Mr. Lighton would stand for no nonsense, and ordered Evert into the pitcher’s box, promising that Tom should have the next chance. He would have made Tom the regular substitute but for the fact that Evert, by right of seniority, was entitled to it. Hearing this news, Langridge came out of his sulks and resumed practice.
“I have a large framed picture of Randall winning the league pennant,” announced Sid gloomily one night as he and Tom were sitting in their room. “Our stock is about fifty below par now, and with only a few more games to play, we’ve practically got to win them all in order to top the league.”
“Maybe we’ll do it,” said Tom, in an endeavor to be cheerful.
“We might, if you pitched, but Langridge is that mean that he’ll keep in just good enough form so Mr. Lighton won’t send him to the bench, and that’s all. He won’t do his best—no, I’ll not say that. He is doing his best, but—well, something’s wrong, and I guess I’m not the only one who knows it.”
“No,” said Tom quietly. “I do and have for some time. It’s been a puzzle to know what to do; keep still and let the ’varsity be beaten or squeal on Langridge.”
“Oh, one can’t squeal, you know.”
“No, that’s what I thought, especially in my case. It would look as if I was grinding my own ax.”
“That’s so. No, you can’t say anything. But it’s tough luck. Maybe something will turn up. We’ve got a couple of games on our own grounds next, and we may do better. If we don’t, we may as well order our funeral outfits. Well, I’m going to bone away at this confounded Latin. Ten thousand maledictions be upon the head of the Roman who invented it!”
Sid opened his book, and studied for half an hour. Tom likewise was busily engaged, and only the ticking of the clock was heard, when suddenly there came a gentle tap on the door.