The Rival Pitchers Part 40

He listened and could hear the retreating steps of his captors. That all had not gone and that some were left on guard was indicated by the low talk that went on outside and by the tramping about the shack of several lads.

"Can he get out?" Tom heard some one ask.

"No. The place is nailed up tight."

"Maybe I can't and maybe I can," mused Tom. "Anyhow I'm going to have a look. Wait until I strike a match."

Holding his hat as a protection, so that no gleams would penetrate possible cracks in the door, Tom struck a light and examined the walls of his prison. The shack consisted of only one room and was cluttered up with chairs, tables, benches, counters and other things. Tom at once eliminated from his plan of escape the front, as there he knew the soph.o.m.ores would remain on guard. He must try either the sides or the back. The sides, he saw, were out of the question, as they contained only small windows, hardly big enough for him to get through. In addition the cas.e.m.e.nts were closed by heavy wooden shutters, nailed fast.

"No use trying them," thought Tom. "The back is the only place."

This he examined with care, and to his delight he saw what he thought would enable him to get out. This was an opening near the top, and it was closed by a thin wooden shutter swinging on a hinge.

"It's nailed fast," Tom remarked when, by dint of lighting many matches inside his hat, he had examined the shutter. "But I can reach it by standing on two chairs, and if I can get it open, I can crawl out and drop to the ground. But how am I going to pull out those big nails?"

Indeed it did seem impossible, but Tom was ingenious. His fingers, when he had thrust his hands into his pockets, had touched his keen-bladed knife, the one that had gotten him into trouble about the wire and which had been returned to him by the proctor.

"I can cut away the wood around the nails," he thought, and at once he put his plan into operation. He managed to get two chairs, one on top of the other, and mounting upon this perch, he attacked the shutter.

Fortunately the wood was soft, and working in the darkness by means of feeling with his fingers around the nails, Tom soon had one spike cut free of the shutter. Then he began on the others, and in half an hour he could raise the solid piece of wood. A breath of the fresh night air came to him.

"No gla.s.s in it," he exclaimed softly. "That's good. Now to get away and show up at the dinner. I hope they didn't get any other fellows. They haven't brought any more here, that's sure."

He listened at the door a moment.

"I wish some of our fellows would come back," he heard one of the guards saying.

"Yes, it's lonesome here. I wonder if Parsons is still there?"

"Sure he is. How could he get away?"

"That's so. He couldn't."

"Wait a bit," whispered Tom.

He again mounted the chairs, and pulling himself up by the edge of the opening, after fastening up the shutter, he prepared to crawl through and drop down outside.

"I hope it isn't much of a fall and that the ground is soft," he murmured.

Just then he heard a commotion in front of the shack.

"They're bringing up some more of our cla.s.s," he reasoned. "Maybe I can help 'em. Had I better stay in?" He was undecided, and he remained on the edge of the window, partly inside and partly outside the shanty. He heard the door open, and looking back in the semi-darkness, saw that a struggle was going on. He guessed that the soph.o.m.ores were trying to thrust inside one or more freshmen. Then another shout told Tom that his escape was discovered.

"I'll drop down outside," he decided, "and see what I can do toward a rescue."

He looked down. In the gloom below the high window was a figure.

"Look out, soph, I'm going to drop on you!" cried Tom warningly. He heard a half-smothered exclamation and then he let go, prepared to defend himself against recapture.

The fall was longer than he antic.i.p.ated, for there was a depression at the back of the cabin. He toppled in a heap, and before he could straighten up, he saw some one rus.h.i.+ng toward him. Then around the corner of a shack came two figures, one carrying a lantern.

"What's up?" they cried together.

Tom was aware that the dark figure which he had seen underneath the window was jumping toward him. The light of the lantern shone full on Tom's face. He was in the act of struggling to his feet when he felt some one kick him in the side, and as the toe of a heavy shoe came against his right elbow with crus.h.i.+ng force the pain made Tom cry out.

The lantern swung in a circle and by the light of it Tom, glancing up, saw Langridge standing over him. It was he who had administered the kick. Then the light appeared to fade away, and Tom felt a strangely dizzy feeling. He seemed to be sinking into a bottomless pit.

CHAPTER XXIX

ANTIc.i.p.aTIONS

Tom became dimly aware that he was climbing up from some great depth. It was hard work, and he felt as if he was lifting the whole world on his shoulders. No, it was all on one arm--his right--and the pain of it made him wince.

Then he realized that some one was calling him, shaking him, and he felt as if he had tumbled, head first, into some snow drift.

"Wake up, Tom! Are you all right, old man? What happened? Here, swallow some more water."

He opened his eyes. He saw in the darkness some one bending over him.

"What's the--where am----" he began, and he was again seized with a feeling of weakness.

"You're all right, old chap," he heard some one saying. "You had a bad fall, that's all."

"Phil!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, it's me, Clinton. They tried to put me in there, but I fought 'em, and then there came a yell for help for the sophs who were bringing up a lot of our fellows, and the ones who had me and those on guard cut for it. I guess our lads got away. I heard a row back here and came to see what it was. Are you all right now? Can you walk? If you can, we'll go on to the dinner. We've beaten out the sophs. Can you manage?"

"I--I guess so," replied Tom, who was feeling stronger every moment. If only that terrible pain in his arm would cease. "Where's Langridge?" he asked.

"Langridge? He isn't around. I haven't seen him to-night at all,"

answered Clinton. "Feeling better?"

"Yes, I'm all right. Only my arm."

"Is it broken?"

"No, only bruised. Some one kicked--I guess I must have fallen on it,"

Tom corrected himself quickly. His mind was in a tumult over what had happened. He had seen Langridge plainly in the light of a lantern carried by one of the soph.o.m.ores, and he felt that Langridge must have seen him, for the gleam struck full on his face. Yet why had the 'varsity pitcher attacked Tom? Could he have mistaken him for a soph.o.m.ore? Tom hardly thought so, yet the kick had been a savage one.

His arm was swelling from it.

"Are you sure they didn't catch Langridge?" asked Tom as he stumbled on beside Phil.

"Sure. He said he wasn't going to the dinner at all. Had a date in town with some girl, I believe." Tom winced, not altogether with pain. "Why are you so anxious about Langridge?" went on Phil.

"Nothing, only--only I thought I saw him around the shack."