Tom had succeeded where Paul Rand had failed. Although the managers of the rival basket-ball teams had failed to reach an agreement the captains were more successful. Tom had offered to let Broadwood fix her own dates and name her own grounds for the series of three games, and Broadwood had promptly got over her peevishness. The Broadwood captain had politely replied that his team would play the first game at Broadwood, the second at Yardley and the deciding game, in case of a tie, at Broadwood. And he fixed the dates to please himself, requiring that all three contests take place inside of a fortnight in early March. Rand had held up his hands in holy horror when Tom had shown him the letter and declared that Tom was several sorts of a fool to accept such arrangements.
“It’s their turn to play the odd game here,” declared Rand. “Besides, who ever heard of playing the first two games within three days of each other?”
“Oh, what does it matter?” asked Tom. “We want to play them, don’t we? Then what’s the use of haggling about it? I’ll play them any place and any time, just as I said I would.”
“But,” began Rand, a trifle haughtily, “as manager—”
“Paul,” said Tom, “you’re a good fellow, all right, but you’re a mighty poor manager.”
And Paul, who, after all, had plenty of sense, recognized the justice of the charge and said no more.
So one Wednesday evening a large part of Yardley Hall School rode over to Broadwood and saw Tom’s five defeat the green-stockinged warriors in their own gymnasium by a score of twelve to nine and came triumphantly home again in the moonlight chanting pæans of victory and making night hideous.
“Well, that was going some!” declared Alf radiantly on the way home. “On their own floor, too!”
“And when they come over here Saturday night you’ll see us do worse than that to them,” said Tom grimly. “There isn’t going to be any third game in the series this year.”
And there wasn’t.