# The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 18
#### CHAPTER XVIII
##### SOME "OLD GRADS"

"What's the matter, old man?" inquired Sid the next morning as he rolled over in bed and looked at Tom.
"Matter? Why?"
"You look as if you'd been drawn through a knot hole, and a small one at that. What's wrong?"
"Nothing," and Tom tried to laugh it off. "I didn't sleep very well, that's all."
"For that matter, neither did I."
"Get out! I heard you snoring away like a boiler blowing off steam."
"Then I must have been tired. I never snore unless I am. Wow! ouch! Decameron's Prothonotary!"
Sid made a face that indicated intense anguish and put his hand to his side as he turned over in bed.
"What's the matter?" asked Tom anxiously.
"Strained my side when I slid for second base that time. I didn't notice it yesterday, but it hurts ​like sin now. Guess I'll have to cut lectures to-day and stay in bed."
"What excuse will you give?"
"Oh, I'll say—no, I won't, either," declared Sid with a sudden change of decision. "I can't say it was playing baseball that laid me up or Moses will ask me to cut out the ball. I've got to suffer. I know what I'll do. I'll limp in chapel and on my way to lectures. I'm not prepared in trig, anyhow, and maybe they'll let me off easy. I'm sure to slump in Latin, but maybe Pitchfork will have mercy on a gladiator who was willing to die for Cæsar."
Tom felt like laughing, but he restrained himself as he saw that Sid was really suffering. The first baseman crawled out of bed with many a groan and made wry faces. He limped across the room.
"How's that?" he asked Tom. "Do I do it naturally?"
"Sure. It would deceive anybody."
"I don't want to deceive 'em. It's gospel truth. I'm as lame as a sore horse. But I'll go down."
"Let me rub it," suggested Tom, and he forgot part of his troubles in giving vigorous massage to Sid's strained side.
"It feels better. Thanks, old man," declared the hurt one as he began to dress.
"But you're limping worse than ever."
​"Sure. No use losing any of the advantages of my limp. It may save me from a discredit in Latin. Oh, if you want to know how to limp come to your Uncle Dudley."
Tom laughed and prepared for chapel. He himself was in no very jolly mood, however, for he could not help thinking of the problem connected with the discovery about Langridge. That it was a problem, and no small one, Tom was ready to admit. He felt himself in a peculiar position. He had spoken to the 'varsity pitcher and had been insulted. To let him go on in his course, breaking training and endangering the success of the nine, Tom felt would not be right. Yet if he spoke to the coach or captain about it there would be but one construction put upon his action.
Tom could fancy Mr. Lighton thanking him for the information about Langridge and could even imagine the coach acting on it and warning the pitcher. Tom could see the look on the face of Kindlings when he was told. It would be a revelation. Yet for all the service that he rendered to the team there would be but one construction put upon Tom's act by his classmates—he would be accused of informing in order to oust Langridge so that he might have the pitcher's place.
"And I can't do that," declared Tom to himself. "I'll have to find some other way. I'll make one more try with Langridge."
​Sid's limp did not save him in Latin, for he "slumped" most ungracefully, and with a black look Professor Tines marked a failure against him, accompanying it with words of warning. As for Tom, his worry over the secret caused him to pay too scant attention in his geography class, and he was caught napping, whereat the instructor looked surprised, for Tom was one of the best students.
The next day the scrub team went on a little trip to Morriston to play a small semi-professional nine, and Tom had a chance to show what he could do in the box. He gave a fine exhibition of pitching, so much so that the other nine was held down to a goose-egg score, and there were very few hits secured off Tom. The scrubs were wild about it and held a celebration, for it was the best victory they had scored yet.
During the next few days Tom saw little of Langridge. In fact the 'varsity pitcher seemed to be keeping out of the way of the lad who had remonstrated with him.
"I'll see him at the Boxer game Saturday," thought Tom. "If I get a chance, I'll make one more attempt, though I'm afraid it won't do any good."
The next Boxer contest was a sort of annual mid-season affair. It was a game which members of the alumnæ of both colleges made it a point to attend in even greater numbers than at the ​contests deciding the championship. In fact of late years there had been no chance for such exhibitions, for Randall did not have a "look in" at the pennant, as Holly Cross used to say.
The game was to take place on the Randall grounds, and before the hour when it was to be played the stands and bleachers began filling up. It was a beautiful afternoon about the middle of May and a better one for a game could not have been had, even if made to order.
Oh, how Tom wanted to play! But he could only look on. The regular team came out for practice, with the substitutes waiting for a chance to go in. Then out trotted the Boxer Hall lads, to be received vith a cheer. There were pretty girls galore, each one waving the flag of her particular college. Tom moved about in the grandstand, trying to pretend to himself that he was not looking for any one, but all the same his heart gave a great thump when he heard some one call:
"Tom! Mr. Parsons!"
"Why, how do you do, Miss Tyler?" he exclaimed. "I didn't know you were coming."
"Oh, yes, I wouldn't miss this for anything. I just love to see the old graduates. They are so interesting, just as if they were boys again."
She made room for Tom beside her, and he gladly availed himself of the chance.
"Yes, there are quite a few of the old boys on ​hand to-day," he remarked. "Look at those two," and he pointed to two well-dressed men, each attired in a tall silk hat and a frock coat. They each had a gold-headed cane and they were very staid in looks, yet at the sight of each other they rose in their seats, clasped hands across the heads of intervening persons and one, the elder, cried out:
"Well, well! If it isn't old Skeeziks! How are you? I haven't seen you since I graduated in '73!"
"Nor me you, you old fish-pedler! How are things? Do you remember the day we kidnaped Mrs. Maguire and took all her chickens?"
"Hush! Not so loud!" cautioned the other, his face breaking into smiles. "The faculty never found out who did that, and there's no use telling now. But I am glad to see you. Do you think our boys will win?"
"I hope so, though I see by the papers they haven't been playing as good ball as when we went to school. They need a little ginger."
"That's right. I wish I was young again. We certainly had some great games."
On all sides similar scenes were being enacted and like reminiscences were being exchanged. It was a great day for the "old grads," and they took advantage of it. Many there were also from Boxer, though they occupied a different part of the grandstand. However, they exchanged visits with their former rivals during the practice.
​Ford Fenton was in his element. His uncle, who had been a coach at Randall, was on hand, and Ford was showing him off as if he was a prize animal at a county fair.
Ford wanted to take his uncle around and introduce him to his classmates, but Mr. Fenton declined, as he wanted to meet some of his old friends. But this did not deter Ford from going about telling the news, and about all he could be heard to say was:
"My uncle, the former coach, is here. He came to see the game. My uncle says——"
Then the long-suffering ones would turn away, or if they were lads who had no particular regard for Ford's feelings, they would guy him unmercifully.
"Hi, Ford!" cried Holly Cross after about half an hour of this sort of thing, "have you heard the latest?"
"No. What is it?"
"Why, 'my uncle' says that if you don't stop talking about him, he's going to leave and take you with him. He says he's being 'uncled' to death."
"Ha! ha!" laughed Dutch Housenlager. "That's right, Ford, that's right," and he pretended to collide accidentally with the lad, knocking him against Holly, who promptly pushed him back.
​But now practice was over. The rival captains were in conference, the umpire was taking the new ball from the tinfoil wrapping and the spectators were settling back for the contest.
"Boxer has improved since the other game," said Tom, who had been critically watching the teams at practice.
"That's what I heard," replied Miss Tyler. "Oh, I do hope our boys will win!"
"So do I," exclaimed Tom as he watched Langridge, who was first to go to the bat, in this game the visitors winning the privilege of being last up. Tom tried to notice the 'varsity pitcher, to see if he was in good form, but he could not judge then.
"Play ball!" called the umpire, and Dave Ogden, the Boxer pitcher, drew back his arm to deliver a swift curve.