# The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 30
#### CHAPTER XXX
##### A GREAT GAME

Sid Henderson fairly burst into the room where Tom Parsons was studying. The first baseman strode over to the window, looked out as though he was glaring at some attacking force and then throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed:
"It's rotten, that's what it is!"
"What?" asked Tom, looking up from his book. "Has Pitchfork been at you again about the Latin?"
"No, this is worse. I don't see how we're going to win the game to-morrow. And if we lose!"
"Why, what's the matter?" asked Tom, for he had seldom seen his chum so excited.
"Matter enough. Langridge is pitching fierce ball. We just had some light work and arranged a code of signals for him and Kerr. Why, you'd think our pitcher didn't have to practice! He seemed to think that all he had to do was to stand up in front of the Boxer players and they'd strike out just to please him. It makes me sick! But that's not the worst of it."
​"Well, what is?" asked Tom, smiling at Sid's vehemence. "Might as well get it out of your system and you'll feel better."
"Oh, you know what it is as well as I do," went on Sid. "There's no use trying to ignore it any longer. I've tried to fight shy of it and so have some of the other fellows, but what's the use? It's enough to make a fellow disgusted so he'll never play on the nine again."
"You mean——" began Tom.
"I mean that Langridge isn't playing fair. He doesn't train. He's been drinking and smoking on the sly and staying up nights gambling. There's no use mincing words now. I caught him drinking in his dressing-room to-day, and he was in a blue funk for fear I'd tell. Said he had a weak heart and the doctor had told him to take it. Weak heart! Rats! He drinks because he likes it. I tell you if we don't look out, we'll be the laughing stock of the Tonoka Lake League. Langridge can put himself on edge with a drink of that vile stuff and do good work for one or two innings, maybe. Then he'll go all to pieces and where will we be? I know. We'll be tailenders, and it will be his fault. It's a shame! Some one ought to tell Lighton."
"Why don't you?" asked Tom quietly.
"Oh, you know I can't. No one could go peach like that."
​"I know. I asked you about it once when I discovered what ailed Langridge. You remember what you said?"
"Yes, and I almost wish I'd told you to go and tell. The team would be better off now, even if it was against tradition and ethics and all that rot. It makes me sick! Here we are to go up against a hard proposition to-morrow and every other fellow on the team is as fit as a fiddle except Langridge. He seems to think it's a joke."
"What do the other fellows say?"
"Well, they don't know as much about him as you and I do. But they are grumbling because Langridge doesn't put enough ginger into his work."
"What about Mr. Lighton?"
"I don't know. Sometimes I think he suspects and then again I'm not sure. If he really knew what Langridge was doing, I don't believe he'd let him pitch. But you know Langridge has plenty of money and he hasn't any one like a father or mother to keep tabs on him, so he does as he pleases. He's practically supported the team this year, for we haven't made much money. I suppose that's why Kindlings stands for him as he does. Maybe that's why Mr. Lighton doesn't send him to the bench. Langridge's money will do a great deal."
"Oh, I shouldn't like to think that because of it ​he is kept on the team when there's a chance of our losing the pennant."
"Neither would I. Maybe I'm wrong about the coach, but what's the use of saying anything? Langridge will pitch for us against Boxer Hall, and—no, I'll not say what I was going to. I believe if we lose that game there'll be such a howl that he won't dare pitch against Fairview. That will give you a chance, Tom, for the last game of the season."
"What about Evert?"
"Oh, he's practically out of it. He hasn't had any practice to speak of and wouldn't last two minutes. You're in good trim. You did some great work on the scrub yesterday."
"Yes, but it's not likely to amount to anything. However, I'm going along and root for you tomorrow."
"Yes, we'll need all the support we can get. I declare I'm as nervous as a girl, and I've got to buckle down and prepare for a Latin exam, too."
"Can't you let it go?"
"No, it's too risky. I'm only on the team now by the epidermis of my molars, as the poet says. If I flunk in Latin it will mean that I can't play against Fairview."
"Then don't flunk, for the team needs you."
"It needs more than me, but I'm going to try and forget it now and bone away."
​Tom hoped to have the pleasure of taking Miss Tyler to the game with Boxer Hall, which was to take place on the grounds of that institution, but the girl sent back a regretful little note, saying she had arranged to go with Langridge or, at least, he was to bring her home.
"Hang it!" exclaimed Tom. "I thought she was done with him."
And, somehow, there was a rather bitter feeling in his heart as he prepared to accompany the other fellows to the great game that Saturday afternoon. He almost made up his mind that he would not bother to speak to Miss Tyler again and then he thought such a course would be silly and he tried to be more philosophical about it, though it was difficult.
Never had there been such a crowd out to witness a game on the Boxer diamond. The grandstand was packed long before the teams trotted out for practice and the bleachers w r ere overflowing. A fringe of spectators packed the side lines, and what with the yelling and cheering of the rival factions, the waving of the colors, the tooting of the auto horns in the throng of machines that had brought parties to the contest, there was an air of excitement that might have excused even more veteran players from getting nervous, for the game meant much to both colleges. If Boxer won, it would have a chance to play Fairview for the ​championship, but if Randall won the privilege would fall to that college. And that both teams had determined to win goes without saying.
Almost at the last minute Coach Lighton had told Tom to get ready to go as a substitute, and it was in his field uniform then instead of his ordinary clothes that Tom went to the game. But he had slender hopes of pitching, for Langridge seemed in unusually fine form and that morning at Randall had done some good work. But the orders of the coach could not be disobeyed. So Tom took his place on the bench with the other Randall lads, and, after some practice on the field, his eyes roved over the grandstand in search of a certain face. He fancied he saw where Miss Tyler sat, but he could not be sure.
"Langridge will probably go home with her," thought Tom. "He didn't bring her here, for he came in with us."
He had little more time for thought, however, as the umpire was getting the new ball from the foil cover and was about to call the game.
Boxer had won the toss and elected to bat last, so it was the turn of the visitors to get up first and show what they could do. Langridge was greeted with a cheer from a crowd in the Randall section of the grandstand as he went to the bat. He was popular with the large mass of students in spite of his ways. He seemed in good form and there was ​a confident air about him as he swung his willow stock to and fro.
"Play ball!" called the umpire.
Dave Ogden, with a calculating glance at the batsman, tied himself into rather a complicated knot and threw the horsehide. It was right over the plate and Langridge struck viciously at it, but made a clean miss. There was a groan from the Randall supporters and the team looked glum. Langridge, however, was not disconcerted. He was as confident as ever. Once more the ball was hurled toward him. He stepped right up to it, for he knew a pitcher's tricks and there was a resonant crack that made the hearts of his chums leap. He had lined out a "beaut."
"Go on! go on! go on!" yelled Coach Lighton. "Leg it, Langridge, leg it!"
Langridge was running low and well. The Boxer right fielder had muffed the ball, but made a quick recovery and threw to first. It seemed that Langridge was safe, but the umpire, who had run down toward the bag, called him out.
A groan went up from the Randall sympathizers and the team joined in.
"That'll do!" cried Captain Woodhouse sharply to his men. "Don't dispute any decisions. Leave that to me. We'll accept it. You're up, Kerr."
Kerr was a notoriously good hitter and Ogden gave him his walking papers. Sid Henderson was ​next at the bat and he knocked a little pop fly, which the second baseman neatly caught, and Sid, shaking his head over his hard luck, went to the bench.
Captain Woodhouse himself was next to try, and there was a grim look on his face as he went into the box. It was justified, for he made a safe hit and went to second on a swift grounder that Dutch Housenlager knocked, the ball rolling between the shortstop's fingers. The Randalls would have scored if Bricktop Molloy had hit harder or higher, but the shortstop made as pretty a catch as was seen on the grounds that day, leaping high for the ball, and with Bricktop out it was all over, and a goose egg went up on the Scoreboard as the result of the first half of the initial inning.
"Now, Langridge, don't let them get any hits off you," implored Kindlings as he and his men went to the field.
"Of course not," promised the pitcher easily.
His first ball was wild and there was an anxious feeling in the hearts of his chums. But he steadied almost at once and his next two deliveries were called strikes.
"Here's where you fan!" he called to Pinky Davenport, who was up.
"Do I? Watch me," replied Pinky, but he only hit the wind.
​"That's the way to do it!" called a shrill voice from the grandstand. "Fine, Langridge!"
"All right, don't tell us what your uncle said," retorted the pitcher. "Keep that back, Fenton," for it was the boy with the ever-present relative who had yelled, and there was laughter at the pitcher's jibe.
Langridge had never done better work than in that first inning when, after passing the hardest hitter of the Boxers to first purposely, in order to make sure of one of their weakest stick-wielders, the Randall twirler struck him neatly out, and the rivals of Randall were rewarded with a neat little white circle.
In the next inning Jerry Jackson was first up and he ingloriously fanned, but Phil Clinton earned fame for himself in the annals of his alma mater by bringing in a home run—the only one of the game. Langridge kept up his phenomenal work and another pale zero went up for Boxer, while Randall had a single mark that loomed big before the eyes of the cheering throng.
But the hopes of those who wanted to see Randall win suffered a severe setback, for in the next two innings they could not score, while in each frame for the Boxers there were two runs chalked.
"Four to one," remarked Tom to Phil Clinton. "They're crawling up. I wonder if we have any show?"
​"The game is young yet," answered Phil. "I think we will do them."
Randall got one run in the fifth and Langridge was the lucky player who brought it in. He showed his elation.
"Oh, we've got 'em on the run!" he cried, and then he went into the dressing-room. There was a queer look on Tom's face as his eyes sought those of Sid, and the latter shook his head. Coach Lighton, too, seemed anxious. He watched for the reappearance of Langridge, but his attention was occupied for a moment when Woodhouse knocked a neat fly. The captain was steaming away for first, but the ball was also on its way there and both arrived about the same time.
"Out!" cried the umpire, and a dispute at once arose. The Randalls had to give in, though it was manifestly unfair. When Langridge came out of the dressing-room there was a noticeable change in his manner. His breath smelled of cloves, and Sid, who noticed it, made a despairing gesture. A little later Housenlager hit the breeze strongly and went out, the score at the ending of the fifth inning being 4 to 2 in favor of the Boxer team.
"Now, Langridge," said the coach earnestly, "it depends on you. If you can hold them down, we are pretty sure of winning, even if we have to go ten innings, for some of our batters have Ogden's measure."
​"I'll do it!" cried Langridge. "You watch me!"
But he failed miserably. He did manage to strike out two men, for there was snap and vicious vim in the way he delivered the balls, but suddenly, when the influence of the stimulant he had taken wore off, he went to pieces and the Boxers piled in five runs before they were stopped by a remarkable brace in the Randall fielding contingent.
There was a steely look in the eyes of Coach Lighton as the Randalls came in for their turn to bat in the sixth inning.
"I'll do better next time," promised Langridge, but he spoke rather languidly.
"No, you'll not!" exclaimed the coach.
"Why not?" and the pitcher seemed suddenly awakened.
"Because you're not going to pitch next inning!"
"I'm not?"
"No, you're not."
"I guess I'm manager of this team."
"And I'm the coach. I say you shan't pitch any more in this game, or, if you do, I'll resign here and now. Captain Woodhouse, are you with me in this?"
"Oh, well, can't you take a rest for a couple of innings, Fred, and pitch the last one?" asked the captain, adding: "if the Boxers will allow us to suspend the rules for you."
​"If I pitch at all, I'll pitch the whole game!" cried Langridge fiercely.
"If you do I resign," was the decision of Mr. Lighton.
"Well, it's up to you," said Woodhouse with a shrug of his shoulders, as if ridding himself of the burden. "Whatever you say goes."
"All right, then I say Langridge goes to the bench. He's not fit to pitch and he knows it."
"What's the matter with me?" demanded the youth haughtily.
"Do you want me to tell?" asked Mr. Lighton quickly, with a sharp look.
Langridge, without a word, walked into the dressing-rooms.
"Parsons will pitch the remainder of the game," went on the coach to the Randall players and he made the necessary announcement to the game officials. "Tom," he called, "come on; you're up in place of Langridge."
Tom Parsons' heart gave a great throb. At last he had the chance for which he had waited so long. He was to pitch in a big game!
Tom was a good batter. He was also acquainted with many pitchers' tricks, for Mr. Lighton had given him good instruction. Tom was ready for whatever came. The first ball Ogden delivered was an incurve. Tom instinctively stepped back to avoid it, but it went neatly over the plate and a ​strike was called on him. He shut his teeth hard. He reasoned that Ogden would expect him to be on the lookout the second time for an outcurve, for it might naturally be supposed that the pitcher would vary his delivery.
"But he thinks I'm looking for an out," thought Tom. "Therefore he'll give me another in. I'll be ready for it."
He was. He stepped right into the next ball, which was an incurve, and with a mighty sweep sent it sailing far over the right fielder's head. It was good for three bases and Tom took them.
"Go on! Keep running! That's a beaut! Take another! Make it a homer!" yelled the crowd, which was on its feet shouting like mad, waving hats, hands, handkerchiefs and college colors.
"Stay there!" cautioned Coach Lighton, for the ball was being relayed home.
Tom's sensational hit seemed to put new life into the team and Bricktop Molloy also brought in a run. That, however, ended the good work.
Then came Tom's turn in the box. That he was a little nervous was natural, but he kept control of himself and only allowed one hit, though it was good eventually for a run. There was a noticeable stiffening in the work of the team and the coach congratulated Tom as he came in with his chums to take their turn at the bat again.
The seventh inning saw four runs safely laid ​away for Randall, while the marker put up a neat little ring in the square for Boxer, for Tom struck out two of the three men who were up, one going out on a pop fly, the pitcher having misjudged his batter. Neither side scored in the eighth, and when Randall got three runs in the ninth, and, in spite of strenuous work on the part of Tom, the Boxers got one run that same inning, the score was tied—11 to 11.
"Ten innings! They've got to play ten innings!" went the cry around the field. Then came more cheers. It was a game of games and it began to look as if the hoodoo against Randall was broken and that the college had a chance for the pennant.
"Three cheers for Tom Parsons!" yelled Ford Fenton, and what a shout there was!
"What would your uncle think of him?" asked a student.
"He'd say he was all right!" rejoined Ford good-naturedly.
THE BATTER MISSED EACH TIME—Page 270.
​stamping of feet of the anxious ones threatened to bring down the structures.
Tom measured his next man and sent in a neat little drop. But the batter was a veteran and got under it in time. He sent it well out into the field.
"Take it, Jerry! Take it!" cried the coach, for the horsehide seemed about to fall into the right fielder's hands. But he muffed it, and what a howl there was! George Stoddard, who had knocked it, kept on to second, for which he had to slide, but he was called safe. Then Tom was obliged to pass the next man to first, for he was an excellent hitter, while the one who followed him was not. But just then one of those "accidents" that are always cropping up in sport happened and the poor hitter made good, knocking a curious little twisting fly that the first baseman misjudged, and the run came in, again tieing the score. But no more Boxer players crossed home plate.
It was with a "do or die" expression on all the faces of the Randalls that they came to bat in the eleventh inning. The story of that game is college history now, and how Tom brought in a run after a magnificent hit that would have been a "homer" but for the fleetness of the opposing center fielder's feet is told to many a freshman. They could do no more, though, after getting one ahead.
It needed but a single run on the part of the ​Boxers to tie the score and two to win. But Tom resolved that they should not get even that one tally. He went to his box, his teeth clenched, making his jaw look firm and square. He resolved to try a new sort of twisting curve that he had used several times against the 'varsity. Each time it had proved deceptive. He worked it on the first man and sent him ingloriously to the bench. Then the second batter fell for it, but Tom dared not try it on the third. He felt himself getting nervous, and his next delivery was a bit wild. A ball was called on him, but that was all. The next three deliveries were strikes, and the batter, though he fanned desperately at them, missed each time.
"That settles it!" cried Phil Clinton as Tom, with a wildly throbbing heart, walked out of the box, while a hush fell over the assemblage, for the crowd could hardly realize that the game was over and that Randall had won by a score of 13 to 12.
"Good work, Parsons! Oh, pretty work!" yelled a host of supporters, and then such cheering as there was!
"Come, fellows, a cheer for Boxer Hall!" cried Captain Woodhouse, and it was given, followed by the college yell.
Boxer generously retaliated, and as the teams ran for the dressing-rooms Langridge, pale and with trembling hands, stepped out. He was ​dressed in his street garments, and without a word to his chums, he started across the diamond for the grandstand.
"He's going over to her," thought Tom, and the joy of the victory he had helped to win was embittered for him.
"Parsons, you did splendidly!" cried Mr. Lighton. "I congratulate you with all my heart. If it hadn't been for you, we'd have lost the game."
"Oh, I don't know about that."
"Yes, we would. You're the regular pitcher on this team for the remainder of the season, subject, of course, to the confirmation of Captain Woodhouse."
"Whatever you say," assented Kindlings, but he looked a bit uncomfortable.
"There are only two more games," went on the coach, "one out of town next Saturday, and then comes the final struggle with Fairview. If we win that, we'll have the pennant."
"Oh, we'll win!" cried Holly Cross. "Look who's going to pitch for us."
"I don't know about that," replied Tom with a laugh, but he was silenced with cheers.
"Well, I want you to win that game," concluded the coach as he walked off the diamond and the team got ready to go back to Randall.