# The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 5
#### CHAPTER V
##### A SCRUB GAME

"Stripped!" exclaimed a tall sophomore with a broken nose. 'The beggars have stripped their den!"
"I told you some one had been giving us away," added another. "They knew we were coming. Didn't you, fresh?" and he turned to Sid and Tim.
"Sure," replied Sid as he looked around the room, which was bare of the articles that usually afforded the second-year men an opportunity for causing annoyance.
"Who tipped you off?" asked he of the broken nose.
"Yes, tell us," chimed in several others. "We won't do a thing to him but make him sorry."
"Oh, we had a dream," put in Tom with a grin.
"Ha! Here's a fresh fresh!" exclaimed "Broken-nose." "Well, fellows, let's give 'em a shower bath, anyhow."
"Look under the beds," suggested a big sophomore.
​"Nope; haven't time, Gladdus. Here, some of you hold 'em while the rest of us douse 'em."
In an instant Sid and Tom were grasped each by half a dozen hands and pulled to the middle of the room. Then Broken-nose and some others took the two water pitchers and poured the contents over the two freshmen. It was not a pleasant ordeal, but Tom and his chum bore it unflinchingly. It was useless to struggle.
"Oh, this is no fun!" exclaimed Gladdus. "They don't fight."
"The odds are too heavy," retorted Tom quickly. "I'll take any one of you alone," he added, and he looked as if he meant it.
"Let me take him on," pleaded a tall sophomore.
"No—none of that," declared Broken-nose, who was addressed as Fenmore. "We've got lots to do yet. I wonder where their good clothes are. They've got on old togs. We'll give 'em a soaking."
Tom and Sid were glad that they had hidden their garments in the hall closet. There was a hasty search on the part of the sophomores, but as nothing was disclosed the second-year men prepared to leave.
"Come on," ordered Fenmore. "There's no water left in their pitchers, anyhow."
"Oh, we could get more H$_2$O if we could find their togs," spoke another.
​Just then another second-year youth came along.
"I know where their clothes are," he said. "In the closet at the end of the hall. Langridge——"
"Shut up!" cried Gladdus.
"Come on, fellows!" called Fenmore. "We'll soak 'em good."
Sid groaned as the sophomores released him and Tom and made a run for the closet.
"We'd ought to have scattered 'em," he said. "Now we'll have to wear wet duds to chapel tomorrow. We can't go in these," and he looked at his dripping garments—clothes in which he did cross-country running and played tennis—old and somewhat ragged and muddy habiliments.
"Did you hear what that soph said?" demanded Tom.
"You mean——"
"I mean about Langridge. He gave us away. He told them where our clothes were; the mean sneak!"
"That's right," chimed in Sid. "That's what he was doing up here—spying on us. "Oh, I'll pay him back all right!"
"So will I!" declared Tom fervently as a triumphant shout down the corridor announced that their clothes had been discovered. The garments, dripping wet and all out of shape, were thrown into their room a little later.
"Well, wouldn't that put your nerves on the ​gazabo!" exclaimed Sid disgustedly. "Oh, Langridge, I'll have it in for you!"
The hazing went on until after midnight and then the dormitory quieted down. Scarcely a freshman escaped and those who absented themselves from their rooms were due to be put on the grill later.
Tom and Sid sat up late, wringing as much of the water as they could from their clothes and drying them somewhat by inserting an electric light bulb in the arms of the coats and the legs of the trousers. Fortunately their bedding was not wet or the boys would have passed a miserable night. As it was they did not have a good one, and they arose early to hang their moist clothes out of the window to let the morning sun finish the work of drying.
But they were not the only ones in this plight, and it was a bedraggled lot of freshmen who appeared at chapel—that is, all but Langridge. He was spick and span as he always was, dressed in expensive clothes.
"Didn't they get at you?" asked Sid as he and Tom caught up to the wealthy youth on the way to class.
"Get at me?"
"Yes, your clothes don't seem to have suffered."
"Oh, this is another suit. They wet one for me, but I had this put away."
​"And no sneak went and told the sophs where you put it, did they?" asked Tom.
"What's that?" asked Langridge quickly, and he turned a bit pale.
"I say no sneak gave you away?"
"I don't know what you mean," and Langridge turned aside.
"Oh, yes, you do," said Sid quickly. "You know all right and we know, and what's more, you'll get what's coming to you all right. That's all from yours truly, but look out—that's all—look out, Fred Langridge!"
"I don't know what you're talking about," was the cool retort, and then the students passed into the class room.
It was two days later that the miniature clappers, which had been made from the tongue of the big bell, were received, and a proud lot of freshmen they were, including Tom Parsons, who attached them to their watch chains.
"Now, if we win the pole rush, we'll be all to the merry," exclaimed Phil Clinton as he walked along the campus toward the gymnasium. "I'm just aching for a chance to pummel some of those sophs. They certainly made a rough house of my room the other night."
"Oh, we'll get the chance all right," remarked Sid. "The rush is a week from to-night. But say, ​how about the baseball election? Isn't Langridge taking his own time calling it?"
"He sure is. He's trying to work up votes for Kerr for captain, but he can't do it. The fellows haven't anything against Ed, but he's too thick with Langridge. I'm for old Kindlings."
"So are we," put in Tom.
"They've got to hold the election to-morrow," said Phil. "That's the last day, according to the rules. Why, we haven't had a bit of practice yet. We don't know who's going on the scrub and who has a chance for the 'varsity. I hope I can get center field."
"Had you rather play there?" asked Tom.
"I always have. I fancy I know that position better than I do any other. But, to tell you the truth, I like football better than baseball. I'm going to try for the eleven this fall."
"I hope you make it. But what's going on?" asked Tom as he saw a little commotion about the gymnasium.
"It's a scrub game," exclaimed Sid. "That's the stuff. Come on. Maybe we'll get a chance. Langridge sees that he's got to get things going."
They hurried to the gymnasium and found that preparations were under way for a scrub game. There was also a notice on the bulletin board stating that the election for captain would be held the following day.
​"I wonder if he's got enough votes for Kerr?" mused Sid. "I hope not—for the sake of the team."
The crowd, including students from all four classes of the college, moved off toward the diamond. Rivalries were forgotten in the interest in the game. The lads were not in uniform, but had on old clothes. Langridge was issuing orders and two temporary captains were chosen, they selecting their men. Bob, or "Bricktop" Molloy, the captain of last year, had one scrub team, and Pete Backus, who rejoiced in the nickname "Grasshopper" from the fact that he was always trying to see how far and how high he could jump, had another. Langridge assumed the rôle of manager, though there was little to manage.
"Now play lively, boys," he urged. "I want to arrange for some other games this season besides those in the league, and we want to win some of 'em."
To his delight Tom found himself chosen by Bricktop, together with Sid and Phil Clinton. Langridge held a whispered conversation with Backus, the other captain, and was promptly chosen on that hastily formed nine.
"I'll pitch and Ed Kerr'll catch," Langridge announced, as if that settled it. And it was noticeable that Backus did not make a protest, though he was as good a catcher as was Kerr.
​"Will you pitch for us, Parsons, me lad?" asked Bricktop with just a trace of rich Irish brogue. "Sure and I heard what ye did, me lad, the night of the clapper."
"Well, that was mostly luck, I guess," replied Tom modestly, "though I'd like the chance to pitch now."
"Sure, then, an' you'll have it," replied the Irish lad with a twinkle in his honest blue eyes. "Come on, fellows. We're last at the bat."
"Hold me down, somebody!" exclaimed Dutch Housenlager as he turned a hand spring and came down so close to Molloy that the former captain was nearly sent over. "I'm feeling like a two-year-old."
"That's all right, Dutch, me lad," exclaimed Bricktop, relapsing into a broader brogue as his feelings came uppermost. "This isn't a stable, though, and we can dispense with the horse play until after the game if you can accommodate yourself to the exigencies of the occasion," and he spoke much after the manner of Dr. Churchill, for Bricktop, in spite of the fact that he was a senior, "grave and reverend," like fun and his joke. 'If you will kindly resume the upright stature befitting a human being," he went on, "you may try to stop whatever balls come in the direction of shortstop, for there's where ye'll play."
"All right," answered Dutch good naturedly. ​"I'm agreeable, my fair captain. But would you mind keeping your hat on? When the sun strikes your red-gold locks it dazzles my eyes."
"Go on wit' your blarney!" exclaimed Molloy, making a punch at Housenlager, who skilfully ducked it.
The diamond was in fine shape, for it had been cut and rolled and the base lines marked off in readiness for the opening of the season. The grass was like velvet and the clean, fresh green, contrasted with the brown earth of the diamond proper, the long white lines, the new bases and the level field made a picture that rejoiced the heart of every lad.
"Wow! isn't it great?" cried Tom. "And the smell! Do you smell the green grass, Sid, and the earth, and—and the baseball smell? Isn't it great?"
"Cheese it!" cried Phil Clinton with a laugh. "You'll be spouting poetry next."
I wish I could," returned Tom a little more soberly. "I never get out on a ball field but I want to orate something like Thermopylæ or Horatius at the Bridge. The fever of the game gets in my blood."
"There is something in that," admitted Phil. "Oh, it's a great game. There's none greater except football, and when I see the gridiron marked off and hear the 'ping' of somebody's boot against ​the pigskin my heart begins to thump and I catch my breath and want to take the ball to batter down a stone fence and make a touchdown."
"Bravo!" cried Sid. "You're as bad as Tom."
"Quit talking and get to practice!" exclaimed a voice at the rear of the lads, and they turned to see Langridge.
"Say, who told you to give orders?" asked Sid quickly. "Bricktop is our captain."
"Well, we're going to have a little warm-up practice first," remarked Langridge. Then he turned to Tom and said: "So you're going to pitch against me?"
"It seems so."
"Humph!" was all Langridge said as he walked away.
Two or three good batters on each side began knocking flies for the others to catch and Tom and his chums soon found themselves warming up in earnest. The country lad discovered that he could judge the balls quite accurately and he made some good throws from a long distance.
"Play ball!" suddenly called Bricktop Molloy. "Come on, fellows! Out in the field. Parsons, let's see what sort of a twirler you are."
Tom went to the box. He was a trifle nervous, but he controlled himself as well as he could. The first man up was Langridge, and there was an ​unpleasant look on the face of the rich youth as he faced his rival.
Tom sent in an out curve and he was pretty sure it was going over the plate. But he heard the umpire cry: "One ball!" and he was much surprised. There was a mocking smile on the face of Langridge. Tom held the next ball rather longer. He threw in a peculiar little drop. Langridge saw it coming and struck savagely at it, but a resounding "thump" told Tom that the horsehide had landed safe in Molloy's mitt.
"One strike!" yelled the umpire, and Tom's heart was glad.
"That's the way to do it!" cried Phil Clinton, from center field. "Strike him out!"
Langridge hit the next ball, though it was only a weak liner, which Tom stopped and threw over to first, but there was no need, for Langridge had seen the uselessness of running.
"One out. Go on with the game," sang out Bricktop.