“The battle of the Ostrogoths and Visigoths,” replied Tompkins, wisely. “It’s a case of history repeating itself. The Visigoths won both times.” And then he added, “I don’t believe the Goths would have been guilty of some of the things I saw done on the ice this afternoon.”
CHAPTER IV
PHIL’S RESOLUTION
The Christmas holidays were over. Varrell limped no more, and Dickinson, who had long since discarded his cane, walked with quick, elastic step as of old, apparently completely recovered. A few new boys had entered school. One of these, who was somewhat rough in appearance and who struggled clumsily with the lessons of a lower class, was said to be a pitcher. He was older than most of the students, in years rather a man than a boy. This fact was not in itself remarkable, for there is no age limit at Seaton, and many an honest, earnest fellow who after his twentieth year has conceived a longing for an education has found opportunity and encouragement there. But Flanahan seemed not entirely of this class.
“What about him, Sands?” asked Dick. “He looks suspicious.”
“Suspicious! What do you mean by that?” demanded the captain. “He isn’t the youngest fellow in school, of course; but he isn’t the oldest, either. Why shouldn’t he have a chance for an education as well as any one else?”
“He should if he really wants it,” replied Melvin. “He looks as if he had knocked around on a good many diamonds before coming here.”
“Do you mean that he’s a professional?”
“Yes, something of that kind,—semi-professional would hit it better, I think.”
“If he’s a professional, I don’t know it,” said Sands. “I didn’t get him here. He says he’s an amateur, and he has certainly played on some good amateur nines. He can pitch, and we need a pitcher. That’s all I know about it.”