Then Tom felt a wave of remorse sweep over him. After all, had he done right? Had he done the best thing? He was almost on the point of rushing after Langridge and telling him he could pitch in the final game, for the memory of his face haunted Tom. But when his hand was on the knob of the door Sid entered.
“What’s the matter?” asked Tom’s chum, looking curiously at him.
“Nothing. Why?”
“You look as if you had been seeing ghosts.”
“Well, I have—a sort of one,” answered Tom with an uneasy laugh. “How’d you make out with the Latin?”
“Pretty punk, I guess. Bricktop says I’ve got to put in all my spare time boning. If I slump and can’t play that last game, I’ll—I’ll——”
“Don’t you dare slump!” cried Tom earnestly. “We can’t put a new man on first at this late day. Don’t you dare slump, Sid.”
“Oh, I’ll try not to,” and Sid dumped himself down in the easy chair and with an air of dogged determination began devouring Latin verbs.
The ’varsity had had its final practice against the scrub, with Tom in the box for the first team. He was beginning to take it as a matter of course and acquiring that which he needed most—confidence in himself. The scrub pitcher who had replaced him was good, but he was pretty well batted, while very few hits, and these only one-baggers, were secured off Tom.