The day before the game with Fairview, Coach Lighton called Tom to one side.
“I think you had better prepare to go as a sub to-morrow,” he said.
“Why, is Langridge——” burst out Tom, a wild hope filling his heart.
“No, it isn’t our pitcher. But I understand Sid is falling back in his Latin, and he may not be allowed to play. In that case I’ll have to do some shifting, and I may be able to give you a place in the field.”
“Well, I don’t want to see Sid left, but I would like a chance.”
Tom was in rather a quandary. He had arranged to take Miss Tyler, and he could not, if he went with the team as a sub. He hardly knew what to do about it, and was on the point of going over to see her, and explain, when Sid came bursting into the room.
“Blood! blood! I want blood!” he cried as he threw his Latin grammar against the wall with such force that the covers came off.
“What ho! most worthy knight!” replied Tom gently. “In sooth, gentle sir, what hath befallen thee?”
“Heaps!” replied Sid. “Oh, Pitchfork, would I had thee here!” and he wadded up the table cover, and pretended to choke it.