“From what I get about yesterday’s merry little fracas, it was a regular humdinger,” said Clif. “I’d like to have seen it. Toll’s roughed it up considerable. One of her fellows was put out by the referee, they say.”
“Sure it wasn’t the umpire?” asked Tom mildly.
“Well, umpire then. Anyway, our bunch got pretty well bunged up. Raiford’s wearing plaster all over his face to-day.”
“Must be an improvement,” said Tom. “I never did like Raiford’s face.”
Mr. Otis was not back the next day when the First got out for practice and Mr. Hilliard, his assistant, took charge. There was no scrimmage with the Scrub, for the First, while it had run up a big score against its adversary on Saturday, had found plenty of opposition, and not a few of the players were nursing wounds. “Big Bill” Fargo didn’t even put in an appearance, although most of the temporary invalids sat on the bench or, draped in their blankets, followed the drill. The Scrub, left to its own devices, took up that new forward-pass play and another, of Mr. Babcock’s devising, and worked at them until they were running quite smoothly. Of course, however, as Loring realized, the forward-pass play couldn’t be fairly judged until it had been tried out in actual playing. The opposition put up by the Scrub Team substitutes, with “Cocky” at left guard to make up the eleven, provided no real test for the play.
That evening, after spending the whole afternoon groaning and writhing in Number 34, Tom faced Mr. Wyatt across that well-remembered desk and somehow floundered through an examination. Mr. Wyatt displayed no enthusiasm over the performance, but he did say, somewhat wearily, at the end: “All right, Kemble. I haven’t the heart to say what I ought to. Please go before I give way to unmanly emotion!”
“Yes, sir,” said Tom. “Thanks!”
Deserted by his chums—for Clif, too, had failed to show up after supper—Loring sat in his chair with the chess-board before him. He had started to work out a problem, but had not got far with it. Another problem, having nothing to do with chess, had substituted itself, and for a long while Loring sat and tapped the black queen against the edge of the board, and stared intently at nothing. Then, he set the board aside and propelled the chair across to the door and through it, and made his slow way around to West Hall. “Babe” Ridgway happened along and pushed him the last part of his journey, depositing him by request in the reading room. Loring was seeking something he was not at all certain existed in the reading room, and it took him several minutes, and much dexterous filling and backing between chairs and tables and shelves—fortunately the room was not well occupied—to discover that it did exist. Having secured it, he made out a slip with the date and his name, and put it in the clip beside the wide, shallow shelf. Then, with the issues of the daily paper published at the nearest metropolis of the state from the middle of September to last Saturday in front of him, he returned to his room. To his right as he left the reading room, beyond the library, a considerable throng of fellows were congregated around the recreation room doorway, and some subject of more than ordinary interest appeared to engross them, for every one seemed to be talking at once and there was quite an atmosphere of excitement down there. But, although mildly curious, Loring preferred not to venture into the crowd with his chair, and so made his way back to East Hall. Once there, he devoted the rest of the time before study hour, and much time thereafter to a careful and thoughtful perusal of the many papers he had brought back with him; or, to be more exact, to certain items in those papers.
Tom, coming downstairs after that enervating experience in Mr. Wyatt’s study, saw the crowd at the end of the corridor, and joined it as fast as he could. An acquaintance named Bumstead, a slight, sandy haired youth, who wore big, round spectacles, and whom Tom disliked cordially, presented himself as the nearest source of information. Bumstead turned incredulous, but joyous eyes on the inquirer.
“Say, haven’t you heard?” he exclaimed almost shrilly. “Gee, where have you been?”