For the Honor of Randall Part 11

"No, but give a fellow his share, can't you?" and Phil looked down on his chum, who was sprawled over a goodly part of the ancient and honorable article of furniture. "Sid has one armchair, and Frank the other, and I want some place to rest my weary bones," declared Phil.

"I've been out with the natural history cla.s.s after bugs, and other specimens, and I'll wager we walked ten miles. Give me a place to rest."

"Try the floor," grunted Tom, who was too comfortable to move. "What do you want to come in for raising a row, just as we're nice and cozy?"

"Say, haven't I a right here?" demanded Phil. "Who helped fix that old sofa, I'd like to know, when all its bones were showing? Give me a whack at it, Tom."

But Tom refused to budge, and presently, in the room of the four inseparables, there was a scuffling sound, and the tall pitcher felt himself being suddenly slewed around by the feet, until there was room enough for another on the sofa. But Phil did the gymnastic act too well, for he shoved Tom a bit too far, and, a moment later one hundred and fifty pounds more or less, slumped to the floor with a jar.

"There, now you have done it!" cried Sid, as he sprang from one of the easy chairs, and made a grab for the fussy little alarm clock, that had been jarred from its place on the table by the concussion of Tom's fall.

"Grab it!" yelled Frank.

"Safe!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Sid, holding it up. "But it was a close call. The next time you fellows want to do the catch-as-catch-can, go out in the hall. This is a gentleman's resort, mind."

"I'll punch your head--if I think of it to-morrow," grumbled Tom, who had been half asleep when Phil so unceremoniously awakened him. "Remind me of it--somebody."

"On your peril," laughed Phil, as he grabbed up some of the cus.h.i.+ons which had fallen under his chum, and made an easy place for himself on the now vacant sofa. Tom continued to lie on the floor.

"Anything doing outside when you came in?" asked Frank.

"Not much. I stopped in the gym, and a lot of the fellows were talking track athletics, and Gra.s.shopper was jumping."

"It looks as if there'd be something doing this Spring," commented Frank. "I was talking to Holly Cross, Kindlings and some of the others, and there's a good show for the new league. All the other teams are hot for it. We've got to have several more meetings though, and see if we can get enough cash to buy the prizes, and arrange for the meet."

"Would it be held here on our grounds?" asked Tom, showing a sudden interest.

"Well, some of the fellows want it here, and Boxer Hall is going to make a strong bid for it," said Sid. "I think, and so does Kindlings, that it ought to be on some neutral field."

"I agree with Dan Woodhouse," remarked Frank, giving "Kindlings" his right name. "A neutral field will be fair to all. Well, if this weather keeps on we'll be out practicing in a few weeks."

But, though the weather did not bear out the promise of the first few warm days of Spring, there was still plenty of practice. The enthusiasm over a track meet grew, and many more lads than were expected put in an appearance at the gymnasium, to try out their skill over the hurdles, vaulting the bar, in hundred yard dashes, putting the weight, shot and hammer, while any number said they were going to try to qualify for the mile run, and the broad and high jumps.

Meanwhile, more or less correspondence went on among the athletic committees of the four inst.i.tutions that naturally would form the new league, if matters came to a head. Exter was comparatively a new college, but she stood well to the fore in athletics.

The end of the Winter was at hand, when one night there came an unprecedented freeze. Tom and his chums awakened s.h.i.+vering in their quarters, for the window had been left open, and the thermometer was away down.

"Wow! Somebody turn on the heat!" cried Tom, poking his nose out from under the covers.

"It's Phil's turn," declared Sid.

"It is not," was the answer.

"I'll toss you for it, Sid," put in Frank, leaping out of bed, and reaching for his trousers to get a coin. "Call!"

"Heads!" shouted Sid.

"It's tails," declared the big Californian.

"Oh, well, turn it on, like a good fellow, now that you're up," advised Tom.

"Well, I like your nerve!" e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed Frank with a laugh, but, good naturedly, he did as he was asked, and soon the radiator was thumping and pounding away, while the boys waited a few minutes longer before venturing out from under the warm covers.

"There'll be skating all right!" declared Tom, as he breathed on the frosty window. "We'll have a last glide on Sunny River. Who's for a spin before breakfast?"

"Not for mine!" cried Phil, and none of the others showed an inclination to stroll out in the frosty air until necessary. Before chapel, however, several of the lads paid a visit to the stream, coming back with glowing reports of the smooth ice.

"A hockey game this afternoon!" cried Tom, after lectures, and scores of others agreed with him.

"Not until some of you blue-jays do your turn in the gym!" declared Kindlings and Holly Cross, who had const.i.tuted themselves a sort of coaching pair, pending the selection of a regular trainer for the track games.

Mr. Lighton, the professional coach was temporarily absent, and it was not known whether he would be back in time to take charge of the various squads or not.

"Do you mean to say you're going to make us practice, when it may be the last chance for a skate?" asked Tom.

"I sure am," replied Holly. "But we'll cut it short. Come on now, fellows, no backing out. We got to the top of the heap at football and baseball, and we don't want to slump on the track. Randall must be kept to the fore."

"That's right!" came the cry, and the lads piled off for the gymnasium, where they indulged in some hard practice.

"That new fellow, Shambler, seems to be doing some good jumping,"

remarked Phil to Tom, as the two were doing a little jog around the track.

"Yes, I wonder where's he from, anyhow? I never heard much about him while he was at Harkness--I wonder if he really is from that college?"

"Give it up. What difference does it make, anyhow? Harkness was a small college, and her records didn't count. But Shambler sure can jump. He's as good at the high as he is at the broad. There he goes for another try, and they've got it up to the four-foot-ten mark I guess."

"Four eleven," remarked Phil, who could read the marks on the standards.

"If he does that he's a good one. The record is five feet seven."

"There--he did it and a couple of inches over," cried Tom, as Shambler made a magnificent leap. "Say, we need him all right."

"That's so. I only wish he was a little more companionable. He trains too much in with that Boxer Hall sporting set, to suit me."

"Yes, too bad. But it can't be helped. Now he's going to try the broad.

Let's watch him."

Shambler came up to the take-off on the run, and shot into the air.

Forward like a stone from a catapult he went and unable to recover himself he crashed full into Tom, who was standing watching.

"Look out!" cried Shambler, as he hung on to Tom to avoid falling. "What are you trying to do, anyhow? Queer my jump? I'd have broken my record, only for you!" He spoke in angry tones.

"I'm sorry," began Tom, "I didn't----"

"Looks as though you got there on purpose," interrupted the jumper, flas.h.i.+ng a black look at Tom. "Isn't the gym big enough for you?"

"Look here!" cried Tom, nettled at the tone. "I said I was sorry for what I couldn't help, and that ought to be enough. I didn't mean to get in your way, and if I spoiled your jump----"

"You spoiled it all right," broke out Shambler. "Now I've got to try over again. Get back out of the way!" he ordered to Tom and Phil, as though they were the veriest freshmen, instead of being upper-cla.s.smen.