“Choke him with a double ice-cream cone!”
These cries, and many more, greeted the almost fatal announcement of Ford Fenton. Much abashed, he turned aside from the crowd into which he had made his way.
“I wouldn’t stand for that, if I were you,” remarked Bert Bascome to him. “Why don’t you go back at ’em.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” replied Ford hesitatingly.
“You’d have been manager of the team if some of the mollycoddles around here had had any spunk,” went on the sporty freshman. “I’m not done yet, either. I’ll make the team wish, before the season is over, that Ed Kerr hadn’t been manager.”
“You’ll not do anything rash, will you?” asked Ford, who was somewhat afraid of his wealthy chum, who proposed daring pranks sometimes.
“I don’t know,” answered Bascome with a superior air. “If I had some one to help me I know what I’d do. Come over here, I want to talk to you,” and he led Ford off to where a number of freshmen of Bascome’s crowd were looking on at the celebration in honor of the nine, but taking no part. Tom saw Ford going off with Bascome, the enthusiastic welcome of the players having calmed down for a moment.
“I don’t like that,” he observed to Phil. “Bascome is a chap likely to get Ford into trouble. There’s a fast set in the freshie crowd this year.”
“Yes, we didn’t take enough temper out of ’em with the hazing last fall. Have to do the job over again, I guess. But come on, enjoy life while you can,” and the two were once more caught up in the happy rush.
The celebration went on the better part of the evening, and when Phil and Tom got to their room Sid was not there. He came in later, narrowly missing detection by the proctor, and said little. He was limping quite badly.