FOR THE HONOR OF
RANDALL

A Story of College Athletics

BY

LESTER CHADWICK

AUTHOR OF “THE RIVAL PITCHERS,” “A QUARTER-BACK’S
PLUCK,” “BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY

BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK

THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES

12mo. Cloth. 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

THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN
A Story of College Football

FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL
A Story of College Athletics

THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES

12mo. Cloth. Illustrated.

BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS
Or The Rivals of Riverside

BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE
Or Pitching for the Blue Banner

(Other volumes in preparation)

Cupples & Leon Co., Publishers, New York

Copyright, 1912, by
CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY

FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL

Printed in U. S. A.

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

FOR THE HONOR OF RANDALL

[CHAPTER I]
A PERILOUS RIDE

“What a glorious night!”

Tom Parsons, standing at the window of the study which he shared with his chums, looked across the campus of Randall College.

“It’s just perfect,” he went on.

There was no answer from the three lads who, in various attitudes, took their ease, making more or less of pretenses at studying.

“The moon,” Tom went on, “the moon is full——”

“So are you—of words,” blurted out Sid Henderson, as he leafed his trigonometry.

“It’s one of the finest nights——”

“Since nights were invented,” broke in Phil Clinton, with a yawn. “Dry up, Tom, and let us bone, will you?”

Unmoved by the scorn of his chums, the tall lad at the casement, gazing out on the scene, which, to do him justice, had wonderfully moved him, continued to stand there. Then, in a quiet voice, as though unconscious of the presence of the others, he spoke:

“The moon o’er yonder hilltop rises, a silver disk, like unto a warrior’s shield, whereon he, from raging battle coming, is either carried upon it, or bears it proudly as——”

“Oh for cats’ sake!” fairly yelled Frank Simpson, the Big Californian, as he had been dubbed. He shied his book full at Tom Parsons, catching him in the back, and bringing to a close the blank verse our hero was spouting, with a grunt that greatly marred it.

“Say, you fellows can’t appreciate anything decent!” shot back the lad at the window. “If I try to raise you above the level of the kindergarten class you are in deep water. I suppose I should have said: ‘Oh see the moon. Does the moon see me? The moon sees me. What a pretty moon!’ Bah! You make me tired. Here we have the most glorious night of the winter, with a full moon, snow on the ground to make it as light as day, a calm, perfect night——”

“Oh perfect night!” mocked Sid.

“Vandal!” hissed Tom.

“Go on! Hear Hear! Bravo!” cried Phil. “Let the noble Senator proceed!”

“Oh, for the love of mustard!” broke in the big lad who had tossed his book at Tom. “There’s no use trying to do any work with this mob. I’m going over to see Dutch Housenlager. He won’t spout blank verse when I want to bone, and that’s some comfort.”

“No, but he’ll want to get you into some horse-play, like tying knots in Proc. Zane’s socks, or running the flag up at half mast on the chapel,” declared Tom. “You had much better stay here, Frank. I’ve got something to propose.”

“There! I knew it!” cried Phil. “There’s a girl in it somewhere, or Tom would never be so poetical. Who is she, Tom? and when are you going to propose?”

“Oh, you fellows are worse than the measles,” groaned the lad who had been looking at the moonlight. “I’m done with you. I leave you to your fate.”

With a grunt of annoyance Tom turned away from the window, kicked under the sofa the book which Frank had thrown at him, and reached for his cap and coat.

“Where you going?” asked Phil quickly, as he turned over in the deep armchair, causing the ancient piece of furniture to emit many a groan, and send out a choking cloud of dust. “Whither away, fair sir?”

“Anywhere, to get away from you fellows,” grunted the displeased one.

“No, but seriously, where are you going?” asked Frank. “Now that you’ve broken the ice, I don’t mind admitting that I don’t care such an awful lot for boning.”

Tom paused in the doorway, one arm in and the other out of his coat.

“I’m going out,” he answered. “It’s too nice to stay in. The coasting must be great on Ridge Hill, and with this moon—say it’s a shame to stay in! That’s what I’ve been trying to ding into you fellows, only you wouldn’t listen. Why, half of Randall must be out there to-night.”

“What about Proc. Zane?” asked Sid, referring to the proctor, who kept watch and ward over the college.

“Nothing doing,” answered Tom. “A lot of the fellows went to Moses after the last lecture and got permission to take their bobs over on the hill. There were so many that the good old doctor said he’d raise the rules for to-night, because it was likely to be such a fine one. So there’s no danger of being up on the carpet, if we get in at any decent hour.”

“Why didn’t you say so at first?” demanded Sid. “Of course we’ll go. Why didn’t you mention it instead——”

“I thought you had some poetry in you,” responded Tom. “I tried to make you appreciate the beauty of the night rather than appeal to the sordid side of your natures, and——”

“Cut it out!” begged Phil, with a laugh. “If there’s any coasting, and I guess there is, we’ll be in it. Come on, fellows, and we’ll see how our bob does on the hill.”

With laughter and gay talk, now that they had made up their minds to adopt Tom’s suggestion, and go coasting, the four chums, than whom there was no more devoted quartette in Randall, passed out into the corridor. As they descended the stairs they heard a subdued hum that told of other students bent on the same errand, and, when they had a glimpse of the snow-covered campus, they beheld many dark figures hurrying along, dragging single sleds or big bobs after them.

“Say, I hope no one pinches ours!” cried Tom, and at the thought he hastened his pace toward an out-building of the gymnasium, where the students kept their bicycles in Summer, and their bobs in Winter.

It was now Winter at Randall, a glorious Winter, following a glorious football season. For several years it had been the custom for the students to indulge in coasting on a big hill about a mile away from the college. Some of the lads clubbed together and had built fine, big bobs, with foot rests, carpet on the top, with immense gongs to sound warning, and with steering wheels that equalled those of autos, while some had drag brakes, to use in case of emergency.

The bob owned jointly by Tom Parsons, Sid Henderson, Phil Clinton and Frank Simpson, was one of the best in Randall. It was fifteen feet long, and could carry quite a party. It needed no small skill and strength to steer it, too, when fully loaded.

Our friends, getting out their sled, soon found themselves in the midst of a throng of fellow students, all hurrying toward the hill. The four chums had hold of the rope to haul the big bob.

“There are the Jersey twins,” remarked Sid, as Jerry and Joe Jackson hurried on, dragging a small bob.

“And here comes Dutch,” added Phil. “He can ride with us, I guess.”

“Sure,” assented Tom. “I say, Dutch!” he called. “Got a sled?”

“No. Why should I when there are already plenty?” “Dutch,” or otherwise Billy Housenlager, demanded.

“That’s right,” spoke Frank. “Come on, give us a hand, and we’ll give you a ride.”

“I am too tired,” was the answer, “but I will let you have the honor of pulling me,” and, with a sigh of contentment Dutch threw himself down on the big bob.

“Here! Get off, you horse!” cried Sid.

A loud snore was the answer. Sid started back to roll the lazy student off, but Tom, with a wink, indicated a better way of disposing of him. At a signal the four students broke into a run.

“Ah, this beats an auto,” murmured Billy.

Suddenly the four swerved sharply, and the bob turned over, spilling Dutch off, into a snow bank.

“Ten thousand double-dyed maledictions upon you!” he spluttered, as he blew the snow out of his mouth. “Just for that I’ll not ride with you. Hold on, Jerry—Joe,” he called to the Jersey twins, “wait for papa!”

There was a laugh at Dutch and his predicament, and then the crowd of students hurried on, our heroes among them. In a little while they could hear distant shouts, and the clanging of bells.

“Some crowd on the hill,” observed Tom. “I told you there’d be sport.”

“Right you are, my hearty,” agreed Phil. “Whew! I should say there was a mob!” for by this time they had come out on top of the long slope that led down the country road, forming the coasting place, known as Ridge Hill.

While most of the crowd consisted of students from Randall College, there were not a few lads and girls from the neighboring town of Haddonfield, and the shrill voices of the lassies and the hoarser shouts of the boys, mingled musically that moonlit night. The clang of bells on the bobs was constant.

“Come on now, get ready!” called Tom. “Let’s take a crowd down.”

“Who’s going to steer?” asked Phil.

“Let Frank,” advised Sid. “He’s got the most muscle, and he needs exercise.”

“I like your nerve,” retorted the Big Californian. But he took his place at the steering wheel, while Tom got on the rear to work the brake, and Sid acted as bell-ringer.

“Get aboard!” invited Tom, and several of his friends among the students piled on.

“May we have a ride?” asked three pretty girls from the town. None of our friends knew them, but it was a common custom to give all a ride for whom there was room, introductions being dispensed with.

“Pile on!” invited Tom.

“I want the one with the red scarf!” sang out Frank, and this girl, with a laugh that showed her even white teeth, took her place behind the steersman. Her companions joined her, with happy laughs. The bob was almost full.

“Room for any more?” asked a voice, and Tom looked up to see a young man and lady looking at him.

“Oh, hello, Mr. Beach!” he exclaimed, as he recognized a friend of his who lived in town. “Of course there is. Get on Mrs. Beach, and we’ll give you a fine ride!” The young married couple had often entertained our four friends at their home, and, as Mr. and Mrs. Beach were fond of fun, they had come out to enjoy the coasting.

“All right!” cried Sid, clanging the bell.

“Push us off; will you?” Tom requested of a merry coaster, and the lad with some others obligingly shoved the bob to the edge of the hill. Then they were off, going down like the wind, while the runners scraped the frozen snow sending it aloft in a shower of crystals that the moon turned into silver.

“Oh, this is glorious!” cried the girl back of Frank. “Say, did you ever try to go through the hollow, and up the other hill?”

“No, and I’m not going to,” replied Frank, turning his head toward her for an instant, and then getting his eyes on the road again, for there were many sleds and bobs, and it needed all his skill to wind in and out among them.

“Why not?” persisted the girl, with a laugh.

“Too dangerous, with a big sled. We never could make the curve at this speed.”

“Some of the town boys do it,” she went on.

“Not with a bob like this. Look out there!” Frank yelled as he narrowly missed running into a solitary coaster.

The path to which the girl referred was a sort of lane, running off the main hill road, dipping down, and then suddenly shooting up again, crossing over a slight rise, and finally going down to a small pond. It was a semi-public road, but seldom used. To attempt to negotiate it with a swift bob was perilous, for the least mistake in steering, or a slight accident would send the sled off to one side or the other of the small hill, making an upset almost certain, and, likely broken bones, if nothing worse.

“There goes one boy, now,” went on the girl back of Frank, as a coaster shot into the hollow.

“Yes, but he only has a small sled. I’ll not try it. If you girls want to——”

“Oh, no indeed!” she hastened to assure him. “This is too much fun. It’s good of you to ask us.”

The coast soon came to an end, and then came the hard work of dragging the sled up the hill again.

“I wish they had double acting hills,” remarked Tom as he pulled on the rope. “Slide down ’em one way, and, when you get to the bottom they’d tip up, and you could slide back—sort of perpetual motion.”

“You don’t want much,” commented Sid with a laugh.

As the boys reached the top of the slope there dashed up a sled filled with young people, drawn by two prancing horses. And fastened to the rear of the sled, was a large bob.

“Now for some fun!” cried a girl’s voice.

“Did you hear that?” asked Tom, of Phil. “It sounded like your sister Ruth.”

“It is Ruth!” cried Phil, as he caught sight of the girl who had called out. “It’s a crowd from Fairview,” he added, naming a co-educational institution not far from Randall, at which college Ruth Clinton attended. “Hi, Ruth!” called her brother, “how are you?”

“Oh, Phil,” she answered. “So glad to see you! Are the other inseparables there?”

“All of us!” cried Tom, as he glimpsed Madge Tyler. “Come have a ride on our bob.”

“Next time,” answered Mabel Harrison with a laugh. “We have a prior invitation now.”

“Who are with you?” asked Phil of his sister as he reached her side. “Whose bob is that?” and he pointed to the one back of the sled.

“Hal Burton’s. He’s a new student, rather rich, and sporty I guess. He made up this little party. Oh, it’s all right,” she hastened to add, as she saw her brother look at her curiously. “We have permission, a chaperone and all the fixings. Trust the ogress, Miss Philock, for that. Isn’t it a glorious night?”

“Fine,” agreed Phil. “But who is this Burton chap?”

“Come on, and I’ll introduce you,” and Ruth presented her brother. Among the other girls was a Miss Helen Newton, whom Tom and his chums had not before met. She was also made acquainted with the inseparables.

“And so you won’t ride with us?” asked Tom, looking rather regretfully at Miss Tyler.

“Not this time, old man,” broke in Burton, with a familiar air that Tom did not like. “I’m going to pilot ’em.”

“Do you know the hill?” asked Phil quietly. Somehow he did not like this new student, with his calm air of assurance, and he did not like Ruth to ride with him.

“Oh, I’ve coasted bigger hills than this,” declared the owner of the big bob. “This isn’t anything, even if it is a new one. Get on girls and fellows!” he cried. “We’ll beat everything on the hill.”

“Insolent puppy!” murmured Tom, as he helped swing their own bob around for another coast.

The sled owned by Burton was a fine one, and larger even than that of our friends. There were back-rests for each coaster, and a gong as big as a dinner plate.

“See you later, Phil,” called Ruth, as she and her girl friends, together with a throng of others, got aboard.

The big bob was pushed off, Tom and his chums watching with critical eyes. Burton seemed to know his business.

“Well, we might as well go down,” remarked Frank, as he took his place. There was a moment’s wait, while their bob filled, the same three pretty girls taking their places. Then they were off, Sid ringing the bell vigorously.

Hardly had they started, however, almost in the wake of Burton’s sled, than Frank gave a cry of alarm.

“What is it?” shouted Tom, getting ready to jam on the brake. “Steering wheel busted?”

“No, but look!” cried Frank. “That chump Burton is headed right for the hollow cut-off! He’ll never make it at that speed, and there’ll be a spill!”

For a moment there was a silence, broken only by the scraping of the runners on the hard snow. Then Frank yelled:

“Keep to the right! Keep to the right, Burton! You can’t make that turn!”

But Burton either did not hear or did not heed. Straight for the perilous cut-off he steered, and then, as the girls saw their danger, they cried shrilly. But it was too late to turn aside now, and Tom and his chums, coming on like the wind behind the new bob, wondered what would happen, and if there was any way of preventing the accident that seemed almost sure to take place.

[CHAPTER II]
BAD NEWS FROM HOME

Years ago, it was the custom, for a certain style of stories, to begin something like this:

“Bang! Bang! Seven redskins bit the dust!”

Then, after the sensational opening, came a calm period wherein the author was privileged to do some explaining. I shall, with your permission, adopt that method now, with certain modifications, and tell my new readers something about Randall College, and the lads whom I propose to make my heroes. It is, perhaps, rather an inopportune time to do it, but I fear I will find none better, since Tom and his chums are so constantly on the alert, that it is hard to gain their attention for a moment, after they are once started.

And so, while the bob containing the girls, in whom our friends are so much interested, is swinging toward the dangerous hollow, and when Tom and the others are preparing to execute a risky manœuvre to save them, may I be granted just a moment? My former readers may skip this part if they choose.

It was in the initial volume of this “College Sports Series,” that I introduced Tom Parsons and his chums. The first book was called “The Rival Pitchers;” and in it I told how Tom, a raw country lad, came to Randall College with a big ambition as regards baseball, and how he made good in the box against long odds. In the second book, “A Quarter-back’s Pluck,” I told how Phil Clinton won the big championship game under trying conditions, and in “Batting to Win,” there were given the particulars of how Randall triumphed over her rivals, and how a curious mystery regarding Sid Henderson was solved.

“The Winning Touchdown,” was another story of college football, and, incidentally the book tells how Tom and his chums saved the college from disaster in a peculiar way, and how Frank came to Randall and “made good.” Frank had roomed elsewhere but was now with Tom, Sid and Phil.

Randall College was situated on the outskirts of the town of Haddonfield, in the middle west. Near it ran Sunny River, a stream of considerable importance, emptying into Tonoka Lake. This lake gave the name to the athletic league—the league made up of Randall, Boxer Hall, Fairview Institute and some other places of learning in the vicinity. Randall often met Boxer Hall and Fairview on the gridiron or diamond.

Dr. Albertus Churchill, dubbed “Moses,” was head-master at Randall, Dr. Emerson Tines, called “Pitchfork,” was the Latin instructor, and Mr. Andrew Zane was the proctor.

There were other instructors, officials, etc., whom you will meet as the story goes on. As for the students, besides the four “inseparables” whom I have already named, I have already told you of some, though I might mention Sam or “Snail” Looper, much given to night prowling, Peter or “Grasshopper” Backus, who aspired to be a great jumper, and “Bean” Perkins, who could always be depended on to “root” for his team in a contest.

These lads were all friends of our heroes. Truth to tell, the lads had few enemies. Fred Langridge and his crony Garvey Gerhart, had made trouble for Tom and his friends, until the two bullies withdrew from Randall, and went to Boxer Hall.

And now, having read (or skipped) this necessary explanation, you may proceed with the story.

“He must be crazy!” called Tom to Sid, who, clanging the bell, was seated not far from the brake-tender. “Clean crazy to try to coast the hollow on his first trip.”

“He doesn’t know any better,” returned Sid, as he looked ahead at the big bob which was nearing the dangerous turn.

“What’s Frank up to?” demanded Phil. “He’s steering for the hollow, too.”

At this there was a scream of terror from some of the girls on the bob of our heroes.

“Don’t do it! Don’t try it!” begged the one next to Frank.

“Keep quiet, please,” he requested in a tense voice. “I’ve got to save them if possible.”

“I’m going to jump off!” a girl cried.

“Don’t you dare!” ordered the Big Californian, and there was that in his voice which made her obey.

From the big bob in front, which was now only a little way ahead of the Randall sled, came a chorus of shrill screams. There was a movement, plainly seen in the bright moonlight, as if some of the girls were going to roll off.

“Sit still! Sit still!” yelled Frank. “Jam on your brakes there, Burton!” he added. “You’ll never make that turn!”

“All right, I get you!” sang out the newcomer on the hill, and Phil gritted his teeth as he thought of his sister—and the other girls—entrusted to a reckless youth like this.

There was a scraping sound, as one of the lads on Burton’s bob pulled the cord that sent a chisel-like piece of steel down into the snow-covered roadway. But the speed of the sled was not much checked by this brake.

By this time the two big bobs were close together, and the dangerous turn was almost at hand. All the other coasters on the hill, save a few that were near the bottom, had stopped their sport to see the outcome of the perilous ride.

“Look out, Frank, you’ll be into them!” yelled Tom, as he saw their bob coming nearer and nearer to the foremost one. “Shall I jam on the brakes?”

His hand was on the cord, and, in another moment he would have sent the scraping steel back of the rear runner, into the frozen surface.

“No! No!” yelled Frank. “Don’t touch that brake, Tom! I want all the speed I can get!”

“What are you going to do?” cried his chum.

“I’m going to head them away from the cut-off.”

“You can’t do it!”

“I’m going to!” retorted Frank grimly. “Easy on the brake, Tom.”

“All right! She’s off!”

The girls on both bobs were now quiet, but they were none the less in great fear. The very danger seemed to make them dumb, and they looked ahead with frightened eyes, waiting for they knew not what.

A moment later Frank’s plan was plain to his chums. Knowing the hill as he did, familiar with every bump and hollow, he had decided, if possible, to draw up alongside the foremost bob, between it and the dangerous turn, which Burton did not seem able to avoid. Then Frank would hold a straight course, if he could, and fairly force the other sled out of danger.

It was a risky plan, but none other would serve to prevent the big, new bob from shooting toward the smaller hill, with the certainty of overturning.

“Steer to the right—more to the right!” yelled Frank to Burton. “I’m coming up on your left!”

“I—I can’t!” was the answer. “My steering wheel is jammed!”

“You can never make it, Frank,” called Phil. “There isn’t room between that bob and the turn to get in. You’ll upset us!”

“No, I won’t! Just sit still! I’m going to do it!”

There was a quiet determination in the voice of the Big Californian, a comparatively newcomer at Randall.

With a rushing whizz Frank steered his bob up alongside of the other. It was just this side of the dangerous turn, toward which Burton was headed. He was unable to do anything toward guiding his sled, and the brake, though jammed on full, only served partly to slacken the speed. But this slackening was enough to permit the faster bob from Randall to creep up, and just in time.

Steering with the utmost skill, Frank sent his bob as close as he dared to the other. It was on his right, while on his left, dipping down with dizzying suddenness, was the turning slope that might lead to danger, or even death.

Frank thrust out his foot, and planted it firmly on the foremost sled of the new bob. At the same time he twisted his steering wheel to the right, so as to gain all the leverage he could toward forcing Burton’s bob away from the turn.

[For a moment matters hung in the balance.] An inch or two to the left would send both bobs crashing down the dangerous slope. There was a shower of ice splinters in the moonlight, a chorus of frightened gasps from the girls, and sharp breathing by the boys. Then the weight, and true steering qualities, of the Randall bob told. Slowly but surely she forced the other away, and, a moment later, as the defective steering gear on Burton’s sled gave way, there was a mix-up, and both craft overturned, while there came shrieks of dismay from all the girls.

But the upset had occurred in a soft bank of snow, and, aside from the discomfort, no one was hurt.

“If it had happened ten feet back though—well, there’d been a different story to tell,” mused Tom, as he and his companions helped the girls out of the conglomeration of sleds and drifts.

“What did you want to try anything like that for?” asked Phil of Burton, when there was some semblance of calmness.

“Well, a fellow dared me to coast into the hollow, and I said I would.”

“You won’t do it again—with my sister aboard,” growled Phil.

“No, indeed!” cried Madge Tyler. “If we’d known he was going to do that we wouldn’t have ridden with him.”

“Oh, no harm’s done,” spoke Burton with a laugh. “I can soon fix that steering gear, and we’ll have some fun yet.”

“No, thank you,” replied Miss Harrison. “I think we have had enough for one night.”

“Come on our bob,” invited Tom eagerly. “It’s early yet.”

“Shall we?” asked Ruth, a sparkle of mischief in her eyes. “We’re not really hurt, you know, and—well——”

“Oh, yes, let’s do it,” begged Miss Newton, and so, leaving Burton to his damaged bob, the girls went with Tom and his chums. They had several glorious coasts, under the silver moon, which shone with undiminished splendor.

Hal Burton got his bob in shape again, and begged the girls to try a ride, but they would not, and he was forced to content himself with others.

“Maybe he’ll be unpleasant toward you, going back to Fairview in the horse sled,” suggested Phil, to his sister.

“He didn’t hire that,” retorted Ruth. “We girls clubbed together and got that, and invited the boys. But I think we’d better be going; it’s getting late.”

There was one more last, jolly coast, and then the college girls and boys wended their way from the hill, calling good-nights to each other.

“When are you coming over, Phil?” asked his sister, as she and the others climbed in the big horse-drawn sleigh.

“Do you mean our crowd?” asked her brother, laughingly.

“Yes—everybody!” added Miss Tyler.

“To-morrow,” answered Tom promptly.

“Don’t!” retorted Miss Harrison. “We have an exam. the next day. Make it Friday, and we’ll have a little dance.”

“Done!” shouted Sid.

“And he’s the old misogynist who used to hate the ladies!” chaffed Tom, at his chum’s ready acceptance. There was a laugh, and then the four inseparables, in the midst of groups of their friends, trudged on toward Randall.

“There was some class to your steering, Frank, old man,” complimented Tom, after some talk of the near-accident.

“That’s right,” agreed Phil. “I never thought he’d make it.”

“I just had to,” was the response. “There’d have been a bad time, if that chump had gone down into the hollow.”

“Of course,” put in Sid. “I wonder how he came to get in with our girls, anyhow?”

“Our girls!” cried Tom. “How many do you own, anyhow?”

“Oh, you know what I mean,” said Sid. Then the students fell to discussing the matter, speculating as to what sort of a chap Hal Burton might turn out to be.

“Well, we had a good time,” remarked Tom, a little later, as the four entered the room they shared in common. “Hello!” he cried, “the clock has stopped.”

He caught up a nickel-plated alarm timepiece, and began shaking it vigorously.

“What are you trying to do?” gasped Phil indignantly, as he snatched the clock from Tom. “Do you want to ruin it?”

“I was trying to make it go.”

“Yes, and get the hair-spring caught up so she’ll do two hours in the time of one. Handle it gently, you vandal!” and he rocked the clock easily to and fro, until a loud ticking indicated that it had started again.

“And now for boning,” remarked Frank, as he sank into one of the twin armchairs that adorned the room. One was a relic—an heirloom—and the other had come to the boys in a peculiar manner. Both were old and worn, but the personification of comfort—so much so that once you had gotten into one you did not want to get out. Also it was hard work to arise unassisted, because of the depth.

Tom took the other chair, and Sid and Phil shared the dilapidated sofa between them. It creaked and groaned with their weight.

“I guess we’ll have to be investing in a new one, soon,” remarked Phil, as he tenderly felt of the sofa’s ‘bones’. “This won’t last much longer.”

“It will serve our time,” spoke Sid. “Don’t you dare suggest a new one. It would be sacrilege.”

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. “Hello, 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—Grasshopper,” cried Phil. “I suppose he’ll go in for the jump, too.”

“The more the merrier,” commented Frank. “But does any one know anything definite about this?”

No one did, beyond rumors that the athletic committee was considering it. Then they fell to talking of what might happen when the Spring came, of records, past performances, of great baseball and football games won and lost, and, by degrees, Tom felt less keenly the unpleasant news that had come to him.

“I do hope your dad wins that case!” exclaimed Phil, as they were getting ready for bed, on hearing the warning bell ring. “We don’t want to lose you, Tom.”

“And I don’t want to go, but still, a fellow——”

“I know, he has to do his duty. I sometimes feel that I ought to be at work helping the family instead of staying here, where it costs considerable,” interrupted Phil. “But if I ever can I’m going to make it up to them. Wait until I get my degree, and the law cases come pouring in on me, with big fees—say, maybe I could give your dad some points!” he exclaimed, for Phil was considering the law as his profession.

“Well, dad has hired about all the lawyers he can afford,” replied Tom with a smile.

“Oh, I didn’t mean for a retainer!” cried Phil. “I’d take the case for practice.”

“I’ll tell dad,” was the pitcher’s smiling answer.

From the easy chairs, and the rickety sofa, the lads arose, amid clouds of dust. The alarm clock, that served to awaken them in time for first chapel call, was set going again, and carefully placed under some cushions that the ticking might not keep them awake, while yet the bell might summon them in time for worship next morning.

“We surely must do something to that sofa,” remarked Phil, as he pressed down on the old springs. “We need a new one——”

“Never!” cried Tom.

“Then we’ll have to have this one revamped. It feels like lying on a pile of bricks to stretch out on it now. I think——”

“Hark!” interrupted Tom.

There were loud voices out in the hall. Voices in dispute.

“I tell you I will go out!” exclaimed someone.

“But the last bell is just going to ring,” expostulated another, whom the boys recognized as a hall monitor.

“What do I care! I can fool Zane. Stand aside!”

There was a moment of silence, and then the strokes of the retiring bell peeled out through the dormitories.

“There! I told you!” said the monitor. “You can’t go. If you do, I’ll have to report you.”

“All right, report and be hanged to you!” and then followed the sound of a scuffle in the corridor, as if some one was shoving the monitor aside.

[CHAPTER IV]
THE NEW FELLOW

“Something’s up,” remarked Tom in a whisper.

“Sure,” assented Phil. “But who is it?”

“I’ll take a look,” volunteered Sid, and, with a quick motion he turned out the electric light, somewhat of an innovation in Randall. Then he tiptoed to the door, which he opened on a crack. Through the aperture came the noise of retreating footsteps, and it was evident to the strained ears of the four chums that someone was going down the hall, toward the broad stairway that led out on the campus, while someone else was proceeding toward the main part of the dormitory, where Proctor Zane had a sort of auxiliary office.

“Who is it—can you see?” demanded Tom Parsons, in a hoarse whisper.

“No! Keep still, can’t you? Wait until he gets under the hall light,” was the reply from Sid.

“One of ’em was Franklin, the monitor for this floor; I’m sure of that,” declared Phil. “I know his voice.”

“And the other——” began Tom.

“It’s that new fellow,” interrupted Sid as he, just then, caught a glimpse of the youth who had caused the disturbance. “He came in yesterday, don’t you remember. He’s in the soph. science division. Gabbler—Rabbler or some such name as that.”

“I know!” exclaimed Tom. “It’s Shambler—Jake Shambler. He introduced himself to me after first lecture. Rather fresh, I thought him, even if he did make the soph. class. What’s he doing?”

“Going out, as near as I can tell,” replied Sid. “He must have had a scuffle with Franklin. Well, it’s none of our funeral. Let’s turn in. I’m dead tired.”

“What sort of a chap is he?” asked Frank, in rather idle curiosity, as with the light once more switched on, the four boys proceeded to get ready for bed.

“Not our sort at all,” replied Tom. “Decent enough appearing, and all that, but the kind that thinks he knows it all. That was a fair sample, the way he talked to the monitor just now.”

“Serve him right if he got caught,” murmured Phil.

“Oh, he’ll get it all right,” declared Sid. “Pop Zane isn’t as easy as he was when we first came here. He’s right up to the mark, and if this Shambler thinks he can shuffle off the campus, and come back when it pleases his own sweet will, he’ll have another guess coming. What did he say to you, Tom?”

“Nothing much.”

“It must have been something.”

“Well, I was in a hurry, and I didn’t pay much attention. He wanted to know something about athletics, whether we’d have a ball team or not. I said we probably would, and then he wanted to know what show there was for track athletics. I didn’t know, so I couldn’t tell him. Then I thought he was getting too friendly on short notice, so I shook him.”

“Nice way for one of Randall’s old stand-bys to treat a stranger, in a strange land,” commented Phil.

“Oh, he won’t be a stranger long,” declared Tom. “He has brass enough to carry him anywhere. He’ll get along. I don’t believe we want him in our crowd, anyhow.”

“All right,” assented the others and then, as the last bell, for “lights out” resounded through the dormitory, they leaped into bed.

If Jake Shambler, or any others who tried to “run the guard” that night were caught, it did not come to the notice of our friends. They awoke betimes the next morning, and, as usual hastened to chapel, making the last of their simple toilets on the way, for, somehow, neck scarfs never did seem to lend themselves to quick tying, in the early hours of dawn.

“Well, I hear you lads had a grand time last night,” remarked Holly Cross to the “inseparables,” as they paused on the chapel steps. “Saved fair maidens in distress, and all that sort of thing.”

“Oh, we were on the job with the bob,” laughed Tom. “Where were you?”

“Doing the virtuous—boning Latin.”

“Like Cæsar!” exploded Sid.

“No, Cicero,” said Holly gravely. “Vandal, to doubt the word of your betters!”

“Oh cheese it, Holly. You——” began Phil, but the warning bell ushered them into the sacred precincts of the chapel, over the exercises of which Dr. Churchill presided with his usual solemnity.

“There’s Shambler,” spoke Tom in a low voice to Sid, as the four filed out, soon to separate in order to attend different classes.

“Who, that big chap with the red cap?”

“That’s the fellow!”

“Looks as though he had plenty of bone and muscle,” commented Frank.

“He’s coming over here,” went on Tom. “We’ll have to be decent to him, I s’pose.”

Shambler approached. There was a certain breezy air about him, a good-natured manner, and a seeming feeling of confidence, that, while it might be all right, once you had made friends with him, yet was rather antagonizing at first appearance. It was as if the new student took too much for granted, and this is never overlooked among college lads.

Shambler nodded to Tom, in what he meant to be a friendly fashion, and began to keep step with him. Then he spoke.

“I say, I didn’t know it was the fashion at Randall for everybody to go to bed with the chickens.”

“It isn’t,” said Tom shortly.

“It seems so,” was the rejoinder. “I was out for a lark last night, and I couldn’t find anyone from around here to have fun with. I went past your room and it was as dark as a pocket—you’re on my corridor; aren’t you—sixty-eight?”

Tom nodded.

“Well, you certainly were sporting your oak. Did you hear the run-in I had with a monitor? Beastly fresh. I made out all right, fooled the proc. good and proper. I wish you had been along. Are these your friends?”

Shambler included Sid, Phil and Frank, in a comprehensive wave of his hand, and there was no choice but for Tom to introduce them, which he did with the best grace possible.

“Glad to meet you!” exclaimed Shambler, holding out a muscular hand. “I hear you’re in the athletic set. That’s where I want to get, too, though I’m fond of a good time, and not too much training. I had bully fun last night. Met some fellows from Boxer Hall, and we stayed in town quite late. Don’t you ever hit it up?”

“Not very often,” replied Sid, a bit coldly. “Well,” he added, “I’m going to leave you fellows. I’ve got a lecture on.”

“So have I,” added Tom, and, not to his very great pleasure, Shambler linked his arm in that of the pitcher’s, and walked off with him, remarking:

“I’m due for the same thing, old man. Do you mind if I sit with you? I’d be glad if you’d give me a few pointers. They do things a bit differently at the lectures here than at Harkness, where I came from. The old man’s business changed, and I had to come here. How about cutting lectures?”

“It can be done,” spoke Tom coldly, for it was not his habit to indulge in this practice. There were a few other commonplace remarks, and then the college day fairly began.

Not until that afternoon did Tom meet his three chums again, and then, in coming from the last lecture of the day, he heard footsteps behind him, and turned to see Shambler hurrying to catch up to him.

“I say!” began the new student. “I meant to tell you. I met some fine chaps last night from Boxer Hall. They’re coming over this afternoon to call for me. I was wondering whether you and your chums wouldn’t like to come out with us. We’re going to hire a drag and take a ride.”

“I don’t know,” began Tom. He appreciated the spirit in which Shambler gave the invitation, and yet he did not altogether like the fellow. Besides, he did not want to break up the pleasant relations so long existing among the inseparables, and he knew that spirit would vanish if a fifth member was introduced.

Still he did not quite see how he could “shake” Shambler. Ahead of him Tom saw Sid, Phil and Frank waiting for him, and on their faces he detected a look of annoyance, as they beheld his companion. But the problem was solved for him.

“By Jove! There are the Boxer Hall boys now!” cried Shambler, waving his hands to some youths who were discernable on the far side of the big campus. “Come on over, and we’ll have some fun.”

Tom took one look at the two newcomers. In an instant he recognized them as the enemies of himself and his chums—Fred Langridge and his crony, Garvey Gerhart.

“I—I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me,” murmured Tom.

“Why—what’s wrong?” asked Shambler, curiously.

“Well, the fact of the matter is that your new friends would hardly thank you for bringing us together,” answered Tom simply, as he swung off and joined his chums, leaving a rather mystified student standing staring after him.

[CHAPTER V]
IN “PITCHFORK’S” PLACE

“Well I say now! I wonder what’s up? Could I have——” Thus began Shambler to commune with himself as he watched Tom. “Something’s wrong. He doesn’t like Langridge and Gerhart, that’s evident. I must find out about this.”

Which he very soon did, after a short talk with his new chums, and my readers may be sure that Tom and his friends did not get any of the best of the showing, in the account Langridge and his crony gave of their affair, and the reasons for their withdrawal to Boxer Hall, told of in a previous volume of this series.

“Humph! If that’s the kind of lads they are I don’t want anything to do with them,” said Shambler, as he gazed after the retreating inseparables, following the tale of Langridge and Gerhart.

“They’re not our style at all,” declared Langridge with a sneer. “Still, don’t let us keep you from them, if you’d rather train in their camp.”

“Oh, I’m out for a good time!” declared Shambler boastfully. “I only tried to get in with them as I heard they were in the athletic crowd, and——”

“Hot athletes they are!” sneered Gerhart. “Say, if this talked-of an all-around athletic contest comes off this Spring, and our college goes in for it, we’ll wipe up the field with Randall, and Fairview too. They won’t know they started. I don’t see why you didn’t come to Boxer Hall, Shambler.”

“I wish I had, but it’s too late now. But say, I’m going in for athletics, even if you fellows think you can do us up. I don’t have to train with the Parsons crowd to do it though.”

“No,” admitted Langridge. “And so you offered to introduce Tom Parsons to us. Ha! Ha! No wonder he shied off!” and he laughed sneeringly. “But, if we’re going to town, come on before it gets too late.” And with that the trio swung off toward the trolley line that would take them to Haddonfield.

Meanwhile Tom and his chums tramped over the snow-covered campus, idly kicking the white flakes aside.

“Doesn’t look much like baseball; does it?” remarked Tom, as he made a snowball, and tossed it high in the air.

“No, but it can’t last forever,” declared Sid. “I say, did any of you hear anything more about having a track team, and going in for field athletics this Spring?”

“Only general talk,” replied Phil.

“There goes Dutch Housenlager,” spoke Frank. “Let’s see if he knows anything.”

“He’s got his back turned,” whispered Tom. “It’s a good chance to play a joke on him. Get in front of him, Sid, and be talking to him. I’ll sneak up, and kneel down in back. Then give him a gentle push and he’ll upset and turn a somersault over me.”

“Good!” ejaculated Phil. “It will be one that we’ve owed Dutch for a long time.”

The trick was soon in process of being played. While Sid held the big lad in earnest conversation, about the possibility of a track team for Randall, Tom silently knelt down behind him. Then Sid, seeing that all was in readiness, spoke:

“Have you seen the new style of putting the shot, Dutch?”

“Not that I know of,” replied the unsuspecting one. “How is it done?”

“This way,” answered Sid as, with a quick pressure against the chest of Dutch, he sent him sprawling over Tom’s bent back, legs and arms outstretched.

“Here! I say! Wow! What——”

But the rest that Dutch gave expression to was unintelligible, for he and Tom were rolling over and over in the snow, tightly clenched.

“Event number one. Putting the shot!” cried Sid, after the manner of an announcer giving a score at track games, “Dutch Housenlager thirty-seven feet, six and one-quarter inches!”

“Oh, dry up!” commanded Dutch, as he skillfully tripped Tom, who had arisen to his feet. “That’s one on me all right. Now, if you fellows are done laughing, I’ve got a bit of news for you.”

“About athletics?” asked Frank eagerly.

“No, but we’re going to have a new teacher in Pitchfork’s place to-morrow.”

“No!” cried Tom, half disbelieving, as he got up and brushed the snow from his garments.

“But yes!” insisted Dutch. “Our beloved and respected Professor Emerson Tines—alias Pitchfork—has been called to deliver a lecture on the habits of the early Romans contrasted with those of the cave dwellers. It’s to take place before some high-brow society to-night, and he can’t get back here to-morrow in time to take his classes. He’s going to provide a substitute.”

“Oh joy!” cried Phil.

“Wait,” cautioned Frank. “The remedy may be worse than the disease.”

“Who’s the sub?” asked Tom.

“Professor H. A. Broadkins, according to the bulletin board,” replied Dutch.

“What’s ‘H. A.’ stand for?” Sid wanted to know.

“Ha! Ha! of course,” replied Tom promptly.

“Joke!” spoke Frank solemnly.

“Harold Archibald,” declared Sid. “Oh, say, we won’t do a thing to him. I’ll wager he’s one of these pink and white little men, who wears a number twelve collar, and parts his hair in the middle, so he can walk a crack. Say, will to-morrow ever come?”

“Don’t take too much for granted,” advised Dutch. “I picked out a Harold Archibald once as an easy mark, and I got left. This may not be the same one, but—well, come on down the street. I’ve got a quarter that’s burning a hole in my pocket, and we might as well help Dobbins raise the mortgage on his drug store, by getting some hot chocolate there.”

“Pro bono publico!” ejaculated Tom. “Your deeds will live after you, Dutch.”

“And if you upset me again, you’ll go to an early grave,” declared the big lad, as the five strolled off to recuperate after the arduous labors of the day.

When Tom and his chums filed into Latin recitation the next morning, there was a feeling of expectancy on all sides, for the word had gone around that there might be “something doing” in regard to the professor who had come to temporarily fill the place of “Pitchfork.”

No one had seen him, as yet, but his probable name of “Harold Archibald,” had been bandied about until it was felt sure that it was an index to his character and build. Judge then, of the surprise of the lads, when they found awaiting them a tall man of dark complexion, with a wealth of dark hair, and a face like that of some football player. He was muscular to a degree. There was a gasp of distinct surprise, and several lads who had come “not prepared” began to dip surreptitiously into their Latin books, while others, who had contemplated various and sundry tricks, at once gave them over.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” began Professor H. A. Broadkins, in a deep, but not unpleasant voice. (It developed later that his name was Hannibal Achilles.) “I am sorry your regular teacher is not here, but I will do the best I can. You will recite in the usual way.”

Thereupon, much to the surprise of the boys, he began giving them a little history of the particular lesson for the day, roughly sketching the events which led up to the happenings, and giving reasons for them. It was much more interesting than when “Pitchfork” had the class and the boys did their best.

But Dutch Housenlager had to have his joke.

The lesson had to do with some of the Roman conquests, and, in order to illustrate how a certain battle was fought the professor, by means of books constructed a sort of model walled city. The besiegers were represented by more books, outside the walls.

“This was one of the first battles in which the catapult was used,” went on the instructor. “You can imagine the surprise of the besieged army when the Romans wheeled this great engine of war close to the walls, and began hurling great stones. In a measure the catapult served to cover the attack on another part of the city.

“For instance we will make a sort of catapult by means of this ruler. This piece of mineral will do for the stone, and er—I think I will ask one of you young men to assist me—er—you,” and he pointed to Dutch. “Just come here, and you may work the catapult when I give the word. I want to show the class how the other division of the army sapped the walls.”

There came into the eyes of Dutch a gleam of mischief, as he looked at the improvised catapult. It consisted of a ruler balanced on a book, with a piece of mineral, from a cabinet of geological specimens, for the stone. By tapping the unweighted end of the ruler smartly the rock could be made to fly over into the midst of the besieged city. But Dutch also noticed something else.

There was, on the table where the professor had laid out his map of battle, an inkwell. When he thought the teacher was not looking Dutch substituted the ink for the stone. A tap on the ruler would now send the inkwell flying. Mr. Broadkins did not seem to notice this as he went on with his preparations to sap the city walls.

“Now we are all ready,” he announced. “You may operate the catapult,” he added, apparently not looking at it, and Dutch, with a grin at his chums, prepared to hit the ruler a good blow. He calculated that the ink would be well distributed.

Suddenly the professor changed his plans. Without seemingly looking at Dutch, or the catapult, he said:

“On second thoughts you may come here—er—Mr. Housenlager. I will work the catapult, and you may represent the invading division. All ready now. Stand here.”

Dutch dared not disobey, nor dare he change the inkwell for the innocent stone. Yet he knew, and all the class could see, that he was standing where he would get a dusky bath in another minute. And the professor appeared all unconscious of the inkwell.

“Ready!” called Mr. Broadkins, and he struck the unweighted end of the ruler a smart blow.

Up into the air rose the bottle of ink. It described a graceful curve, and then descended. Dutch tried to dodge, but, somehow, he was not quick enough, and the inkwell hit him on the shoulder. Up splashed the black fluid, and a moment later Dutch looked like a negro minstrel, while a new pink tie, of which he was exceedingly proud, took on a new and wonderful pattern in burnt cork splatter design.

“Wow! Wuff!” spluttered the fun-loving student, as some ink went in his mouth. And then the class roared.

[CHAPTER VI]
THE NEW LEAGUE

Professor Broadkins looked up, as if mildly surprised at the merriment of the students. He glanced over into the walled city that he had constructed out of books, and then at Dutch. The sight of that worthy, with ink dripping from him appeared to solve the mystery.

“Why, er—Housenlager—what happened?” inquired the instructor. “Did some one——?”

“It was the catapult,” explained Dutch. “I—er——” he choked out.

Then the professor seemed to understand.

“Oh—ink!” he said, innocently. “You used the inkwell.”

“Yes,” assented Dutch. “I—er—put the bottle on the ruler, instead of the rock. I——”

“I understand,” interrupted the substitute Latin instructor. “It is too bad. How did you come to make that mistake, Housenlager?”

Once more the class laughed, and the lads were not restrained.

“You had better go to the lavatory, and wash,” went on the instructor. “And I think you all have, by this time, a better idea of a catapult than you had before, even though the wrong sort of missile was used. We will now proceed with the lesson.”

It might fairly be presumed that not as much attention was paid to the following instruction as was needed, but, at the same time, there was an excuse. Dutch came back to the class toward the end of the recitation, with a clean collar and a different necktie, and when the lecture was over he did not join in the mirth of his fellow students.

“Dutch was in bad that time, all right,” remarked Sid with a laugh, as the lads strolled out on the campus.

“A regular fountain pen,” commented Tom.

“Want a blotter?” asked Phil, offering a bit of paper.

“Or a pen wiper?” added Frank. “Say, how did you come to make such a mistake, Dutch?”

“Oh, let up, will you?” begged the badgered one. “It wasn’t any mistake. I thought he’d get the ink instead of me.”

“And he changed places with you,” interposed Tom. “Well, mistakes will happen, in the best of regulated classes.”

“Oh say!” began Dutch. Then, despairing of changing the subject, unless he took drastic measures, he added: “How about coasting again to-night?”

“Say, I believe it would be sport!” chimed in Tom. “It’s getting warm, and the snow won’t last much longer. Let’s get up a crowd, and go out on the hill.”

The idea met with favor at once, and soon plans were being made for a merry time.

“Telephone over to Fairview, and get your sister and her crowd, Phil,” suggested Sid.

“Listen to the lady-killer!” jeered Tom.

“Oh, let up,” importuned Sid. “I guess I’ve got as much right as you fellows.”

“That’s the stuff! Stick up for your rights!” cried Frank.

Though the moon was not as glorious as on the previous evening, the night was a fine one, and a merry party of young men and maidens gathered on the hill with big bobs, the gongs of which made clamorous music, amid the shouts and laughter.

There were several cliques of students, but Tom and his crowd, with Phil’s sister and the girls who were her chums, clung together and had many a swift coast. It was when several were thinking of starting for home that a party of lads, with a fine, big bob appeared on the hill.

“Who wants a ride?” challenged the leader, whom Tom recognized as Shambler. “Come on, girls,” he went on, addressing Ruth Clinton, with easy familiarity. “Get on, we’ll give you a good coast.”

“We don’t care to,” said Ruth, turning aside.

“Oh, it’s perfectly safe,” insisted Shambler. “Come on! Be sports. Here, Gerhart—Langridge, help the girls on!”

“They don’t need any help!” suddenly exclaimed Tom, stepping between Shambler and Ruth.

“How do you know—are you their manager?” asked the new student with a sneer.

“No—but I’m her brother,” interposed Phil. “Come on, Ruth, we’ll walk part way with you.” He linked his arm in hers, Phil and his chums began dragging their bob away, followed by Madge Tyler, Mabel Harrison and Helen Newton.

“Humph!” sneered Shambler, audibly. “I guess we got in wrong with that bunch, fellows.”

“Forget it,” advised Langridge. “There are other girls on the hill, and it’s early yet.”

And that night, as the four chums tumbled into bed, though they did not speak of it, each one had an uneasy feeling about Shambler. It was as if a disrupting spirit had, somehow, crept into Randall.

If further evidence was needed of the pushing, and self-interested spirit of Shambler the four chums had it supplied to them a little later, at an informal dance to which they were bidden at Fairview.

Tom and Phil came in from a walk one afternoon, to find Sid and Frank eagerly waiting for them in the room. No sooner had the two entered, than Frank burst out with:

“Come on, fellows, open yours, and see if they are the same as ours.”

“Open what?” asked Tom, looking about the room. “You don’t mean to say some one has sent me a prize package; do you?”

“Or maybe Moses has sent in to say that I don’t need to study any more; that I’ve done so well that I’m to be excused from all lectures, and that my diploma is waiting for me,” spoke Phil mockingly. “Don’t tell me that, fellows; remember I have a weak heart.”

“It’s the invitations!” exclaimed Sid. “At least I think that’s what they are. We got ’em, and here are two letters—one for you, Tom, and one for Phil. Come on, open ’em, and we’ll answer, and go together.”

“Go where?” demanded Tom. “Say, what’s this all about, anyhow? What’s going on?”

“They’re all excited over it,” added Phil. “Like children.”

“Oh! for cats’ sake open ’em, and don’t keep us waiting,” begged Frank, as he reached for two envelopes that lay on the table. The missives unmistakably bore evidence of being “party bids,” but Tom kept up the tantalizing tactics a little longer, by turning his over from side to side, pretending to scrutinize the postmark, and then ended by gently smelling of the delicate perfume that emanated from it.

“Smells good enough to eat,” he said, while Phil was tearing his open.

“It’s an invitation all right,” remarked Ruth’s brother. “The girls are to give a little dance to-morrow night. Shall we go?”

“Well, rather!” exclaimed Sid quickly.

“Listen to him,” mocked Tom. “About a year ago he would no more think of going where the girls were than he would of taking in a lecture on the dead Romans. But now. Oh shades of Apollo! You can’t keep him home!”

“Oh, dry up!” exclaimed Sid.

“Humph!” mused Phil. “I suppose we can go.”

“Sure; it’ll be fun,” agreed Frank.

“How about you, Tom?” asked Sid. “You’re coming, aren’t you?”

“Sure. I was only joking,” and then Tom went over to his bureau and began rummaging among the contents of a certain drawer—contents which were in all sorts of a hodge-podge.

“By Jove!” cried Tom. “It’s gone!”

“What?” inquired Frank.

“That new tan-colored tie I bought last week. It just matched my vest. Who took it?” and he faced his chums.

“How dare you?” burst out Phil, with pretended anger. “To accuse us, when there are so many other guilty ones in Randall! How dare you?”

“Come on, fork it over, whoever took it!” demanded Tom. “Some of you have it. Caesar’s side-saddles! A fellow can’t have anything decent here any more! I’m going to have locks put on my bureau!”

“What do you want of that tan-colored tie, anyhow?” asked Sid.

“Oh, so you’re the guilty one!” cried Tom. “I’ll get it,” and he strode over to his chum’s bureau, where, from a drawer, after a short search, he pulled the missing tie.

“All crumpled up, too!” he exclaimed, as he looked at it ruefully. “I’ll fix you for this, Sid.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean to muss it so. I just borrowed it to wear the other night, and we got to skylarking, and——”

“Skylarking with a girl!” cried Frank aghast. “Say, you are going some, Sid.”

“Oh, I only tried to——”

“Kiss her—I know,” went on Frank relentlessly. “You ought to be given the ‘silence.’ But in view of the fact that there are mitigating circumstances, and that you wore another fellow’s tie, we will suspend sentence. But don’t let it occur again. Now about this glad-rag affair.”

“That’s it,” broke in Phil. “I don’t see why Tom made such a fuss about that tie. He can’t wear it to the dance, anyhow.”

“Why not? Is it a full-dress affair?” asked the owner of the tan scarf, as he carefully smoothed it out.

“Sure it is.”

“Oh, then that’s different. I didn’t know.”

“And you bully-ragging me the way you did!” reproached Sid. “Never mind. I still have some friends left. But I’ll pay for having your little new tie put in shape again, Tommy my boy. I’ll buy you new inner tubes for it, and a shoe, and you can have all the gasolene you want to make it go.”

“Oh, shut up!” retorted Tom, and he began to rummage in his drawer once more.

“What now?” asked Phil.

“My studs. I suppose some one has pinched them.”

But no one had, and Tom’s sudden energy in looking to see if he had all things needful for the dance suggested to the others that they might profitably do the same thing.

The invitations, which had come by special delivery, were put away with similar ones, and other relics of good times in the past, and then the boys began talking about the coming affair. Lessons for the next day were not as well prepared as usual, as might easily be imagined.

And the night of the dance! For the preserving of the reputations of my heroes in particular, and all young men in general I am not going to give the details of the “primping” that went on in the rooms of the four inseparables.

“It is simply disgraceful to see decent, well-behaved and seemingly intelligent human beings behave so,” Holly Cross remarked as he dropped in when the four were getting into their “glad rags.” He went on: “I never would have believed it—never, if I had not seen it with my own eyes.”

“Get out! You’re mad because you’re not going,” said Tom, as he made up his white tie for about the fifth time.

“I wouldn’t so lower myself!” shot back Holly, as he went out.

But at last the boys were ready, and, talk about girls taking a long time to—well, but there, I promised to say nothing about it. Anyhow, at last they were off.

The dances at Fairview were always enjoyable affairs, and this one was no exception. The girl friends of our heroes were awaiting them.

“I hope your cards aren’t all filled,” greeted Tom.

“There is one dance left for each of you,” spoke Madge Tyler, but her laughing eyes stopped the protest that arose to Tom’s lips.

“You don’t mean it!” he burst out, as he took the program from her. Then a look showed him that there were many vacant spaces which he proceeded to fill. Madge laughed mischievously.

“Whose name was down here, that you rubbed off?” demanded Tom suspiciously. Miss Tyler blushed.

“Oh, that’s some of your Randall manners,” she burst out.

“Randall manners! What do you mean?” asked Tom.

“A little while ago,” she explained, “just before you boys came, I was standing near a pillar. Someone came up behind me, and snatched my program from my hand. Before I could stop him he had scribbled his name down. But I rubbed it out.”

“Do you mean a Randall man did that?”

“He did.”

“Who was he?”

“Mr. Shambler.”

“That lout again!” murmured Tom. “I’ll teach him a lesson.”

“No, don’t,” begged Madge. “I told him what I thought of him myself.”

“Good!” exclaimed Tom, and then he detailed the circumstances to his chums. They agreed that Jake Shambler would have to be taught a severe lesson if his “freshness” did not subside soon.

Not at all rebuffed by what had happened, however, Shambler asked some of the other girls in Miss Tyler’s set to dance with him, but they refused. However he managed to find some partners, including the girl who had invited him. He greeted our heroes with breezy familiarity, and they could do no less than bow coldly. But Shambler did not seem to mind.

The dance went on, and the inseparables had a fine time. Doubtless their girl friends did also, and it was not until an early hour that the affair ended.

“And to think that we won’t have another for at least a month!” groaned Tom, as he and his chums wended their way Randallward.

“And you’re the chap that was making such a fuss about a tan tie,” murmured Sid. “Look at yours now. There’s nothing left of it.”

“No, nor my collar either,” replied Tom, feeling of his wilted linen, for he had danced much.

A week, in the early Spring, can work wonders. One day there may be snow covering everything. Then a few hours of warm sun, a warm South wind, and it seems as if the buds were just ready to burst forth.

So it was at Randall. The brown grass on the campus began taking on a little hue of green. There was a spirit of unrest in the air. Lectures were cut in the most unaccountable way. Several lads were seen out on the diamond wherefrom the frost was hardly yet drawn. Balls began to be tossed back and forth.

Down by the river, where, because of the sloping land, it was dryer than elsewhere a little group of lads were gathered about one of their number.

“Now for a good one, Grasshopper!” someone cried.

“I’m going to do seventeen or bust a leg!” came the answer.

“What’s going on over there?” asked Tom of his three chums, who were strolling about.

“Pete Backus is doing his annual Spring hop,” said Phil.

“Let’s go watch him,” suggested Sid.

“He’s getting in training for the games,” declared Frank. “I think I’ll enter myself if they hold ’em.”

“Well, there’s been a lot of talk lately,” put in Tom. “Exter Academy is hot for ’em, and I understand Boxer Hall and Fairview would come in with us, on a quadruple league for the all-around championship. But let’s look at Backus.”

“How much?” cried the long-legged lad as he made his jump. “Did I beat my record?”

“Sixteen-nine,” announced a lad with a measuring tape.

“I’ll make it seventeen!” declared Grasshopper. “Oh, hello, Tom!” he cried. “Say, are you going in for it?”

“For what?”

“The games—new league—didn’t you hear about it?”

“No!” cried the quartette in a chorus.

“Oh, it’s going to be great,” went on the lad who imagined he was a jumper. “I’m going in for the running broad, and maybe the high. I’m practicing now.”

“Say, tell us about it,” begged Phil.

“Oh, there’s nothing settled,” interposed Jerry Jackson. “Some of the fellows are talking of getting up a league for all-around athletics, and I think it would be a good thing.”

“Is it only talk so far?” asked Tom.

“That’s all,” replied Joe Jackson, the other Jersey twin. “But there is going to be a preliminary meeting in a few nights, and then it will be decided. Are you fellows in for it?”

“We sure are!” cried the four friends.

The idea spread rapidly, and a few nights later there was a preliminary meeting in the Randall gymnasium concerning the new league. Representatives were present from Fairview, Boxer Hall and Exter, and one and all declared themselves in favor of something to open the season before the baseball schedule had the call.

“What will you go in for, Tom?” asked Sid, as the four inseparables were in their room after the committee session.

“Oh, I don’t know. I guess I won’t do much. I’m going to save myself for the diamond. There’s enough others to uphold the honor of Randall. There are Frank, and Phil and you.”

“But we want a good representation. How about the mile run for you?”

“Nothing doing. Frank, you ought to go in for the hammer throw, the shot put, and for the weight throwing.”

“Maybe I will. I understand there are some good lads at those sports at Boxer and Fairview.”

“Yes, and some here.”

“Shambler’s going to enter, I hear,” added Phil.

“What for?” queried Sid.

“The mile run, and some jumping.”

“Well, he looks good, though I don’t exactly cotton to him. Say, things will be lively here soon,” commented Frank. “I guess I’ll begin training.”

“Better come in, Tom,” advised Sid.

“No, I’ll wait a while.”

“It isn’t about that trouble at home; is it?” asked Sid in a low voice.

“Well, in a way, yes,” admitted Tom. “You see I don’t know when I may have to leave here, and it wouldn’t be just right to enter for a contest and then have to drop out.”

“Do you think it would be as bad as that?”

“It might be—there’s no telling.”

“Tom,” said Sid, and his voice took on a new tone. “I think you ought to enter, and practice up to the last minute. If you have to drop out, of course, that’s a different matter. But I think you ought to do your best.”

“Why? There are plenty of others. Why should I?”

“Why? For the honor of Randall, of course. You never were a quitter, and——”

“And I’m not going to begin now,” finished Tom with a smile. “I’ll enter the games, Sid.”

“I thought you would,” was the quiet answer.

[CHAPTER VII]
THROUGH THE ICE

“Shove over, Tom.”

“Say, what do you want, the whole sofa?”

“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 class 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!” ejaculated 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 cushions 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 Grasshopper 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 institutions 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 shivering 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!” ejaculated 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 constituted 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, flashing 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-classmen.

“You——” spluttered Tom, but Phil caught him by the sleeve.

“Don’t say it,” he advised. “Let the cad alone. If he’s like that, the sooner Randall knows it the better.”

“All right,” answered Tom in a low voice, swallowing his just wrath, and he swung aside. Shambler tried the jump again, and, though he did exceedingly well there was little applause for him from the watching throng, for many of the lads had heard what he said to Tom.

“There, I guess we’ve done our share!” exclaimed Tom, after a bit. “Come on out on the ice now, Phil, Sid and Frank have gone, and we don’t want to get left on a hockey game.”

Sunny River was thronged with students, and soon several games were in progress. A number of the girls and boys from Fairview Institute skated down, and among them was Phil’s sister Ruth, and her three girl chums. Naturally Tom and his three friends soon deserted the hockey game to skate with the girls, not heeding the entreaties of their companions.

“Let the lady killers go!” sneered Shambler, who had taken his place in one of the games. “We want sports in our crowd.”

“We must go home early,” said Ruth after a bit. “We are to have a class meeting to-night, and I’m one of the hostesses.”

“Strictly a girls’ party?” asked Tom.

“No boys allowed,” was the laughing answer, and after some pleasantries the four girls started up the frozen surface of the stream, their escorts going down. The hockey games were over, and many of the players had taken off their skates. Turning to wave a farewell to Ruth and the others, Tom saw a solitary lad skating near them.

“There’s Shambler,” he thought. “I guess he’d like to do some lady-killing on his own account. I hope the girls don’t get skating with him.”

Tom, who had lingered a few moments, now spurted ahead to catch up to his companions, who were some distance in advance. He had almost reached them when he was aware of some one skating rapidly up behind him. He wheeled about to behold Shambler, with a white, set face, coming on like the wind. And, a second later, Tom heard the screams of the girls and saw but two where, a moment before, there had been four.

“What—what happened?” he gasped.

“They—they went through the ice I guess!” panted Shambler. “They were near me, and I heard it crack. I—I skated away—I wanted to get help. I—I——”

“You skated away!” thundered Tom. “Sid—Phil—fellows! The girls are through the ice—an air hole I guess—come on back! Shambler—Shambler skated away!” he murmured under his breath as he looked unutterable things at the new lad. “Come on, boys!”

There was a ring of steel on ice. Four figures turned and like the wind shot up the river, while Tom, in the lead, shouted:

“We’re coming—we’re coming. To the rescue! Keep away from the edge, girls!” He wanted to warn back the two who had not fallen in.

“I—I can’t swim,” murmured the white-faced Shambler, as he kept on down the river. “I—I’ll get a doctor.”

[CHAPTER VIII]
TOM KEEPS SILENT

“Who is it? Who fell in?” gasped Phil, as he gained a place at Tom’s side.

“I don’t know,” was the strained answer, as Tom gazed eagerly ahead to make out the figures of the two girls, who, clinging together, stood near the hole through which their companions had disappeared.

“Can’t you see who they are?” went on Phil, half piteously, appealing to his chums. “Is—is——”

They knew what he meant, though he did not finish the sentence.

“It can’t be Ruth,” said Tom softly. “Ruth is standing there—with Madge Tyler.”

Yet, even as he spoke, he knew that it was not so. For the two girls on the ice, frantically turning to note the progress of the rescuing lads, disclosed their faces to the hurrying quartette, and it was seen that they were Mabel Harrison and Helen Newton.

“Ruth—Ruth is in the water!” gasped Phil, for he too saw now that his sister was missing.

“And Miss Tyler!” added Frank.

Then, without another word, the four boys skated on as they had never skated before, not even when a race was to be won—or lost. Tom gave a glance back, and saw Shambler heading for the shore. A fierce wave of anger swept over him, but he said nothing to his chums of the apparent act of cowardice.

“Is she there? Holding on to the ice? Are they both there, girls?” gasped Phil, as he covered the intervening distance between himself and the two frightened girls.

“Oh, boys, hurry!” called Mabel. “They are both holding on to the ice, but they can’t last much longer. It’s cracking all the while. We tried to go near, but it bends with us!”

“Keep back! Keep back!” shouted Tom. “Don’t you two go in. Fence rails, fellows! Fence rails are what we need!”

He and the others skated near enough to see the two girlish figures in the water, clinging to the ragged edges of the icy hole.

“Ruth! Ruth! Can you hold on a little longer?” gasped Phil.

“Ye-e-e-s!” was the shivering answer.

“And you, Madge?” cried Tom.

“Yes, but be quick—as you can,” she said, and her voice was faint.

“Off with our skates! Lay the rails on the ice and they’ll support our weight!” cried Sid, catching Tom’s idea, and leaping toward a fence on shore.

It was done in a trice, and, a moment later several long rails were stretched over the gaping hole. This gave firm support, and willing hands and sturdy arms soon raised the two dripping figures from the ice-cold water. The girls all but collapsed as they were dragged to safety.

“What shall we do with ’em?” asked Frank, who, truth to tell, had hitherto had little to do with girls.

“We must get them to some warm place at once!” cried Tom. “There’s a house over there. Mabel, you and Helen run over and tell ’em to get the fires good and hot, and have plenty of hot water. We’ll bring the girls over. Come boys, off with our coats and wrap ’em up.”

“Oh, but you’ll get c-c-c-cold!” protested Madge.

“What of it?” cried Sid sharply, as he peeled off his thick jacket and wrapped it around the shivering girl. His companions covered Ruth, and then Tom had an idea.

“Make a chair, fellows!” he cried. “A chair with our hands, and two of us can carry each girl. It’s the quickest way. Their dresses are freezing now.”

The tall pitcher’s plan was at once adopted. Wrapped in the boys’ coats, the girls were lifted up on the hands of the lads in the old familiar fashion, and then the journey to the farmhouse was begun, Mabel and Helen having preceded the little party.

“Come right in!” invited an elderly woman as she stood in the doorway. “We’ll soon have you as warm as toast. You boys bring in some more wood. Oh, it’s too bad! I’ll soon have some hot lemonade for ’em. You must get your wet things off, dearies.”

She was a motherly old soul, and with the assistance of her daughter, and Mabel and Helen, the half-drowned ones were soon fairly comfortable, while generous potions of hot lemonade warded off possible colds.

“It all happened so suddenly,” said Ruth when, some little time later, her brother and his chums were admitted to the room where the two girls were wrapped in blankets, and sitting in big chairs before a roaring fire. “We were skating on when, all of a sudden, the ice gave way, and Madge and I found ourselves in the water. Oh, I thought we would come up under the ice, and have to stay there until——” She stopped with a shudder.

“Don’t talk about it, Ruth dear,” begged her chum.

“It’s a good thing the boys were so close,” spoke Mabel. “They came like the wind, but, even then, I thought they would never get there.”

“I wonder if we can go back to school?” ventured Ruth.

“Certainly not,” decided her brother. “You must be kept good and warm, and——”

“But, Phil dear, perhaps they haven’t room here for us, and——”

“Yes we have,” interrupted the woman. “I’ve plenty of spare beds. You just make yourselves comfortable. Well, I declare, here comes Dr. Nash,” and she looked out of the window as the medical man, who had been summoned by Shambler, walked in the front yard. The physician continued the treatment already so well begun, and said, with a good night’s sleep, the young ladies would be none the worse off for the affair.

It was arranged that Mabel and Helen should go back to Fairview, to report the accident, and that Madge and Ruth should remain at the farmhouse over night. The boys, after making sure there was nothing more they could do, took their leave.

“Whew! That was a mighty close call!” gasped Phil, when they were once more skating toward Randall. “It gave me the cold shivers.”

“Same here,” added Tom.

“How’d you come to see ’em fall in?” asked Frank.

“I didn’t,” replied Tom. “I—er—some one told me.”

“Oh, yes, Shambler,” interposed Sid. “I wonder why he didn’t——”

Tom took a sudden resolve. It was within his power then to break Shambler—utterly to destroy his reputation among his fellow-students, for there was no doubt but that the new lad had acted the part of a coward. And, as Tom thought of the mean actions of the fellow in the gymnasium that afternoon, he was tempted to tell what he knew. Randall was no place for cowards.

And yet——

Tom seemed to see himself back in the room with his chums. He saw them lolling on the old sofa, or in the big chairs. He heard the ticking of the fussy little alarm clock, and with that there seemed to come to him a still, small voice, urging him to choose the better way—the more noble way.

“Shambler,” repeated Frank, “he——”

“He saw us going to the rescue I guess,” put in Tom quietly. “He saw that we could beat him skating and he—he ran for the doctor. It was—the wisest thing he could do.”

“That’s so,” agreed Phil. “I didn’t think of that. I must thank Shambler when I see him.”

Tom kept silent, but he thought deeply, and he knew that Phil’s thanks would be as dead-sea apples to Shambler.

“Come on, let’s hit it up,” proposed Frank. “I’m cold.” And they skated on rapidly.

They were soon at Randall, where the story of the rescue had preceded them, and they were in for no end of congratulations and hearty claps on the back.

“You fellows have all the luck,” complained Holly Cross. “I never rescued a pretty girl yet.”

“No, Holly’s too bashful,” added Dutch Housenlager! “He’d want to be introduced before he saved her life.”

“Or else he’d pass over his card, to introduce himself,” added Jerry Jackson. “Then he’d tell her what college he was from, and want to know whether she would have any serious objection to being pulled from the icy H2O by the aforesaid Holly.”

“You get out!” cried the badgered one. “I can save girls as well as anyone, only I never get the chance.”

“You’re not quick enough,” suggested Dutch. “You should be on the lookout to get a life-saving medal. But, all joking aside, Tom, was it at all serious?”

“It sure was,” came the reply. “It looked to be touch and go for a few minutes.”

On his way to the library that evening, to get a book he needed in preparing his lessons, Tom met Shambler. The athlete looked at our hero, half shamefacedly, and asked:

“Are the—the girls all right?”

“Yes,” answered Tom shortly.

“I say, Parsons,” and Shambler’s voice had a note of pleading in it. “I—I lost my head, I guess. I was a coward, I know it. I—er—are you going to tell?”

“Of course not!” snapped Tom. “We—we don’t tell—at Randall.”

He hurried on, not stopping to hear what Shambler had to say—if anything—in the way of thanks.

[CHAPTER IX]
IN THE ICE BOAT

“What can we do to have some fun?”

“Stand on your head.”

“Go off by yourself to a moving picture show.”

“You’re a whole circus yourself.”

It was Dutch Housenlager who had asked the question, and it was Tom Parsons and his chums who had made answers, for Dutch had invaded the precinct of their room in search of amusement, to the detriment of the studious habits of our friends.

“Oh, say now, be decent, can’t you?” pleaded Dutch. “I’m in earnest.”

“So are we,” declared Tom. “We aren’t all geniuses like you, Dutch. We have to study in order to know anything, but we can’t if you come here, begging to be amused.”

“I’ve got to do something—or bust,” declared the fun-loving lad in desperation.

“If you’re going to blow up, please go outside,” invited the big Californian solemnly. “It messes up a room horribly to have a fellow like you scattered all over it. Get outside!”

“You brute,” murmured Dutch. “After all I’ve done to add to the gaiety of Randall.”

“Work off another ink catapult on a new teacher,” advised Tom. “That’s always good for a laugh.”

“Oh, forget it,” urged Dutch, for that was a sore point with him yet, though it had happened some weeks before.

It was now several days since the rescue of the girls, and they had suffered no permanent ill effects from their break through the ice. Phil and his chums had seized on the excuse of asking about them, to pay several visits to Fairview, until Miss Philock, the aged preceptress “smelled a mouse,” as Sid said, and curtailed the visits of all but Phil, who, by virtue of being a brother, was allowed to see Ruth for a few minutes.

“But what’s the fun of going to see your own sister?” asked Phil.

“What indeed?” echoed the others, though some of them wished they were Phil.

And, as the days wore on the cold did not diminish, and the ice on the river held.

“A slim outlook for Spring games,” growled Dutch, as he sat in the chums’ room, vainly begging a suggestion for fun.

“Oh, well, warm weather will come, sooner or later,” declared Tom with a yawn, flinging a book behind the ancient couch. “How are things working out?”

“Pretty good, I guess,” replied Dutch. “Holly and Kindlings have charge of the arrangements. It’s practically decided that we’ll be one of a four-sided league. The only point is that of deciding what events to put on the program. Some want one, and some another.”

“Think Randall has any chance?” asked Phil.

“Sure,” declared Dutch. “Shambler is showing up well in the runs, and Frank here is jumping his head off, and going some with the shot and hammer. You fellows want to perk-up.”

“Oh, there’s time enough,” remarked Tom. “So Shambler is doing good work; eh?”

“Fine. I didn’t think he could. Some of the fellows seemed to think he had a yellow streak in him, but it isn’t showing, and I don’t believe it will.”

And then, it came to Tom, more forcibly than ever, that Shambler did have a yellow streak in him—the yellow streak of cowardice.

“And if it comes out at the last minute, it will be bad for Randall,” thought Tom. “But I promised to keep still, and I will. If anything happens—well, the rest of us will have to make it up, and cover it—for the honor of Randall.”

“Oh I say. I can’t stand this!” cried Dutch at length. “I’m getting the blues. Come on out, fellows. I’ve got a surprise for you. I’ve been holding it up my sleeve, thinking you’d suggest something, but, as long as you haven’t, I’m going to spring something. Chuck the books!”

“What is it?” asked Sid, glancing up in anticipation.

“Come on out on the river,” urged Dutch. “It’s early yet, and I guess Zane won’t make a fuss if we ask him for a little time off. We’re all standing well in classes, thank fortune.”

“The river!” yawned Frank. “I’ve had enough of skating for to-day.”

“It isn’t skating,” declared Dutch. “Come on. I’ll guarantee you a surprise and some fun, or you need never trust me again. It’s a fine moonlight night—as nice as when we went coasting that time. Come on!”

“What’s up?” demanded Tom. “No skylarking with the Spring exams so near.”

“Nothing worse than usual,” guaranteed Dutch. “Be sports, and come on before the wind dies out.”

“Wind! Are you going to fly kites?” asked Sid.

“Something like it. Listen. A fellow up the river has built a home-made ice boat. I saw him at it when he started, and gave him a pointer or two.”

“That’s the first I knew you were an expert on ice boats,” chimed in Phil.

“I’m not,” admitted Dutch frankly, “but he thought I was, and it was all the same. He adopted my ideas, and the fun of it is that the boat goes like a charm. He said I could take it any night I wanted to, and I’m going to borrow it now. We’ll have a sail under the moon, and blow some of the cobwebs out of our brain.”

“Say, that’s all to the ham sandwich!” cried Tom. “I’m with you.”

“If Zane will let us go,” added Sid.

The proctor, after a show of hesitation, yielded and soon the five students were walking along the edge of the frozen river.

The owner of the home-made ice yacht readily gave Dutch permission to use it, and soon the boys had slid it out on the frozen stream and prepared to hoist the sail.

“Do you know how to run it?” asked Tom of Dutch.

“Of course I do. Didn’t I help build it? All you have to do is to hoist the sail and steer. You can’t go wrong.”

“All right, you do it then,” directed Sid. “I’d be sure to have an upset.”

“Oh, it’s easy,” boasted Dutch. “Pile on.”

“Well, stop it. Wait for a fellow!” cried Phil, for the craft was even now moving slowly off before the breeze.

“Hop on!” ordered Dutch. “You can’t stop this like an auto, you know. Pile on while it’s moving.”

They managed to, somehow, and then, with Dutch at the helm, and to manage the sail, they darted off.

Now, if the truth is to be told, Dutch knew about as much of how to manage an ice boat as a Hottentot would about running a locomotive, but the Randallite was not going to admit that.

“I can sure sail up the river, for the wind is blowing that way,” he reasoned with himself. “And if it doesn’t switch around, and blow us back again, we can walk, and I’ll tell the fellows something has busted.”

Soon the ice boat began to move faster and faster.

“How’s this?” demanded Dutch proudly.

“Fine!” cried Sid. “I never knew you could sail one of these things.”

“Oh, I don’t go about telling all I know,” remarked Dutch modestly.

“How do you steer?” asked Tom.

“Same as in a sailboat,” replied the helmsman. “When you want to go to the left you shove this handle over this way, and the opposite way to go to the right. See,” and he moved the tiller to one side.

Instantly there was a mix-up, the boat suddenly overturned and five figures sprawled out on the ice, while the craft turned around as if on a point, the sail banging in the wind.

“Is—is that the way you always steer?” asked Phil sarcastically, “or was this just a special method, invented for our amusement?”

“This is his regular way,” declared Tom, rubbing his elbows. “It must be.”

“I—er—I turned too short,” stammered Dutch. “I can do better next time. Let’s right the boat.”

“Don’t have any ‘next time,’” urged Frank. “Just sail straight away, if it’s all the same to you. Hold on there!” he cried as the boat showed an inclination to go off by herself. “Whoa!”

“That’s no way to talk to an ice boat,” insisted Sid. “You should say ‘Gee-haw!’”

“Say, I know how to manage her all right,” declared Dutch. “Come on now, get on, and we’ll go on up the river.”

Somewhat less confident of their friend’s ability than at first, the boys piled on, and once more they were off. For a time all went well. The ice was smooth and hard, and the breeze powerful enough to send them along at a kiting pace. Then, as they came opposite Fairview institute, Tom had an idea.

“Let’s take a chance, and call for the girls,” he said. “The ogress can’t do more than turn us down, and she may let them come out for a spin.”

“Come on,” agreed Phil and the others.

“Can you stop this shebang?” asked Frank, of Dutch.

“Stop it? Of course I can. I’ll land you on shore at any spot you say.”

“Then put us up by the boat dock, and you can wait there until we come back. Shall we bring you a girl?”

“Not much,” was the indignant answer. “I’ve got troubles enough to manage this boat. It’s crankier than I thought it was.”

Dutch put the helm over, with the intention of steering for the shore. At that moment two figures were seen walking along on the surface of the frozen river, and the form of one of the figures was vaguely familiar to the boys.

“Look out! Don’t run into them,” cautioned Tom.

“No danger,” declared Dutch. “I——”

“You’re heading right for ’em!” declared Sid.

“Oh, I’ll clear ’em all right,” asserted the steersman. “Just you fellows sit steady and watch your uncle.”

But, in spite of his efforts, the ice boat seemed to be bearing down straight on the two figures. They halted, hesitated for a moment, and then prepared to run out of danger.

“It’s a lady!” cried Sid.

A scream bore out his assertion.

“Miss Philock, or I’m a sinner!” ejaculated Tom.

The moon came out from behind a rift of clouds, throwing the figures into bold relief.

“Look out where you’re going!” warned a man’s voice.

“Pitchfork!” gasped Sid in a hoarse whisper. “Our Latin professor!”

“And look who he’s with!” added Frank.

Down bore the ice boat on the two, like a juggernaut of fate.

“Oh! Oh mercy!” screamed Miss Philock, as she saw the danger.

“Don’t you dare to run us down!” cautioned Mr. Tines imperiously.

“Tom—Sid, lend me a hand with this rudder!” cried Dutch. “It’s jammed!”

The three students tried in vain to change the course of the craft. Nearer and nearer it came to the luckless two, who were on the frozen river. There was a scream of fear, a chorus of angry cautions, and then the ice boat struck.

The feet of Professor Tines went gracefully from under him, and he sat down on the very bow of the ice boat, clinging to a mast stay. As for Miss Philock, she was struck by one of the runners, tossed into the air, and came down in the blanket-padded cockpit, fortunately striking none of the boys.

Then, with a lurch the boat slewed around, and headed for shore. A moment later, being unguided, she seemed to change her mind, and did a sort of waltz and two-step combined. Next, with a sharp swing, the craft turned gracefully on her side, and there was a splintering sound as the mast snapped, and the sail came down, like a blanket over all.

[CHAPTER X]
A MISSING PICTURE

“This is an outrage! It was done purposely! I shall demand severe punishment for the perpetrators of it!”

Thus exclaimed Professor Emerson Tines, his voice half smothered under the sail of the ice boat.

“Oh, what has happened? Are we sinking? Are we going through the ice?” cried Miss Philock.

It was almost beyond the power of the lads to give any adequate description of what had happened, so rapidly had events shaped themselves. Tom managed to crawl out of the tilted cockpit.

“Allow me,” he said, in his best manner, as he extended his hand to help up Miss Philock.

“Oh! Are you sure there’s no danger?” she asked, hesitating to trust herself to him. “Is there a hole in the ice?”

“None whatever,” Tom assured her. “Unfortunately we ran you down with the ice boat, but I trust you are not hurt.”

Just then Phil managed to scramble out of the tangle of sail and mast, and his face was revealed in the moonlight. Miss Philock knew him for the brother of one of her charges.

“Oh, Mr. Clinton!” she cried. “I never would have believed it of you!”

“An accident, I do assure you,” interposed Phil. “It could not be helped. I hope you are not hurt, Professor Tines.”

“Hurt! Humph! Little you care whether I am or not. I shall report you to Dr. Churchill as soon as I reach college. It is scandalous!”

The Latin teacher managed to scramble to his feet, ignoring the proffered hand of Phil. Sid, Frank and Dutch managed to crawl out from under the ice boat.

“Whew!” whistled Dutch, looking at the broken mast.

“I thought you said you could steer,” growled Frank.

“I could, only the rudder got jammed. It wasn’t my fault. Wow! This is tough!”

By this time Tom had assisted Miss Philock to the shore, and Professor Tines, seeing the lady, whom it developed later, he had been escorting from a lecture, hastened to join her.

“I trust you have suffered no injuries,” he said.

“No. And you, Professor Tines?” she asked, and Tom fancied there was a note of anxiety in her voice.

“Oh I am all right, except that I am very much upset over this annoyance.”

“I fancy we all were,” said Miss Philock, with better grace than Tom had dared hoped she would show. “It was an accident.”

“I am not so sure of that,” said the Latin teacher grimly.

“Oh, it was, I assure you!” broke in Dutch earnestly. “I couldn’t work the rudder. We—we didn’t mean to do it.”

There was silence for a moment, during which the boys looked first at the damaged and overturned ice boat, and then at the figures of the professor, and the lady teacher of Fairview.

“I—er—I think we had better be getting on, Mr. Tines,” the lady said, at length. “It is getting late.”

It was a gentle hint, and he took it.

“I shall see you young gentlemen later,” said the professor significantly, as he started up the river bank with Miss Philock.

“And it’s us for a walk back,” spoke Tom slowly, when they had remained in silence for about a minute. “Dutch, we are much obliged for your evening of pleasure,” he added sarcastically.

“Oh, hang it all, I didn’t mean——” began the fun-loving lad.

“Oh, forget it! Of course it wasn’t your fault,” broke in Sid. “Come on. Let’s haul the boat up on shore, and hoof it back. We can explain to Zane.”

Fortunately for themselves our friends had held good records of late, and the proctor did not question them too closely, as they drifted in some time after the locking-up hour. They told of the accident, but did not mention Mr. Tines and his companion.

“We’ll just hold that in reserve,” decided Tom. “Fancy him being out with Miss Philock!”

Probably the walk back to Randall from Fairview gave Professor Tines a chance to change his views regarding the happening of the night. For, though he looked rather grimly at our heroes in chapel the next morning, he said nothing, and there was no official report of the occurrence, for which Tom and his chums were duly thankful.

“Pitchfork is more of a gentleman than we gave him credit for,” he declared. “We each have something to hold over him in reserve, for I don’t believe he’d like the story told broadcast.”

Dutch and the others clubbed together to pay for the damage to the ice boat, and the owner said they could use it as often as they wished. But there was no more chance that Winter for Spring came with a rush after that last big freeze, and there were no more cold weather sports.

Now indeed did the talk turn to ball games, and track athletics. The latter had the call, for it was something new for Randall, and the other institutions of learning that formed the four-sided league.

Several committee meetings were held, and a more or less tentative program was made up. Available material was talked of, and every day saw more and more candidates in the gymnasium, out on the cinder path, or in the hammer circle.

“Have you any line of what Boxer Hall is doing?” asked Tom of Dan Woodhouse one afternoon, when a number of the lads were gathered in the reading room of the gymnasium after some hard practice.

“Well, they’re going strong,” replied Kindlings. “But if we all keep on the job here at Randall, and do our best, I think we can win. But every fellow has got to do his best.”

“Sure,” assented Sid.

“Are Langridge and Gerhart entered?” Frank wanted to know.

“Yes; both of ’em. But don’t let that worry you. There are others at Boxer Hall more to be feared than those two. I tell you we’re not going to have a walkover. Exter is going to show up strong, too, for a new college.”

A group of lads were gathered about a table on which were several sporting papers, containing a number of photographs of athletes, and showing scenes at various meets.

“I tell you fellows what it is,” put in Shambler, who seemed to have gotten very much at home in the few weeks he had been at Randall, “practice is the only thing that will help us win the championship. I know, for I’ve been through the mill. We’ve got to practice more.”

“Did you do it at Harkness?” asked Phil.

“Yes, some, but I’ve trained by myself a lot,” and there was a trace of boastfulness in his voice. “I’m going to make the mile run,” he added.

“And win?” asked Sid, half sarcastically, turning over a pile of papers.

“Sure,” assented Shambler. “I—er—” Suddenly he reached out and picked a paper from amid the pile. He seemed to be nervously folding it in his hands. “I used to be a good runner,” he went on, “and there’s no reason why I can’t do as well again. I think I’d rather do that than be in the high or broad jump. But of course——”

“All the candidates will have a try-out,” put in Kindlings. “The best one wins, and he ought to be willing to do the best that’s in him for Randall.”

“Of course,” assented Shambler, and he seemed glad of the interruption, still nervously folding the paper.

A few minutes later he left the room rather hurriedly, and, some time after that, Phil began looking through the pile of illustrated papers for a certain one.

“It was here a while ago,” he said to Kindlings. “I wanted to show you how they had the hurdles arranged at the last intercollegiate meet in New York. It’s a good idea I think. Where the mischief is that paper?”

“Which one?” asked Tom, who was reading a book on training rules.

“The one Shambler was looking at. Oh, here he comes now. What’d you do with that sporting paper, Shambler?” asked Phil.

“Oh—er—that paper—here it is,” and he pulled it from his pocket. “Guess I stuck it there by mistake.”

He tossed it over, and turned into the billiard room, with a backward glance at the lads who were now bending over the pages of the journal.

“That’s what I mean,” went on Phil, pointing to an illustration. “Hello, the page is torn. It wasn’t a while ago.”

“What’s on the other side?” asked Kindlings half curiously.

“Some baseball nine—I can’t read all the name—it’s some professional team,” replied Phil, “and one of the players is missing—torn off. Well, never mind, you can see the hurdles, though. I think we might use that kind at our meet.”

Then the two fell to talking of various forms of athletic apparatus, eventually tossing the paper aside. Tom picked it up when his two friends had gone in to have a game of pool.

“That page wasn’t torn before Shambler picked this paper up,” mused our hero. “I wonder what his object was?”

[CHAPTER XI]
THE WAY OF A MAID

“Who’s it from, Phil?”

“Let’s read it; will you?”

“He doesn’t dare?”

These comments greeted the advent of Phil into the room of the inseparables, after a late lecture, one day about a week following the events narrated in the last chapter. The cause was a pink envelope that was exposed in a prominent place on Phil’s bureau—an envelope flanked by a comb, brush, a handkerchief box and a red tie, to be thus rendered all the more conspicuous. Tom, Sid and Frank, having entered the room ahead of their chum, and seeing the missive, had thus called his attention to it.

“What’s all the excitement?” asked Phil innocently enough.

“As if he didn’t know!” jeered Tom.

“I’ll give you a quarter if you let me read it first,” offered Frank.

“Double it!” cried Sid promptly.

“Oh, it’s a letter,” spoke Phil, as he strode over to his bureau and picked up the missive. Then, with provoking slowness, he turned it over, scrutinized the postmark, looked at the dainty seal in wax, and made as if to place the letter back on the bureau.

“Open it you rascal!” ordered Tom.

“What for?” asked Phil slowly. “It’s only a letter from sis. It will keep until I get my coat off, I guess.”

“A letter from your sister—not!” declared Sid. “I—er—I know——”

“Oh, you know her writing as well as all that, do you?” asked Phil quickly. “I congratulate you. Maybe I’m wrong.”

Once more he scrutinized the address. It bore his name in big, and rather sprawling characters.

“On second thoughts I guess it isn’t from sis,” he went on. “At least she didn’t direct the envelope. It’s from Madge Tyler, if I’m any judge.”

“What’s she writing about?” Tom wanted to know quickly, so quickly that the others glanced at him, and Tom had the grace to blush.

“We’ll see,” went on Phil. Then, with exasperating slowness he proceeded to read the letter. Next he carefully folded it, placed it back in the envelope, and proceeded to get into his lounging garments.

“Well?” snapped Tom, unable to keep silent longer.

“Oh, I don’t know whether you fellows will be interested or not,” said Phil slowly. “The letter was from my sister, just as I guessed, but she got Madge to direct the envelope.”

“But what’s it about?” demanded Sid.

“Oh, the annual May walk, which takes place the last of April, is about to be held at Fairview,” went on Phil, “and sis thought maybe I’d like to go with her.”

“You?” cried Tom.

“Take your own sister?” added Sid.

“Well, unless some one else relieves me——”

“I will!” cried Frank and Sid together.

“Thanks,” laughed Phil. “Then I guess I can help some other brother out. But, say, do you fellows want to go? Sis said I could ask you all. It’s the usual affair, you know. The young ladies of Fairview, under the eagle eye of Miss Philock and her aides, will go for a May walk, to gather flowers and look on nature as she is supposed to be. There will be a little basket lunch, and the usual screams when the girls think they see a snake. Want to go?”

“Sure!” cried Tom, and the others chorused an eager assent.

“It will be a good time then, to ask the girls to come to the athletic meet,” said Sid. “They will come; won’t they?”

“Oh, I guess so,” replied Phil. “They won’t root for Randall, though, when there’s going to be a team from their own school.”

“Oh, we couldn’t expect it,” said Tom. “But we’ll have a good time on the May walk.” And forthwith he proceeded to look over his stock of neckties.

Not many at Randall were favored as were our four heroes in the matter of invitations to the May walk, and when it became known that Tom and his chums had one of the coveted screeds, their good offices were bespoken on all sides, that they might use their influence for others.

“Nothing doing,” replied Tom to Holly Cross, Kindlings, and a few other kindred spirits. “Sorry, but we can’t do it.”

“And the nerve of Shambler,” said Sid one afternoon, as he joined his chums. “He wanted to know if we couldn’t introduce him to some new girl at Fairview. The one he did know, shook him.”

“He’s getting worse all the while,” declared Tom. “There is something about that fellow that I can’t cotton to.”

“But he’s a good runner and jumper,” declared Phil.

“Altogether too good,” declared Tom. “If he did as well at Harkness, as he’s doing here in practice, why did he leave?”

“Maybe he wanted to get in a bigger college.”

“Harkness isn’t much smaller than Randall, and it’s got a heap sight more money. He could have stayed on if he had wanted to,” and Tom shook his head. Two or three things in regard to Shambler recurred to him, and he found himself seriously wondering whether or not there was not some mystery about the new student.

“Oh, pshaw! I guess I’m getting too fussy,” decided Tom. “I must see about getting my trousers pressed for that walk.”

Somewhat informally among themselves, the four lads had apportioned the four girls. Tom was to take Madge, Phil would escort Helen Newton, Sid would take Ruth Clinton, and Frank Simpson would look after Mabel Harrison. This pleased the lads, but they had yet to ask the girls if this arrangement suited. To Tom was delegated this task, and one afternoon he set off with three notes, his own to be a verbal message.

The choice had fallen on his shoulders as he had the last lecture period free, and could make time to go to Fairview. It was with rather pleasant feelings that our hero took the trolley to the co-educational institution, and, when he neared the place, as it was such a fine day, he got out about a mile from his destination, deciding to walk the rest of the way.

As Tom turned down a grassy lane, that was rich in a carpet of green, he heard, coming from a clump of bushes just ahead of him, a cry of pain—a cry in a girl’s voice.

“Some one’s in trouble!” Tom decided at once, and, naturally he hurried to the rescue. He saw, reaching up that she might pull a large cocoon from a high bush, a pretty girl, a stranger, but who bore unmistakably the air of a Fairview student. In an instant Tom saw what the trouble was.

The bush was one containing big thorns, and, in reaching for the cocoon, the girl’s arm had caught on a sharp point. She was held by her sleeve in such a way that either to advance her arm, or withdraw it, meant to further pierce her flesh with the thorn.

“Oh!” she cried, and then Tom came on the scene.

“Perhaps I can help you,” he said, with a lifting of his hat. “Do you want the cocoon?”

“Yes. Oh, but don’t mind that now! If you can break off the thorn, so I can get my arm out——”

A spasm of pain passed over her face, and Tom acted quickly. He wore heavy gloves, but the thorns pierced even through them. But he did not mind, and soon had broken away the offending branch, not before, however, the girl, in moving her arm, had inflicted a long scratch that bled freely.

“Oh!” she murmured, and she reeled a bit as she stepped back. “I—I can’t bear the sight of blood!” she added.

Tom caught her, or she might have fainted, and then, being a lad of promptness, he quickly bound his handkerchief around the scratch.

“If you will sit down here, I think I can get some water over at that house,” he went on. “It will make you feel better.”

“Oh,” she began, “it is such a bother—I’m so sorry.”

“Not at all,” Tom hastened to assure her, and in a little while he was back with a glass of water. It did make the girl feel better, and, presently, she arose.

“I’m all right, now, thank you,” she murmured, as she walked along. Tom watched her narrowly. “I ought to have worn gloves, or else have brought along a pair of scissors,” she went on. “We have to do some work in the natural history class, and that’s why I wanted the cocoon. I’m at Fairview,” she needlessly added.

“I’m on my way there,” spoke Tom. “My name is Parsons. Ruth Clinton’s brother and I——”

“Oh, I’ve heard about you,” the girl interrupted with a smile that Tom thought was very attractive. “Ruth was telling me about you.”

“That’s nice,” laughed Tom, and then he caught sight of the cocoon that had been the cause of all the trouble. “Wait, I’ll get it for you,” he volunteered, and he did though he scratched himself grievously on the thorns.

“I’ll walk on with you,” he said, as he rejoined the girl. “I have a note for Ruth.”

“I’m Miss Benson,” said the girl, simply. “I am sure I can’t thank you enough, and I feel as if I already knew you.”

“Good!” cried Tom, wondering how it was he got along so well with girls, when he never before had been used to them.

They walked on, talking of many things—and the May outing. The main entrance of Fairview loomed in sight.

“What shall I do about your handkerchief, Mr. Parsons?” asked Miss Benson. “I’m afraid if I take it off now——”

She started to do so, but at the sight of a little blood trickling down her wrist she shuddered.

“Keep it on,” advised Tom. “You can send it to me later. Perhaps you had better have a doctor look at the scratch. It may need treatment. Some of those thorns are poisonous.”

Instinctively he leaned over and began tightening the handkerchief on the girl’s wrist. He was engaged in this rather delicate task when, from behind a clump of shrubbery, stepped four maids. In an instant Tom knew them for Phil’s sister and her three chums. They regarded him and his companion curiously.

“Why—it’s Tom!” exclaimed Ruth impulsively.

“Yes. He—he helped me out of a bad predicament,” explained Miss Benson. “I was caught on a thorn bush. I’ve scratched my wrist dreadfully, girls.”

“Oh!” exclaimed Miss Tyler, rather blankly, and Tom thought it was strange that none of the girls seemed to take much interest in Miss Benson’s injury. She herself smiled at Tom, and then said:

“I’ll go along now, to the infirmary. I’m so much obliged to you. I’ll send the handkerchief back. It was so fortunate for me that I met you.”

“She generally manages to meet somebody,” murmured Miss Harrison, and Tom wondered more than ever as he lifted his hat in farewell.

“How are you?” greeted Tom, to Ruth and the others. “I’m a sort of special messenger to-day.”

He pulled out his letters—one for Ruth, one for Mabel, and one for Helen.

“None for me?” asked Madge, in mock distress.

“I—er—I came in person,” spoke Tom in a low voice, as he saw that the others were perusing the epistles that formally besought the company of the young ladies on the May walk.

“Oh——” began Miss Tyler.

“May I have the honor of escorting you on the outing?” asked Tom, laughing to take out the formality of his request.

Miss Madge Tyler looked at him a moment. Then her gaze seemed to wander toward the retreating form of Miss Benson. Tom waited, wonderingly.

“I thank you,” said Madge, a bit stiffly, “but I—am already engaged,” and she turned aside, while Tom swallowed hard.

Clearly he was but beginning to know the way of a maid.

[CHAPTER XII]
IN BITTER SPIRITS

“Come on, Tom, aren’t you going to tog up?”

“Yes, get a move on, we don’t want to be late.”

“Let’s see the new tie you bought.”

Thus did the tall pitcher’s chums address him as they circled about the all too small room when it came to the pinch of all four dressing at once, and that in their best outfits, which indicated an occasion of more than usual importance.

But Tom was not dressing. In his most comfortable, which is to say his oldest garments, he lounged on the rickety old sofa, with a book in his hand, and a novel at that.

But he was not reading, a fact which a close observer could have at once detected, only there were no close observers in evidence that pleasant afternoon—the afternoon of the May walk of Fairview.

Tom glanced from time to time at the printed page but he saw nothing of the words. Instead, there came between him and the types, the vision of a girl’s face—an imperious face now, with eyes that looked coldly at him.

“Say, you’ll be late!” warned Phil, “and we’re not going to wait for you. You’ll have to save your own bacon.”

“Oh—all right,” grumbled Tom, in tones he meant to be deceiving. “No use of any more trying to dress in this bandbox. I can throw my things on in a jiffy when you fellows get out of the way.”

“Listen to him,” taunted Sid.

“I’ll bet he’s got a whole new outfit,” declared Frank, “and he daren’t show ’em. Come on—be a sport!”

“Um,” mumbled Tom, as he turned once more to the book—but not to read.

“Where’s my hair brush?” demanded Phil. “If any of you fellows—Well the nerve of you, Sid!” he cried. “Using it on your shoes!”

“They’re patent leathers, and I only wanted to get a little dust off ’em,” pleaded the guilty one.

“Hand it over!” sternly ordered Phil. “And don’t you take it again. Use your pocket handkerchief.”

“Who’s seen my purple cuff buttons?” asked Frank.

“Haven’t got ’em. I saw Wallops the messenger with a pair like ’em the other day, though,” spoke Sid. “Wear the blue ones.”

“I will not! I got the purple ones to match my tie. Oh, here they are. I put ’em in my Latin grammar to mark a page. Say, it’s lucky I remembered.”

“It’s lucky some of you remember you’ve got heads,” half growled Tom. “I never saw such old maids! Don’t some of you want me to dab a little red on your cheeks?”

“Cut it out, and come on, you old Iambus,” grunted Phil—grunted because he was stooping over to lace his shoes. “Aren’t you coming, Tom?”

“Of course. But I want room to dress. You fellows clear out, and I’ll follow soon enough.”

“Where’s the clothes brush?” demanded Frank, who was the nearest ready. “Say, there’s enough dust in this room to stock a vacuum cleaner. Whew!”

“The rug needs taking up and beating,” commented Sid.

“Never!” cried Phil. “If we got it up it would fall apart, and we’d never get it down again. Let well enough alone. There, I guess I’m finished. How do I look?”

“Like one of the advertisements of college-built clothes from a back-woods tailor,” said Tom. “You’re too sweet to live! You’ll have all the girls crazy about you.”

“You’re jealous,” was the retort. “Get a move on, fellows.”

“Oh, sit down and take it easy,” advised Sid, who was struggling with a new tie in a stiff collar. “Whew! This is fierce. I can’t make it slide.”

“Put it out on first then,” advised Tom with a grin.

Finally the three were arrayed to their own satisfaction, and prepared to depart.