“That settles it!” cried Phil Clinton as Tom, with a wildly throbbing heart, walked out of the box, while a hush fell over the assemblage, for the crowd could hardly realize that the game was over and that Randall had won by a score of 13 to 12.
“Good work, Parsons! Oh, pretty work!” yelled a host of supporters, and then such cheering as there was!
“Come, fellows, a cheer for Boxer Hall!” cried Captain Woodhouse, and it was given, followed by the college yell.
Boxer generously retaliated, and as the teams ran for the dressing-rooms Langridge, pale and with trembling hands, stepped out. He was dressed in his street garments, and without a word to his chums, he started across the diamond for the grandstand.
“He’s going over to her,” thought Tom, and the joy of the victory he had helped to win was embittered for him.
“Parsons, you did splendidly!” cried Mr. Lighton. “I congratulate you with all my heart. If it hadn’t been for you, we’d have lost the game.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Yes, we would. You’re the regular pitcher on this team for the remainder of the season, subject, of course, to the confirmation of Captain Woodhouse.”
“Whatever you say,” assented Kindlings, but he looked a bit uncomfortable.
“There are only two more games,” went on the coach, “one out of town next Saturday, and then comes the final struggle with Fairview. If we win that, we’ll have the pennant.”