# The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 1

THE RIVAL PITCHERS

#### CHAPTER I
##### THE OLD BELL CLAPPER

Down the green campus they strolled, a motley group of sturdy freshmen, talking excitedly. In their midst was a tall, good-looking lad, who seemed to be the center of discussion. Yet, in spite of the fact that the others appeared to be deferring something to him, he regarded them with rather an amused and cynical smile on his face. He paused to brush an invisible bit of dust from his well-fitting clothes.
"Well, aren't we going to make a try for it to-night?" asked one youth, whose hat was decorated with a silk band, yellow and maroon in color. "My uncle, who used to be a football coach here, says the freshmen always used to get it the first week of the term. My uncle——"
"Oh, let up about your uncle, Fenton!" exclaimed the lad on whose word the others seemed to depend a great deal. "I've heard nothing but ​your uncle, your uncle, ever since you came here. Give us something new."
"That's all right, Fred Langridge, but my uncle——"
There you go again!" interrupted Fred. "I guess I know what the custom is, as well as your uncle. He hasn't been here in fifteen years."
"I know that, but he says——"
"Say, if you speak uncle again, I'll land you one on the jaw, and that'll keep you quiet for a while." The words, in spite of their aggressiveness, were good-natured enough, and were spoken with a smile. Ford Fenton, who seldom took part in any conversation about college sports or frolics without mentioning his relative, who had been a well-known coach at Randall, looked first surprised, then hurt, but as he saw that the sympathies of his companion freshmen were with Langridge, he concluded to make the best of it.
"I guess I know what the customs are here," repeated the well-dressed lad. "Didn't I get turned down at the exams, and ain't I putting in my second year as freshman? I helped get the clapper last year, and I'll help again this term. But I know one thing, Fenton, and that's not two."
"What's that?" eagerly asked the youth who had boasted of his uncle.
"That's this: You may not get the clapper, but you'll get something else."
​"Why, what's the matter?"
For answer Langridge silently pointed to the gay hatband of the other.
"Take it off—take it off," he said. "Don't you know it's against the sacred customs of Randall College for a freshman to wear the colors on his hat until after the flagpole rush? Don't you know it, I ask?"
"Yes, I heard something about it."
"Better strip it off, then," went on Langridge. "Here come Morse and Denfield, a couple of scrappy sophs. They'll have it off you before you can say 'all Gaul is divided into three parts,' which you slumped on in Latin to-day."
Fenton looked up, and saw approaching the group of freshmen which included himself, two tall lads, who walked along with the swagger that betokened their second year at college. The hand of Fenton went to his hat, to take off the offending band, but he was too late. The sophomores had seen it. They turned quickly and strode over to the group of first years.
"Would you look at that, Morse!" called Denfield in simulated wrath.
"I should say so," came the answer. "The nerve of him! Hi, fresh, what are you doing with that hatband?"
Then Fenton did something totally opposed to ​the spirit of Randall College. He, a freshman, dared to talk back to a sophomore.
"I'm wearing it," replied he pertly. "Does it look as if I was playing ping-pong with it?"
The sophomores could hardly believe their ears. There was no imitation in the surprise that showed on their faces.
"For the love of Mike! Listen to him!" gasped Morse. "Grab him, Denfield! Wow! But things are coming to a pretty pass when a fresh talks like that the first week. Look out now, youngster, you're going to get a little lesson in how to behave to your betters."
The two sophomores reached out their hands to grab Fenton. He made a spring to get behind a protecting wall of his comrades, and for a moment it looked as if the second year lads would be bested, for there were at least fifteen freshmen. But Langridge knew better than to let his friends get into trouble that way.
"Let 'em have him," he advised in a low voice.
"It's the custom, and he knew it. He deserves it all."
Thereupon the freshmen divided, and offered no opposition to the twain, who gathered in their man. Morse snatched off the hat with the offending band, and, while Denfield held the struggling Fenton, ripped off the ribbon. Then with his knife Morse began cutting the hat to pieces.
​"Here, quit that!" yelled Fenton. "That's a new hat!"
"Softly, softly, little one," counseled Denfield. "I pray thee speak softly."
Though Fenton struggled to escape, the other easily held him, and the freshman was forced to witness the destruction of his nice, new soft hat. Having thus, as he believed, wiped out the insult offered, Morse carefully folded the ribbon and placed it in his pocket.
"Maybe you'll get a chance to wear it—after the pole rush," he said calmly. "I don't believe you will, for we're going to wipe up the ground with you freshmen this term. But if you do, I'll give you back your ribbon—er—what's your name, freshman?"
"Fenton," answered the humiliated one.
"Fenton what?"
"Ford Fenton."
"Say 'Fenton, sir,'" counseled Langridge in the other's ear.
"Don't you know how to reply to a gentleman?" asked Denfield fiercely, shaking Fenton from a neckhold he had. "Say sir, when you speak to a soph."
"Sir!" cried Fenton, for the grip hurt him.
"That's better. Now remember, no more ribbons until after the pole rush, and maybe not then. This to all you freshies," added Morse.
​"Oh, we know that," put in Langridge. "But we'll all be wearing them after next week, and we'll be wearing something else, too."
"Nixy on the clapper, old chap!" called Denfield. "We won't stand for that."
"We'll see," responded Langridge. "All is not gold that doesn't come out in the wash."
"Ha! He speaks in parables!" cried Morse. "Well done, old chap! But come on, Denfield. I've got a date."
The youth holding Fenton gave him a sudden turn and twist that sent him spinning to the ground, and as he picked himself up the two sophomores walked off, as dignified as senators.
"Confound them!" muttered Fenton as he brushed the dust off his clothes. "I've a good mind to——"
"Easy, now," advised Langridge. "They're sophs, you know. Go easy!"
"But that's no reason why we should let them walk all over us!" exclaimed a sturdy lad, who had watched, with rising anger, the attack on Fenton. "I don't see why a crowd of us fellows should take whatever mean things they want to inflict."
"That's all right, Clinton," declared Langridge.
"It's college custom, just the same as it is for us to take the clapper out of the chapel bell, have it melted up, and cast into watch charms. It's college custom, that's all."
​"That's all right, it may be; but I like to see a fair fight!" went on Phil Clinton. "I could have tackled Morse alone, and he's bigger than I am."
"Maybe you could, but you'd have the whole sophomore class down on us if you did, and you know what that means. No, let it go. Fenton brought it on himself by wearing the band."
"I wish they'd tackled me," murmured the sturdy Clinton.
"I wish they had," echoed Fenton. "Look at my hat."
'That's all right, my uncle says I can have a new one!" piped up a shrill voice, in imitation of Fenton's usual tones.
"Holly Cross, or I'm a Dutchman!" exclaimed Langridge, turning quickly to glance at a newcomer, who had joined the ranks of the freshmen. "Where've you been, Holly?"
"Down by the boathouse, watching the crew practice. I'll give you an imitation of Billy Housenlager pulling," and Holly, or Holman, Cross, began a pretense of rowing in grotesque style.
"That's Dutch all over," admitted Langridge. "He goes at it like a house and lot."
"What's up?" demanded Holly, for he had seen from afar the little rumpus. "Has 'my uncle' been cutting up?" and he winked at Fenton.
"That's all right," began the aggrieved one, who did not seem to know when he was being ​made fun of. "Look at my hat," and he held up the felt article, which was in tatters.
"New style," commented Holly casually. "Good for hot weather. Fine for a souvenir. Hand it around and we'll all put our initials on it, and you can hang it in your room. But say, is there anything doing?"
"There may be, to-night," answered Langridge.
"So—so?" asked Holly with a wink, the while he pretended to ring an imaginary bell.
"Keep it mum," was Langridge's answer. "You fellows want to meet at the boathouse to-night," he went on, as if giving orders. "Don't forget what I told you, and don't walk as if you had new shoes on. Take it easy. Be there at eight o'clock. Come along, Holly. I want to talk to you."
Langridge linked his arm in that of the newcomer, and the two strolled off to one side of the college campus, while the group of freshmen made their way toward one of the two large dormitory buildings.
"He orders us around as if we were working for him," objected Phil Clinton. "Langridge takes too much for granted."
"Well, he's been here a year, and I s'pose he feels like a soph," remarked Sid Henderson.
"Maybe, but that doesn't make him one. He thinks because he's got plenty of money, and comes from Chicago, that he can run things here, but ​he's not going to run me," and Phil stuck out his square, well-formed jaw in a manner that betokened trouble.
"Aren't you gong to help get——" began Ed Kerr, who was quite a chum of Langridge.
"Easy!" cautioned Sid. "Here are some sophs."
A group of second-year students passed the freshmen with suspicious glances, but, seeing no offending colors, nor any other evidences of anything that could be taken to mean that their traditional prey had violated any rules, they saw nothing objectionable.
"Don't mention clapper," went on Sid.
"That's right," agreed Ed Kerr. "But I was going to say that Fred knows the ropes better than we do. If we stick to him we'll come out all right. It's no fun to try for for it, and have the sophs give us the merry ha-ha."
"Oh, we'll try to get it," assented Phil Clinton, "but I don't like being ordered around."
"Langridge doesn't mean anything by it," spoke his friend.
"Well, I don't like it." And with that the lads passed into the dormitory, for it was nearly time for supper, and the rule was that they must come to the tables neatly dressed.
A little later Langridge and Holly strolled up ​to the buildings where the three hundred students of Randall College were housed.
"Then you'll be on hand, eh?" asked Langridge.
"Oh, yes, I reckon so. But it seems like a lot of work for what we get out of it."
"Get out of it! You old anthropoid!" exclaimed Langridge. "What's the matter with you? Going back on the college customs?"
"What's an anthropoid?" asked Holly Cross, as he deftly juggled three stones with one hand. "How's that for good work?" he asked irrelevantly.
"An anthropoid is a second cousin to a cynic," answered Langridge, "and a cynic is a fellow whose liver is out of order, which makes him have a bad taste in his mouth and get out of the wrong side of bed."
"Get out, you camel-backed asteroid!" cried Holly. 'There's nothing the matter with my mouth, and I can get out of either side of my cot without knowing which side it is."
"Are you coming to-night?"
"Sure, I'll be there."
"All right; that's what I want to know."
Holly and Langridge passed into the east dormitory, where they had been preceded by the other group of freshmen. This building was given over to rooms for the first year and senior students, while in the west dormitory the sophomores and ​juniors, as being the least likely to indulge in hazing and horse-play, did their studying and sleeping.
There are few institutions of learning better known throughout the Middle West than Randall College. It had been established several decades before, and though small at first, and unimportant, the thorough methods used soon attracted attention from parents who had sons to educate. Many a well-known man of to-day, who has made his mark in the world, owes part of his success, at least, to Randall College, and he is proud to acknowledge it. In time, because of liberal endowments, and because the institution became better known, its influence spread, until, from a small seat of learning, it became a large one, and now students from many States attend there.
Randall College was most fortunately situated. It was on the outskirts of the town of Haddonfield, and thus was connected by railroad with the outside world. It was far enough away from town to be rid of the distractions of a semi-city life, yet near enough so that the advantages of it could be had.
The buildings composing the college consisted of several in addition to the main one, containing the classrooms, lecture halls, laboratories, study rooms and the like. There was Biology Hall, a magnificent gift from an alumnus, and Booker ​Memorial Chapel, a place of worship, containing some wonderful stained-glass windows. The chapel was the gift of a lady, whose only son had died while attending the school. Back of the main college building, and somewhat to the left, was a modest structure, where the faculty, including Dr. Albertus Churchill, the venerable president, had their living apartments.
Farther to the rear of the main structure were two buildings that contained dormitories and rooms for the three hundred or more students. There were two dormitory buildings, the east and the west, and, for obvious reasons, one, the eastern, was inhabited by the freshmen and seniors, while the juniors and sophomores lived, moved and had their being in the other.
The gymnasium, which was well equipped, was located a little to the left of the west dormitory, and it adjoined the baseball diamond and the football gridiron. Skirting the edges of this big, level field were the grandstands and bleachers, for sports had a proper and important part in life at Randall.
Standing on the knoll in front of the main building, one looked down a gentle, grassy slope to Sunny River, which twisted in and out, lazily enough, around a hill that contained the college and the grounds. The campus swept down, in a sort of oval, to the very edge of the stream. And ​there is no finer sight in all this country than to stand on the steps of the main building some fine summer day (or, for that matter, a wintry one) and look off to the river. If you are patriotic, and of course you are, you will take off your hat to the colors that fly from a tall flagpole in the center of the campus.
Sunny River was a beautiful stream, not as broad as some rivers, but sufficiently so to provide boating facilities for the Randall students. On it, every year, was held the annual regatta, Randall and some other institutions participating. There was a large boathouse on the edge of the river, located on your left as you stood on the campus, facing the water.
Sunny River flowed into Lake Tonoka, which was about a mile below the college, and in the midst of the lake was Crest Island. What exciting times that lake and river have seen during the summer season! What rowing races! What swimming races! What jolly picnics! And, let us whisper, what mysterious scenes on nights when some luckless candidate was initiated into a secret society!
On the farther side of the river from the village, and near the junction with the lake, was a sort of park, or summer resort. A trolley line ran from it to the town of Haddonfield, but the students more often preferred to walk to the village, rather ​than wait for the cars, which ran on uncertain schedules.
At the lower end of Lake Tonoka, just over the line in another State, was Boxer Hall, a college somewhat smaller than Randall, while to the west, fifteen miles away, was Fairview Institute, a co-educational school that was well patronized. The three institutions had a common interest in sports, and there was a tri-collegiate league of debating clubs that often furnished milder, if more substantial, excitement.
It was an evening in early April, of the new term after the Easter vacation, that a number of freshmen, who had taken part in the lively scene of the afternoon, and some students who had not, met silently and stealthily back of the boathouse on the back of Sunny River. The night was cloudy, and thus it was darker than usual at that hour.
"Have you fellows got the rope?" asked Langridge in a whisper, as he took his place at the head of the little force.
"Of course," answered Phil Clinton.
"There's no 'of course' about it," retorted Langridge arrogantly. "I've seen the time it's been forgotten."
"What are we going to do with it?" asked Sid Henderson.
"Use it to hang a soph with," spoke Holly ​Cross. "Prepare to meet thy doom!" he added in a sepulchral voice.
"Cut it out, Holly," advised Langridge. "I'm afraid the sophs are on to us as it is."
"Then we'll rush 'em!" exclaimed Phil Clinton aggressively.
"No, that won't do any good. We'd never get the clapper, then."
"I know a good way," spoke Fenton. "My uncle says——"
"Say, you and your uncle ought to be in. a glass case and in the museum," called Holly. "Dry up, Fenton!"
"Where's the Snail?" asked Langridge.
"Here," replied Sam Looper, who, from his slow movements, and from the fact that he loved to prowl about in the dark, for he could see well after nightfall, had gained that nickname. "What do you want?"
"Will you climb up the rope after I get it in place?"
"Sure."
"Then come on," whispered Langridge. "I guess it's safe now. There don't appear to be any one stirring."
The mysterious body of freshmen moved off in the darkness toward the Booker Memorial Chapel. Their object, as you have probably guessed, was to climb to the steeple and remove ​the clapper from the bell, a prank that was sanctioned by years of custom at Randall College. Once the big tongue of iron was secured, it would be taken to a village jeweler, who would have it melted up and cast into scores of miniature clappers.
These, when nickel-plated, made appropriate watch charms for the freshmen class, and suitably, they thought, demonstrated their superiority over their long-time rivals, the sophomores. For it was the duty of the second-year students, if possible, to prevent the taking away of the clapper. The purloining of it must always be done the first week after the Easter vacation, and if this passed by without the freshmen being successful, the clapper was safe, immune and inviolate. Hence the need of haste, as but two more nights were left. Once the clapper was taken the class had to contribute money enough to buy another for the voiceless bell.
Silently, as befitted the occasion, the lads made their way from the rendezvous at the boathouse toward the chapel. Their plan was simple. On top of the cupola which held the bell was a large cross. It was the custom to tie a stone, or some weight, to a light cord, throw the weight over the cross, and by means of the thin string haul up a heavy rope. Up this rope some freshman would climb, remove the clapper, and slide down again, ​while his comrades stood guard against any attack of sophomores.
"Who's going to throw the stone?" asked Ed Kerr, as he walked along beside Langridge.
"I am, of course."
"Oh, of course," repeated Clinton in a low voice. 'You want to run everything."
"Well, Fred Langridge is a good pitcher," spoke Sid Henderson. "He's likely to make the Varsity this year."
"Um!" was all Phil said.
The boys reached the chapel, and, under the direction of Langridge, the cord and rope were made ready.
"Got a good stone?" asked the leader.
"Here's a hunk of lead," replied Ed. "I made it on purpose. It's not* so likely to slip out as a stone."
"That's good. Hand it over."
The lead was soon fastened to the cord.
"Look out, now, here goes!" called Langridge. "I'm going to pitch it over. Be all ready, Snail."
He stepped back, and tossed the lead, intending to make the cord fall across one arm of the cross. But either his aim was poor, or he could not discern well enough in the darkness the outlines of the cross.
"Missed it!" exclaimed Clinton.
​"Well, so would you," growled Langridge. "Some one stepped on the cord."
"Let Snail try," suggested Henderson.
"I'm doing this throwing," declared Langridge curtly.
"It doesn't look so," murmured Phil.
Langridge tried again, but with no success.
"Hurry," spoke Kerr. "The sophs will be out soon."
Langridge made a third attempt, and failed. Then Snail Looper called out in an excited whisper:
"Here come the sophs! Cut it!"
"No!" cried Langridge. "Hold on! I'll get it over now. Fight 'em back, boys!"