was ever called. "Come on in," went on Tom, "and chew it all over for us. Say, it's great! A gold loving cup! We must lick the pants off Boxer and Fairview now!" Holly started to enter the room, Phil and Tom reaching out and clasping his hands. "Where are you bound for?" asked Holly, looking at Sid, attired in the raincoat. "I've got to go out," was the hesitating answer. "Wait until you hear the news," invited Holly. "It's great! It will be the baseball sensation of the year, Sid." "No--no--sorry, but I've got to go. I'll be back--soon--I guess. I've--I've got to go," and breaking away from the detaining hand of Holly, the strangely-acting boy turned down the corridor, leaving his roommates, and the newcomer, to stare curiously after him. "Whatever has gotten into old Sid?" inquired Holly. "Search us," answered Phil. "He got a note a little while ago; seemed quite put out about it, tore it up and then tore out, just as you saw." "A note, eh?" mused Holly, as he threw himself full length on a rickety old sofa, much patched fore and aft with retaining boards--a sofa that was a fit companion for the ancient chair. It creaked and groaned under the substantial bulk of Holly. "Easy!" cautioned Phil. "Do you want to wreck our most cherished possession?" "Anyone who can wreck this would be a wonder," retorted Holly, as he looked over the edge, and saw the boards that had been nailed on to repair a bad fracture. "Hello!" he exclaimed a moment later, as he picked up from the floor a scrap of paper. "You fellows are getting most uncommon untidy. First you know Proc. Zane will have you up on the carpet. You should keep your scraps of paper picked up." "We didn't put that there," declared Tom. "That must be part of the note Sid tore up." Idly Holly turned the bit of paper over. It was blank on one side, but, at the sight of the reverse the athlete uttered a cry. "I say, fellows, look here!" he said. He held the paper scrap out for their inspection. It needed but a glance to see that it bore but one word, though there were pen tracings of parts of other words on the edges. But the word that stood plainly out was "_trouble_," and it appeared to be the end of a sentence, for a period followed it. "Trouble," mused Holly. "Trouble," repeated Phil. "I wonder if that means Sid is going to get into trouble?" and his voice took a curious turn. "Trouble," added Tom, the last of the trio to use the word. "Certainly something is up or Sid wouldn't act the way he did. I wonder----" "It isn't any of our affair," spoke Holly softly, "that is unless Sid wants our help, of course. I guess we shouldn't have looked at this. It's like reading another chap's letters." "We couldn't help it," decided Phil. "Go ahead, Holly. Tell us about the trophy. Sid may be back soon." "All right, here goes," and wiggling into a more comfortable position on the sofa, an operation fraught with much anxiety on the part of Phil and Tom, Holly launched into a description of the loving cup. But, unconsciously perhaps, he still held in his hand that scrap of paper--the paper with that one word on--"_trouble_." CHAPTER II SID IS CAUGHT "It's this way," began Holly, as he crossed one leg over, and clasped his hands under his recumbent head. "Randall has been looking up in athletics lately. Since we did so well last season on the diamond, and won the championship at football, some of the old grads and men who have such 'oodles' of money that they don't know what to do with it, have a kindlier feeling for the old college. It's that which brought about the presentation of the loving cup trophy, or, rather the offer of it to the winner of the baseball championship of the Tonoka Lake League. The cup will be worth winning, so the doctor says." "How'd he come to tell you?" asked Phil. "I happened to go to his study to consult him about some of my studies----" began Holly. "Yes you did!" exclaimed Tom disbelievingly. "You went there because Proc. Zane made you!" declared Phil. "Well, no matter, if you can't take a gentleman's word for it," said Holly, with an assumed injured air. "Anyhow, I was in the doctor's office, and he had just received a letter from some old grad, honorary degree man, offering the gold cup. Doc asked me if I thought the boys would like to play for it. Has to be won two out of three times before any college can keep it. I told him we'd play for it with bells on!" "Of course!" agreed Tom and Phil. "Now, about the team for this spring?" resumed Holly. "You're captain, Tom, but we've got to elect a manager soon, and we'd better begin talking about it," and then the trio launched into a rapid-fire talk on baseball and matters of the diamond. The three youths were sophomores in Randall College, a well-known institution located near the town of Haddonfield, in one of our Middle Western States. The college proper was on the shore of Sunny River, not far from Lake Tonoka; and within comparative short distance of Randall were two other colleges. One was Boxer Hall, and the other Fairview Institute--the latter a co-educational institution. The three, together with some other near-by colleges and schools, formed what was called the Tonoka Lake Athletic League, and there were championship games of baseball, football, tennis, hockey, golf, and other forms of sport. Those of you who have read the previous volumes of this "College Sports Series" need little if any introduction to the characters who have held the stage in my opening chapter. Others may care for a formal introduction, which I am happy to give them. In the first book, called "The Rival Pitchers," there was told of the efforts Tom Parsons made to gain the place as "twirler" on the 'varsity nine. Tom was a farmer's son, in moderate circumstances, and had come to Randall from Northville. Almost at once he got into conflict with Fred Langridge, a rich student, who was manager of the 'varsity ball nine, and also its pitcher, and who resented Tom's efforts to "make" the nine. After much snubbing on the part of Langridge, and not a few unpleasant experiences Tom got his chance. Eventually he supplanted Langridge, who would not train properly, and who smoked, drank and gambled, thinking himself a "sport." Tom soon became one of the most liked of the sporting crowd, and the especial friend of Phil Clinton and Sidney Henderson, with whom he had roomed for the last term. The three were now called the "inseparables." In the first book several thrilling games were told of, also how Randall won the championship after a hard struggle with Boxer and Fairview, in which games Tom Parsons fairly "pitched his head off," to quote Holly Cross, who was an expert on diamond slang. Langridge did his best to injure Tom, and nearly succeeded, but the pitcher had many friends, besides his two special chums, among them being Holly Cross, Bricktop Molloy, Billy or "Dutch" Housenlager, who was full of horseplay, "Snail" Looper, so called from his ability to move with exceeding slowness, and his liking for night prowlings. Then there was Pete Backus, known as "Grasshopper," from his desire, but inability, to shine as a high and broad distance jumper; "Bean" Perkins, a "shouter" much depended on in games, when he led the cheering; Dan Woodhouse, called Kindlings, and Jerry and Joe Jackson, known as the "Jersey Twins." Of course, Tom and his two chums had many other friends whom you will meet from time to time. Sufficient to say that he "made good" in the eyes of the coach, Mr. Leighton, and was booked not only to pitch on the 'varsity again, but he had been elected captain, just before the present story opens. Phil Clinton was the hero of my second volume, a story of college football, entitled "A Quarter Back's Pluck." Phil was named for quarter back on the 'varsity eleven, but, for a time it looked as if he would be out of the most important games. His mother was very ill in Florida, in danger of death from a delicate operation, and Phil, and his sister Ruth Clinton (who attended Fairview Institute) were under a great nervous strain. Langridge, seeing that Tom was beyond his vengeance, tried his tricks on Phil. Together with Garvey Gerhart, a freshman, Langridge planned to keep Phil out of an important game. They "doctored" a bottle of liniment he used, but this trick failed. Then they planned to send him, just before an important contest, a telegram, stating that his mother was dying. They figured that he would not play and that Randall would lose the contest--both Gerhart and Langridge being willing to thus play the traitor to be revenged on the coach and captain of the eleven. But, with characteristic pluck, Phil went into the game, stuffing the fake telegram in his pocket, and playing like a Trojan, even though he believed his mother was dying. It was pluck personified. After aiding his fellows to win the championship, Phil hurried off the field, to go to Florida to his mother. Then, for the first time, he learned that the message he had received was a "fake"--for his mother was on the road to recovery as stated in a telegram his sister Ruth had received. Of course the trick Langridge and Gerhart played was found out, and they both left Randall quietly, so that the name of the college might not be disgraced. But though Tom, Phil, Sid and their chums lived a strenuous life when sports were in the ascendency, that does not mean that they had no time for the lighter side of life. There were girls at Fairview--pretty girls and many of them. One, in particular--Madge Tyler--seemed to fit Tom's fancy, and he and she grew to be very friendly. Perhaps that was because Tom had rather supplanted Langridge in the eyes of Miss Tyler, who had been to many affairs with him, before she knew his true character. Then there was Ruth Clinton, Phil's sister. After meeting her Tom was rather wavering in his attachment toward Miss Tyler, but matters straightened themselves out, for Phil and Miss Tyler seemed to "hit it off," to once more quote Holly Cross, though for a time there was a little coldness between Tom and Phil on this same girl question. When this story opens, however, Tom considered himself cheated if he did not see Ruth at least twice a week, and as for Phil, he and Miss Tyler--but there, I'm not going to be needlessly cruel. To complete the description of life at Randall I might mention that Dr. Albertus Churchill, sometimes called "Moses," was the venerable and well-beloved head of the institution, and that as much as he was revered so much was Mr. Andrew Zane, the proctor, disliked; for, be it known, the proctor did not always take fair advantage of the youths, and he was fond of having them "upon the carpet," or, in other words, before Dr. Churchill for admonition about certain infractions of the rules. Another character, little liked, was Professor Emerson Tines, dubbed "pitchfork," by his enemies, and they were legion. I believe that is all--no, to give you a complete picture of life at Randall I must mention that Sidney Henderson, the third member of the "inseparables" was a woman hater--a misogynist--an anchorite--a dub--almost anything along that line that his chums could think to call him. He abhorred young ladies--or he thought he did--and he and Tom and Phil were continually at variance on this question, and that of having girls' photographs in the common study. But of that more later. With Holly stretched out on the old sofa, and Phil and Tom in various tangled attitudes in chairs--Phil in the depths of the ancient one--the talk of baseball progressed. "Yes, we must have an election for manager soon," conceded Tom. "But first I want to see what sort of a team I'm going to have. We need outdoor practice, but if this rotten weather keeps up----" "Hark! I think I hear the rain stopping," exclaimed Phil. "Stop nothing," declared Holly. "It's only catching its breath for another deluge." And it did seem so, for, presently, there came a louder patter than ever, of drops on the tin gutter. "Well, guess I'd better be moving," announced Holly, after another spasm of talk. "What time is it by your town clock, anyhow?" and he shied a book at the alarm timepiece so that the face of it would be slewed around in his direction, giving him a peep at it without obliging him to get up. "Here! What are you trying to do?" demanded Tom. "Do you want to break the works, and stop it?" "Impossible, my dear boy," said Holly lazily. "Just turn it around for me, will you, like a good fellow. I don't see how I missed it. I must practice throwing, or I won't be any good when the ball season opens. Give me another shot?" and he raised a second volume. "Quit!" cried Tom, interposing his arm in front of the fussy little clock. "That calls us to our morning duties," added Phil, adding in a sing-song voice: "Oh, vandal, spare that clock, touch not a single hand, for surely it doth keep the time the worst in all the land." "Fierce," announced Holly, closing his eyes and pretending to breathe hard. "It tells you how much longer you can sleep in the morning, I guess you mean," he went on. "The three of you were late for chapel this a. m." "That's because Sid monkeyed with the regulator," insisted Tom. "He thought he could improve it. But, say, it is getting late. Nearly ten." "And Sid isn't back yet," went on Phil. "My bedtime, anyhow," came from Holly, as he slid from the sofa, and glided from the room. "So long. Sid wants to look out or he'll be caught. Proc. Zane has a new book, and he wants to get some of the sporting crowd down in it. See you in the dewy morn, gents," and he was gone. "Sid _is_ late," murmured Tom, as he began to prepare for bed. "Shall we leave a light for him?" "Nope. Too risky," decided Phil. "No use of us all being hauled up. But maybe he's back, and is in some of the rooms. He's got ten minutes yet." But the ten minutes passed, and ten more, and Sid did not come back. Meanwhile Tom and Phil had "doused their glim," and were in bed, but not asleep. Somehow there was an uneasy feeling worrying them both. They could not understand Sid's action in going off so suddenly, and so mysteriously--especially as there was a danger of being caught out after hours. And, as Sid was working for honors, to be caught too often meant the danger of losing that for which he had worked so hard. "I can't understand----" began Tom, in a low voice, when from the chapel clock, the hour of eleven boomed out. "Hush!" exclaimed Phil. Some one was coming along the corridor--two persons to judge by the footsteps. "Is that Sid?" whispered Tom. Phil did not answer. A moment later the door opened, and in the light that streamed from a lamp in the corridor, Sid could be seen entering. Behind him stood Proctor Zane. "You will report to Dr. Churchill directly after chapel in the morning," the proctor said, in his hard, cold voice. "You were out an hour after closing time, Mr. Henderson." "Very well, sir," answered Sid quietly, as he closed the door, and listened to Mr. Zane walking down the corridor. "Caught?" asked Tom, though there was no need of the query. "Sure," replied Sid shortly. "Where were you?" asked Phil, sitting up in bed, and trying to peer through the darkness toward his unfortunate chum. "Out," was the answer, which was none at all. "Humph!" grunted Tom. Then, suddenly: "You must have been hitting it up, Sid. I thought you didn't smoke. Been trying it for the first time?" "I haven't been smoking!" came the answer, in evident surprise. "Your clothes smell as if you'd been at the smoker of the Gamma Sig fraternity," declared Tom. "Oh, shut up, and let a fellow alone; can't you?" burst out Sid, and he threw his shoes savagely into the corner of the room. Neither Tom nor Phil replied, but they were doing a great deal of thinking. They could not fathom Sid's manner--he had never acted that way before. What could be the matter? It was some time before they learned Sid's secret, and the keeping of it involved Sid in no small difficulties, and nearly cost the college the baseball championship. CHAPTER III MISS MABEL HARRISON Neither Tom nor Phil made any reference, the following morning, to the incident of the night before. As usual, none of the boys got up when the warning of the alarm clock summoned them, for they always allowed half an hour for its persistent habit of running fast. As it was, it happened to be correct on this occasion, and they were barely in time for chapel, Tom having to adjust his necktie on the race across the campus. "Well, what's on for to-day?" asked Phil, as, with Tom and Sid, he strolled from the chapel after service. "Baseball practice this afternoon," decided Tom, for the rain had stopped. "It'll be pretty sloppy," observed Phil dubiously. "Wear rubbers," advised the captain. "The fellows need some fresh air, and they're going to get it. Be on hand, Sid?" "Sure. Now I've got to get a disagreeable job over with. Me for the doctor's office," and that was his only reference to the punishment meted out to him. He was required to do the usual number of lines of Latin prose, which was not hard for him, as he was a good scholar. Tom and Sid went to their lectures, the captain, on the way, calling to the various members of the team to be on hand at the diamond in the afternoon. Sid accomplished his sentence of punishment in the room, and after dinner the three chums, with a motley crowd of players, and lovers of the great game, moved over the campus toward the diamond. "Done anything about a manager?" asked Holly Cross, as he tightened his belt and began tossing up a grass-stained ball. "Not yet," replied Tom. "There's time enough. I want to get the fellows in some kind of shape. We won't play a game for a month yet--that is any except practice ones, and we don't need a manager to arrange for them. Whom have you fellows in mind?" "Ed Kerr," spoke Holly promptly. "He knows the game from A to Z." "I thought he was going to play," came quickly from Tom. "We need him on the nine." "He isn't going to play this season," went on Holly. "I heard him say so. He wants to save himself for football, and he says he can't risk going in for both. He'd make a good manager." "Fine!" agreed Tom, Sid and Phil. "Yes, but did you hear the latest?" asked Snail Looper, gliding along, almost like the reptile he was christened after. "What?" demanded several. "There's talk of Ford Fenton for manager," went on Snail. "What, Ford!" cried Tom. "He'd be giving us nothing all the while but 'my uncle says this' and 'my uncle used to do it that way'! No Ford for mine, though I like the chap fairly well." "Same here," agreed Phil. "We can stand him, but not his uncle," for, be it known, Ford Fenton, one of the sophomore students, was the nephew of a man who had been a celebrated coach at Randall in the years gone by. Ford believed in keeping his memory green, and on every possible, and some impossible, occasions he would preface his remarks with "My Uncle says" and then go on and tell something. It got on the nerves of his fellows, and they "rigged" him unmercifully about it, but Fenton could not seem to take the hint. His uncle was a source of pride to him, but it is doubtful if the former coach knew how his reputation suffered at the hands of his indiscrete youthful relative. "Who told you Fenton had a chance for manager?" asked Sid Henderson. "Why, Bert Bascome is his press agent." "Bascome, the freshman?" Phil wanted to know, and Snail Looper nodded. "Guess he didn't get all the hazing that was coming to him last fall," remarked Tom. "We'll have to tackle him again. Kerr is the only logical candidate for manager, if he isn't going to play." "That's right," came in a chorus, as the lads kept on toward the diamond. Tom was doing some hard thinking. It was a new responsibility for him--to run the team--and he wanted a manager on whom he could depend. If there was a contest over the place, as seemed likely from what Snail Looper had said, it would mean perhaps a dividing of interests, and lack of support for the team. He did not like the prospect, but he knew better than to tell his worries to the players now. At present he wanted to get them into some kind of shape, after a winter of comparative idleness. "Here comes Mr. Leighton," observed Phil, as a young, and pleasant-faced gentleman was seen strolling toward the diamond. "Everybody work hard now--no sloppy work." "That's right," assented Tom. "Fellows, what I want most to bring out this season," he went on, "is some good hitting. Good batting wins games, other things being equal. We've got to bat to win." "You needn't talk," put in Dutch Housenlager, coming up then, and, with his usual horse play trying to trip Tom. "You are the worst hitter on the team." "I know it," admitted Tom good naturedly, as he gave Dutch a welt on the chest, which made that worthy gasp. "My strong point isn't batting, and I know it. I can pitch a little, perhaps----" "You're there with the goods when it comes to twirling," called out Holly Cross. "Well, then, I'm going to depend on you fellows for the stick work," went on Tom. "But let's get down to business. The ground isn't so wet." "Well, boys, let's see what we can do," proposed the coach, and presently balls were being pitched and batted to and fro, grounders were being picked up by Bricktop Molloy, who excelled in his position of shortstop, while Jerry and Joe Jackson, the Jersey twins, with Phil Clinton, who on this occasion filled, respectively, the positions of right, left and center field were catching high flies. "Now for a practice game," proposed Tom. "I want to see if I have any of my curves left." Two scrub nines were soon picked out, and a game was gotten under way. It was "ragged and sloppy" as Holly Cross said, but it served to warm up the lads, and to bring out strong and weak points, which was the object sought. The team, of which Tom was just then the temporary captain, won by a small margin, and then followed some coaching instructions from Mr. Leighton. "That will do for to-day," he said. "Be at it again to-morrow, and we'll soon be in shape." The players and their admirers--lads who had not made the team--strolled off the diamond. Tom, walking along with Phil and Sid, suddenly put his hand in his pocket. "Just my luck!" he exclaimed. "What's the matter?" asked Phil. "I'm broke," was the answer, "and I want to get a new shirt. Phil, lend me a couple of dollars. I'll get my check from dad to-morrow." "I'm in the same boat, old man," was the rueful reply. "Tackle Sid here, I saw him with a bunch of money yesterday. He can't have spent it all since, for he isn't in love." "Just the thing," assented Tom. "Fork over a couple of bones, Sid. I'll let you have it directly." "I--er--I'm sorry," fairly stammered the second baseman, for that was the position Tom had picked out for his chum, "I haven't but fifty cents until I get my allowance, or until----" and he stopped suddenly. "Wow!" cried Phil. "You must have slathered it away last night then, when you were out, for I saw you with a bundle----" Then he stopped, for he saw a queer look come over Sid's face. The second baseman blushed, and was about to make reply, when Phil remarked: "I beg your pardon, Sid. I hadn't any right to make that crack. Of course I--er--you understand--er--I----" "That's all right," said Sid quickly. "I was a little flush yesterday, but I had a sudden demand on me, Tom, and----" "Don't mention it!" interrupted Tom. "I dare say I can get trusted at Ballman's for a shirt. I'm going out to-night, or I wouldn't need a clean one, and my duds haven't come back from the laundry." "I didn't know my sister was going out to-night," fired Phil, for Tom had been rather "rushing" Ruth Clinton of late, "rushing" being the college term for accompanying a young lady to functions. "I guess she doesn't have to ask you," retorted the captain. "But I understood you and Miss Tyler----" "Speak of trolley cars, and you'll hear the gong," put in Sid suddenly. "I believe your two affinities are now approaching." "By Jove, he's right!" exclaimed Phil, looking across the green campus. "There's Ruth, and Madge Tyler is with her. I didn't know Ruth was coming over from Fairview." "And they've got a friend with them--there are three girls," said Tom quickly. "Sid, you're right in it. There's one for you." "Not on your life!" cried the tall and good-looking second baseman. "I've got an important engagement," and he would have fled had not Tom and Phil seized and held him, despite his struggles, until Miss Ruth Clinton, Miss Madge Tyler and the third young lady approached. Whereat, seeing that his struggle to escape was futile, as well as undignified, Sid gave it up. "Hello, Ruth!" cried Phil good-naturedly to his sister, but his eyes sought those of Madge Tyler. "How'd you get here?" "Trolley," was the demure answer. "I'm going to the Phi Beta theatrical with Mr. Parsons to-night, and I thought I'd save him the trouble of coming for me. Madge and I are staying in Haddonfield with friends of Miss Harrison." "Good!" cried Tom, as he moved closer to Phil's pretty sister, while, somehow, Phil and Madge seemed to drift together. "Oh, I almost forgot, you don't know Mabel, do you, boys?" asked Madge, with a merry laugh. "Miss Mabel Harrison. Mabel, allow me to present to you Tom Parsons, champion pitcher of the Randall 'varsity nine; Phil Clinton, who made such a good showing on the gridiron last year, he's Ruth's brother, you know, and----" she paused as she turned to Sid Henderson, who was moving about uncomfortably. "Sid Henderson, the only and original misogynist of Randall college," finished Tom, with a mischievous laugh. "He is the only one in captivity, but will eat from your hand." "I'll fix you for that," growled Sid in Tom's ear, but the girls laughed, as did Phil and the captain, and the introductions were completed. Miss Harrison proved to be an exceptionally pretty and vivacious girl, a fit companion for Ruth and Madge. She was fond of sport, as she soon announced, and Phil and Tom warmed to her at once. As might have been expected, Tom walked along with Ruth, Phil with Miss Tyler, and that left Sid nothing to do but to stroll at the side of Miss Harrison. "So you play ball, too," she began as an opener, looking at his uniform. "Yes--er--that is I play at it, sometimes," floundered Sid, conscious of a big green grass stain on one leg, where he had fallen in reaching for a high fly. "Isn't it great!" went on the girl, her blue eyes flashing as she glanced up at Sid. Somehow the lad's heart was beating strangely. "It's the only game--except football," he conceded. "Do you play--I--er--I mean--of course----" "Oh, I just love football!" she cried. "I hope our team wins the championship this year!" "Your team?" and Sid was plainly puzzled. "Well, I mean the boys of Fairview--I attend there you know." "I didn't know it, but I'm glad to," spoke Sid, wondering why he never before thought blue eyes pretty. "Do you live at the college?" "Oh, yes; but you see I happened to come to Haddonfield to stay over night with relatives, and when I found Madge and Ruth were going to a little affair here to-night, I asked them to stay with me. It's such a jaunt back to the college." "Indeed it is," agreed Sid. "You and Miss Tyler and Miss Clinton are great friends, I judge," he went on, wondering what his next sentence would be. "Indeed we are. Aren't they perfectly sweet girls?" "Fine!" exclaimed Sid with such enthusiasm that his companion looked at him in some surprise, her flashing eyes completing the work already begun by their first glance. "I thought you didn't care for--that is--was that true what Mr. Parsons accused you of?" Miss Harrison asked. "Is a misogynist a very savage creature?" she went on demurely. "That's all rot--I beg your pardon--they were rigging you--I--er--I mean--Oh, I say, Miss Harrison, are you going to the Phi Beta racket to-night--I mean the theatricals to-night?" and poor Sid floundered in deeper and deeper. "No," answered the girl, "I'm not going." "Why not?" asked Sid desperately. "Because I haven't been asked, I suppose," and she laughed merrily. "Then would you mind--that is--I have two tickets--but I didn't expect to go. Now, if you would----" "Oh, Mr. Henderson, don't go on my account!" "Oh, it isn't on your account--I mean--that is--Oh, wouldn't you like to go?" and he seemed in great distress. "I should love to," she almost whispered. "Then will you--that is would you--er--that is----" "Of course I will," answered Mabel, taking pity on her companion's embarrassment. "Won't it be lovely, with Madge and Ruth, and her brother and Mr. Parsons. We'll be quite a party." "It'll be immense!" declared Sid with great conviction. Thereafter he seemed to find it easier to keep the conversation going. The little group came to the end of the campus. Phil, Tom, Madge and Ruth waited for Sid and Mabel. "Well, we'll see you girls to-night," said Tom, for he and his chum were anxious to get to their room and "tog up." Then he added: "It's a pity Miss Harrison isn't going. If I had thought----" "Miss Harrison is going!" cried Sid with sudden energy. "What?" cried Tom and Phil together. Then, realizing that it might embarrass the girl, Tom added: "Fine! We'll all go together. Come on, Sid, and get some of the outfield mud scraped away." The girls waved laughing farewells, and Sid, rather awkwardly, shook hands with Miss Harrison. "What's the matter, old chap?" asked Tom of him, when they were beyond hearing distance of the girls. "Are you afraid you'll never see her again?" "Shut up!" cried Sid. "Wonders will never cease," went
{'title': 'Batting to Win: A Story of College Baseball by Lester Chadwick', 'source': 'Project Gutenberg', 'lang': 'en'}