The Rival Pitchers Part 8

"Yes, we call him Kindlings for short. I'm going to vote for him."

"So will I then; I'll depend on your say-so."

"I fancy you threw a scare into Langridge," went on Sid as he carefully slid under a mat at the edge of the bed a picture of a football game.

"How so?"

"Telling him you wanted to try for pitcher. It was like stepping on his corns. He thinks he's got a cinch on that position. Always has ever since he helped win a game last year."

"Has he?"

"Well, I don't know. It depends on who is captain. Langridge wants to see Ed Kerr elected captain. If that happens, he and Ed will run things to suit themselves. Ed's quite a chum of Langridge, though Ed's a better fellow all around. The only reason some of the fellows won't vote for Ed is that he's too thick with Langridge. But if old Kindlings is elected he'll not take any orders from Langridge."

"Langridge doesn't seem to be very popular with you," observed Tom.

"He isn't. I don't like him. Yet he's all right in a way. You see, he's pretty well off in his own right. His father died, leaving him quite a sum, and when his mother died he got more. His uncle is his guardian, but he doesn't look after Fred very closely, and Fred does pretty much as he pleases. Now that isn't good for a lad, though I don't mind admitting I wish I had plenty of money. But Langridge is something of a sport. He has good clothes--better than most of us here--he has all he wants to spend, and he's liberal with it. He has quite a following and lots of fellows like him. He doesn't care what he does with his money, and that's the whole thing in a nutsh.e.l.l. That's why he's manager and for no other reason. But, as I said, Woodhouse won't stand for any of his dictation."

"Maybe I'll get a chance then," mused Tom.

"I guess you will. I'd like to see another good pitcher on the nine.

Maybe we'd win more games if we had a good one."

"I don't know whether I'm a good one or not," answered Tom. "I want to try, though. Back home they used to say I had a good delivery."

Sid did not answer at once. He was thinking that to pitch on a country nine was vastly different from doing the same thing on a good-sized college team. But he did not want to discourage his roommate.

"Well," he said after a pause, in which he surveyed the somewhat dismantled room, "I don't know whether it's pitching, or catching, or fielding, or what it is our team needs, but it's something. We're at the bottom of the league and have been for some years."

"What league is that?"

"Oh, I forgot you didn't know. Well, it's the Tonoka Lake League. You see, our college, Boxer Hall and Fairview Inst.i.tute have a triangular league for the champions.h.i.+p. But we haven't won it in so long that the memory of man runneth not to the contrary, as the legal doc.u.ments have it. Last year we had a good chance to be second, but Langridge got a gla.s.s arm in the final game and we were dumped. That's why I say we need a new pitcher, and I'm glad you're going to try for it."

"Maybe I'll do worse."

"Well, Langridge sure does deliver a good ball," said Sid slowly; "the only trouble is that he----"

He stopped suddenly and seemed embarra.s.sed.

"Well?" asked Tom questioningly.

"Maybe you'll find it out for yourself," concluded Sid Henderson.

"There's the supper gong. Come on. There'll be hot work after a bit."

Puzzling somewhat over the answer his chum had made to the question regarding Langridge and wondering what it was he might find out for himself, Tom followed Sid to the dining hall, where throngs of students were already gathered.

There was something in the air that told of mischief to come. The soph.o.m.ores, who dined together, maintained a very grave and decorous air, utterly out of keeping with their usual mood. There was silence instead of talk and laughter at their table.

"They're almost as dignified as the seniors," remarked Phil Clinton to Tom as he took a seat next to him. "It means trouble. Look out."

"Oh, we're looking out," replied Tom.

Few lingered over the meal, and, going back to their room, Sid and Tom took their best clothes and hid them in a closet at the end of the long corridor. It was a closet used for the storage of odds and ends.

"There, I don't believe they'll find them there," spoke Sid. "Now we're ready for them."

On their way back to their apartment they heard some one preceding them down the long hall.

"Who's that?" asked Sid.

"I don't know," replied Tom. "Let's take a look. Maybe it was some one spying on us."

They hastened their steps and saw some one hurry around a corner.

"Did you see him?" asked Tom.

"Yes," answered Sid slowly.

"Was it a soph?"

"It was Langridge," came the hesitating answer.

"I wonder what he was doing up here?" inquired Tom.

"I wonder too," added his chum.

There was a rush of feet in the hall below and the sound of voices in protest.

"Here they come!" cried Sid. "The hazers! Come on!" And he slid into the room, followed by Tom. They slammed the portal shut and bolted it.

The noise below increased, and there was the sound of breaking doors.

"Do they smash in?" asked Tom, to whom a college life was a new experience.

"Sure, if you don't open."

"Going to open?"

"I am not. Let 'em break in. They'll have to pay for the damage."

In spite of lively scenes on the floor below, the noise was kept within a certain range. Neither the freshmen nor the soph.o.m.ores desired to have their pranks interrupted by the college authorities, which would be sure to be the case if the fun grew too hilarious.

The noise seemed to be approaching the room of Sid and Tom.

"Here they come," whispered the country youth.

Sid nodded and there was a grim smile on his face. An instant later the door was tried.

"The beggars have locked it!" some one exclaimed.