“It doesn’t much matter. I—I’ve come to ask a favor of you, Parsons.”
“A favor of me?”
“Yes, and it’s a mighty big one.”
There was a dogged, determined air about him as he stood there facing his rival who had supplanted him, and Tom wondered what was coming next.
“Why, I’ll do anything I can for you, Langridge, of course.”
“Wait until you hear what I want. There’s no use beating about the bush, Parsons. I’ve been mighty mean to you. I’ve played a low-down hand against you, but I’m not going to apologize—not now. I thought it was fair—in war, you know. I didn’t want you to pitch in my place, but you’ve done me out of it.”
“I think I acted square,” said Tom quietly.
“Yes, you did. You were white. I wasn’t. I didn’t play fair about that wire nor yet about sneaking in the dormitory that night. You did. I suppose you know—about the night you were captured—the night of the freshman dinner.”
“I think you knew it was I before you——” began Tom.
“Yes, I knew it was you before I kicked you,” went on Langridge, and he spoke as if he was getting through a disagreeable confession. “I—I didn’t mean to boot you so hard, though. I thought maybe you’d give up pitching if you got a good crack on the arm, but you didn’t.”