# The Rival Pitchers/Chapter 29
#### CHAPTER XXIX
##### ANTICIPATIONS

Tom became dimly aware that he was climbing up from some great depth. It was hard work, and he felt as if he was lifting the whole world on his shoulders. No, it was all on one arm—his right—and the pain of it made him wince.
Then he realized that some one was calling him, shaking him, and he felt as if he had tumbled, head first, into some snow drift.
"Wake up, Tom! Are you all right, old man? What happened? Here, swallow some more water."
He opened his eyes. He saw in the darkness some one bending over him.
"What's the—where am——" he began, and he was again seized with a feeling of weakness.
"You're all right, old chap," he heard some one saying. "You had a bad fall, that's all."
"Phil!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, it's me, Clinton. They tried to put me in there, but I fought 'em, and then there came a ​yell for help for the sophs who were bringing up a lot of our fellows, and the ones who had me and those on guard cut for it. I guess our lads got away. I heard a row back here and came to see what it was. Are you all right now? Can you walk? If you can, we'll go on to the dinner. We've beaten out the sophs. Can you manage?"
"I—I guess so," replied Tom, who was feeling stronger every moment. If only that terrible pain in his arm would cease. "Where's Langridge?" he asked.
"Langridge? He isn't around. I haven't seen him to-night at all," answered Clinton. "Feeling better?"
"Yes, I'm all right. Only my arm."
"Is it broken?"
"No, only bruised. Some one kicked—I guess I must have fallen on it," Tom corrected himself quickly. His mind was in a tumult over what had happened. He had seen Langridge plainly in the light of a lantern carried by one of the sophomores, and he felt that Langridge must have seen him, for the gleam struck full on his face. Yet why had the 'varsity pitcher attacked Tom? Could he have mistaken him for a sophomore? Tom hardly thought so, yet the kick had been a savage one. His arm was swelling from it.
"Are you sure they didn't catch Langridge?" asked Tom as he stumbled on beside Phil.
​"Sure. He said he wasn't going to the dinner at all. Had a date in town with some girl, I believe." Tom winced, not altogether with pain. "Why are you so anxious about Langridge?" went on Phil.
"Nothing, only—only I thought I saw him around the shack."
"Must have been mistaken. You and I were the only ones they managed to get this far, and they wouldn't have had me, only about a dozen of them tackled me at once."
"That's what they did to me," admitted Tom.
"Our fellows made a mistake," declared Phil. 'We should have been more foxy. However, I think we all got away. The last bunch the sophs tackled were too much for them, and they had to call for help. That's why those at the shack left it. But come on, we'll get to Haddonfield. It isn't very late."
Tom did not feel much like going to a dinner, but he repressed his disinclination and bit his lips to keep back little exclamations of pain.
Phil and Tom, eluding the sophomores who prowled about in scattered parties, found most of their chums gathered in the hall where the spread was arranged. They were greeted with cheers on their entrance and made to tell their adventures, but Tom did not mention Langridge. He explained his injured arm by saying he had twisted it in his fall.
​"Hope it doesn't knock you out from pitching, old man," spoke Sid sympathetically.
"It would if I had a chance to pitch," responded Tom, "but, as it is, I guess it isn't going to make much difference."
Several other freshmen who had been caught by the sophomores, but who managed to escape, came straggling in, filled with excitement, and the dinner was soon under way, with many a toast imbibed in cider, ginger ale or water, to the confusion of the sophomores and the success of the freshmen.
"We fooled 'em good and proper!" cried Sid, who had been elected toastmaster. "We put 'em to rout, and now let us eat, drink and make a big noise!"
Which they proceeded to do, undisturbed by any further attack of their traditional enemies.
Tom's arm pained him so before the dinner was over that he whispered to Phil that he was going to leave. The big center fielder agreed to accompany Tom back to college, and without saying anything to the others to break up the fun, they slipped quietly away. Dr. Marshall, of the faculty, who was a physician as well as an instructor in physics and chemistry, looked critically at Tom's arm when Phil insisted that his chum get medical aid.
"You say you got that in a fall?" asked Dr. Marshall, examining Tom's elbow, which was red and much swollen.
​"In a sort of a fall—yes, sir."
"Humph! It was a queer fall that caused that," said the physician. "More like a blow or a kick, I should say. You haven't been trying to ride a horse, have you?"
"No, sir."
"Ha—hum!" ejaculated the doctor, but he asked no more questions, for he had been a college lad in his day and he knew the ethics of such matters. "You can't play ball for a couple of weeks," he went on, "and you'll have to carry that arm in a sling part of the time."
"Can't I pitch on the scrub?" asked Tom in dismay.
"Not unless you want to have an operation later," replied Dr. Marshall grimly.
Tom sighed, but said no more.
Healthy blood in healthy bodies has a marvelous way of recuperating one from injuries, and in a little over a week Tom's arm was so much improved that the doctor allowed him to dispense with the sling. In the middle of the second week Tom started in on light practice at pitching, his place meanwhile on the scrub having been filled by another player.
"Now go slow, young man," advised Dr. Marshall as Tom one day sought and obtained permission to take part in a game against the 'varsity nine. "You're only human, you know, but"—he ​added to himself as Tom hurried away—"you're like a young colt. A fine physique! I wish I were young again," and the good doctor sighed for the lost days of his youth.
In the meanwhile Tom had said nothing to Langridge. He reasoned it all out—that the 'varsity pitcher might have been captured as he was, and, in breaking loose, he might have mistaken Tom for one of the sophomores. Nor did Tom communicate in any way his suspicions to his chums. He knew if he began asking questions intended to disclose whether or not Langridge had been among those captured some one would want to know his object.
"I might be mistaken," thought Tom, and he honestly hoped that he was. "Anyhow, my arm is better, and I can pitch—at least on the scrub."
The game between the first and second teams that day was a "hot" one. Langridge seemed to have recovered mastery of himself and he pitched surprisingly well. Tom, because of his hurt, was not at his best. The 'varsity lads were joyful when they beat the scrub by a big score.
"Well, now, if we do as well as that Saturday against Boxer Hall," said Kindlings Woodhouse, "we'll be all to the pepper hash, poetically speaking."
"We've got to do a great deal better than this ​against Boxer," declared Coach Lighton with a shake of his head.
"Why?" asked Langridge.
"Because much depends on this game. I don't know whether you boys have figured it out, but we have a mighty slim chance for the pennant this year."
"Have we any?" asked Sid.
"Yes," replied the coach, "and it's just this. If we win the game against Boxer——"
"Which we will," declared Langridge confidently.
"If we do," went on Mr. Lighton, "and also win the one the following Saturday from Fairview, we will capture the pennant by a narrow margin."
"Hurrah!" cried Kindlings.
"Not so fast," admonished Mr. Lighten. "You boys will have to play ball as you never played it before and against rather heavy odds."
"How's that?" inquired Sid.
"Well, both games are away from your own grounds. You are to play Boxer Hall on their diamond and the Fairview game takes place over at the co-ed institution. That means that they'll have a big crowd of rooters out, and you know what an incentive that is."
"We'll take a lot too!" cried Holly Cross.
"Sure, we'll organize a cheering club," added Bricktop Molloy.
​"And bring megaphones," declared Jerry Jackson.
"And phonographs," echoed his twin brother.
"Win the games, that's what you want to do!" said Mr. Lighton. "Win the games! Play ball! Bat your best, you hard hitters. You that aren't so sure, practice. Fielders, get on to every fly as if you had glue on your gloves. Kerr, play close up to the bat. Henderson, you want to practice jumping for high ones, for they do come high when the boys get excited. Langridge——"
"Yes, what about me?" drawled the pitcher.
"Pitch your very best," said Mr. Lighton, and there was a different meaning in his admonition than before. "Now don't let any chance go by without practice," he added as he turned toward the other members of the nine. "We've got our work cut out for us. I want to see Randall win the pennant."
"So do we!" shouted the others in a chorus as the coach left them.
And the days that followed were filled with anxiety and anticipation for the members of the nine and those substitutes who hoped for a chance to play. As for Tom Parsons, he felt that if he could pitch in one of the games he would ask for nothing more. But he had small hopes.