For the Honor of Randall Part 4

Tired, but happy and contented, and in a glorious glow from their coasting, the boys began looking for their books, to do a last bit of studying before the signal for "lights out" should sound.

"Where's my Greek dictionary?" demanded Phil, searching among a litter of papers on the table. "I'm sure I left it here."

"The last I saw of it, you fired it at Dutch Housenlager the other day when he stuck his head in the door," remarked Tom.

"Oh, here it is," announced Phil, unearthing the volume from under a big catching glove. "h.e.l.lo, Tom, here's a letter for you! Special delivery, too! Must have come when you were out, and Wallops, the messenger, left it in here. Catch!"

He tossed the missive to Tom, who caught it, and ripped it open quickly.

"It's from home," he murmured, as he read it. Then a change came over his face--a change that was instantly apparent to his chums.

"What's the matter?" asked Sid softly. "No bad news I hope, Tom."

"Yes--it is--very bad news," replied Tom softly.

CHAPTER III

WHEN SPRING COMES

There was silence in the room--a silence broken only by the ticking of the fussy alarm clock, which seemed to be doing its best to distract attention from the unwelcome letter. It was as if it were chanting over and over again:

"Come-on! Come-on! All-right! All-right!"

Finally the constant ticking got on the nerves of Sid, and he stopped it by the simple, but effective means of jamming a toothpick in the back of the clock, where there is a slot for regulating the hair spring.

Tom read his letter over again.

"Is there--that is, can we--Oh, hang it, you know what I mean, Tom!"

blurted out Phil. "Is there anything we can do to help you? If there is----"

"I'm afraid not," replied Tom softly. "It's some trouble dad is in, and--well, of course it may affect me."

"Affect you--how?" asked Frank.

"It's this way," went on the Randall pitcher. "Dad, you know, is a farmer. That's how he made what little money he has, and, in the last few years he laid by quite a bit. About a year ago, he was persuaded to invest it in a Western horse deal. He sunk about all he had, and--well, those Westerners double-crossed him. They got his money, and froze him out."

"That's like some fellows in the West, but not all," broke in Frank Simpson, bound to stick up for his own region. "How did it happen, Tom?"

"I never heard all the particulars, only I know that dad invested his money, and he never got any return from it. Those Western horse dealers kept it, and the horses too."

"But that was a year ago," spoke Sid. "What's new about it?"

"This," replied Tom. "Dad brought suit at law against them to recover his money, and the case was just decided--against him."

"Jove! That's too bad!" exclaimed Sid. "But can't he----?"

"Oh, dad's appealed the case," went on Tom, "but it's this way, fellows.

If he loses on the appeal I've got to quit Randall."

"Quit Randall!" cried the three in chorus.

"Yes, quit Randall. There won't be money enough to keep me here. I'll have to go to work a year or so earlier than I expected to, and help support the family. That's what dad writes to me about. He says I must not be disappointed if I have to come away at any time, and buckle down to hard work. He says he's sorry, of course--but, hang it all, I don't blame him a bit!" cried Tom, blowing his nose unnecessarily hard. "I really ought to go to work I suppose. And, if this suit on appeal goes against us, I will. It's up to the judge of the higher court now, whether dad gets his money or not."

"But you mustn't leave Randall," declared Phil. "We're depending on you for the baseball nine."

"Yes, and for track athletics," added Sid. "There's talk of forming a new league for track athletics, and that will mean a lot to Randall. You simply can't go, Tom."

"Well, I hope I don't have to," and the pitcher folded his letter thoughtfully, and put it in his pocket. "But if it has to be--it has to, that's all. Let's talk of something pleasant. What's this about track athletics?"

No one knew very much about it, save that there had been a proposition that, in addition to having a football and baseball team, as well as possibly a rowing crew, Randall try for some of the honors in all-around athletics--broad and high jumping, putting the shot, hurdles, and hundred yard and other dashes.

"I think it would be a good thing," declared Tom. "With Spring coming soon----"

"Spring!" broke in Phil. "It looks a lot like Spring; doesn't it? with us just back from a coasting party."

"Oh, well, this snow fall was out of date," declared Sid.

"Spring will be here before we know it," went on Frank, in dreamy tones.

"I can almost hear the frogs croaking in the pond now. Oh, for glorious, warm and sunny Spring. I----"

"Cut it out!" cried Phil, shying a book at his chum. "You're as bad as Tom with your poetry," and they all looked toward the pitcher, who seemed unusually downcast.

"Do you think you'll have to go soon?" asked Sid, after a pause.

"I hope not at all," answered Tom, "but there is no telling. If the case goes against dad I'll leave, of course, and buckle down to hard work. If he wins it--why, I'll stay on here."

"And take part in the athletic contests?" asked Frank.

"Well, if they need me, and I have a show. But I'm not so much good at that. Did you ever have a try at 'em, Frank?"

"Yes, I used to do some jumping, and occasionally a pole vault."

"Listen to Mr. Modesty!" blurted out Sid. "Why, fellows, he holds the Western amateur record for the broad jump! Twenty feet one inch--and Sheran only did six and a half inches better," and Sid rapidly turned to the pages of an athletic almanac, where records were given. "He ran, too. Beat in the mile contest."

"Did you?" cried Tom. "And you never told us."

"Well, it was sort of luck," spoke Frank modestly. "I did my best, but that day there weren't very many contestants. I beat 'em all, but, as I said it was luck."

"Luck nothing!" grumbled Phil. "Why don't you own up to it that broad jumping is your specialty."

"Well, it is, in a way. I like to run better, though. I'd be glad if we did have some track athletics at Randall."

"How about Pete Backus?" asked Tom with a laugh.

"Oh--Gra.s.shopper," cried Phil. "I suppose he'll go in for the jump, too."