Batting to Win Part 30

"Oh, you mean----" and Phil would have blurted out the name, had not Miss Tyler laid a pretty hand over his mouth.

"Hush," cautioned Madge. "No names out in company, if you please."

"Oh!" exclaimed Tom comprehendingly. "How is she?"

"Rather miserable," answered Ruth. "She wouldn't come with us, though we knew you boys wouldn't object."

"Of course not," spoke Phil quickly.

"And she stayed there in the room, moping."

"Just like----" began Phil, and again the pretty fingers spread themselves across his lips.

"It's too bad," resumed Tom. "If he only would explain then----"

"Then everything would be all right," finished Ruth. "But he won't. Talk about women having a mind of their own, and being stubborn! I know a certain young man very much that way."

"Oh, you mustn't talk so about him," expostulated Phil. "He's all right.

There's something queer at the bottom of it, and I shouldn't be surprised to learn that Langridge had had a hand in it."

"By Jove, I never thought of that!" exclaimed Tom. "Maybe you're right.

I wonder if we could do anything to help?"

"Better not meddle," cautioned Ruth. "Madge and I tried to use our influence, and were roundly snubbed for our pains. It's too bad, but maybe things will come right after a while. Oh, there's a lovely waltz!

Isn't it perfectly grand!" and her eyes sparkled in antic.i.p.ation as Tom led her out on the floor while the music welled forth in dreamy strains.

Back in the "den of the inseparables" Sid sat in gloomy loneliness, making a pretense of studying.

"Oh, hang it all!" he cried at length, as he flung the book from him, knocking down the alarm clock in its flight. "What is the use? I might as well give up."

Then, as he noted the cessation of the fussy ticking of the timepiece he crossed to where it lay on the ragged rug, and picked it up.

"Hope it isn't damaged," he murmured contritely. He shook it vigorously, and the ticking resumed. "It's all right," he added, with a breath of relief, "you couldn't hurt it with an axe. Guess I might as well turn in. But I wish----" he paused, shrugged his shoulders helplessly, and did not finish.

There came a knock at the door, and Sid started. He flung open the portal, and Wallops, the messenger, stood in the hall.

"A note for you, Mr. Henderson," he said. "A fellow just brought it."

Sid s.n.a.t.c.hed it eagerly, a hopeful look showing on his face. Then, as he saw the writing, there seemed to come into his eyes a shadow of fear.

"All right, Wallops," he replied kindly, and he closed the door.

"Again," he exclaimed. "Oh, will this never end? Must I carry this secret all through college?" and he tore the note to bits. Then he slipped on another coat, pulled a cap down over his eyes and went out.

"Why, Sid isn't here!" exclaimed Phil, when he and Tom, bubbling over still, with the spirit of the dance, came back to their apartment, after having escorted the girls home.

"That's right," agreed the pitcher, "and he's not allowed any more pa.s.ses since that affair with the pocket flask. He's taking chances to slip out. Zane will be almost sure to catch him, and a few turns like that and Sid will be expelled. I wonder what's gotten into him lately?"

"Give it up," responded Phil. "Let's hope that he won't be nabbed."

It was a vain hope, for Sid, coming into college about three o'clock that morning, was detected by the proctor. There was quite a stir over it, and Sid came mighty near expulsion. Only his fine scholarship saved him, but he was warned that another offense would be fatal to his chances.

Sid said nothing to his chums, but maintained a gloomy reserve, which wore off in a few days, but still left a cloud between them.

Meanwhile Tom was kept busy with his studies and his interest in the nine, while Phil was "boning" away, seeking a scholarship prize, and devoting as much time as he could to practice on the diamond.

Sid, barred from partic.i.p.ation in regular games, was, however, allowed to practice with the 'varsity, and play on the scrub as suited his fancy, and Tom was glad to have him do either, for he cherished a secret hope that the ban might be removed before the end of the term, and he wanted Sid to keep in form. As for the second baseman he was becoming a "crackerjack" wielder of the stick, and at either right or left hand work was an example to be looked up to by the younger players, and his average something to be sighed after.

It happened one afternoon, a few days prior to an important out-of-town game Tom's nine was to play, that the captain came upon Ed Kerr, the manager, busy figuring, in a corner of the gymnasium, his brow as wrinkled as a washboard.

"What's the row?" asked Tom. "Conic sections or a problem in trig, Ed?"

"It's a problem in finance," was the response. "Ferd Snowden, the treasurer, has just handed me a statement of how the nine's finances are, and, for the life of me I can't see how it happened."

"How what happened."

"The shortage."

"Shortage?" and there was a frightened note in Tom's voice.

"Yes, shortage. I thought we were running along pretty well, but according to Snowden we're in debt to him about ten dollars, for money he's advanced from his own pocket. He says he can't afford any more, and--well, it means we can't play Richfield Sat.u.r.day."

"Why not?"

"Because we haven't money enough to take the team out of town, and back again. Besides, Dutch needs a new catching mitt. I don't see how it happened. I thought we were making money."

"So did I. Let's go have a talk with Snowden."

The treasurer of the nine could only confirm his statement. He showed by figures that the amount of money taken in had not met the expenses, so far.

"The crowds haven't been what they ought to have been," Snowden explained. "Randall isn't drawing as it used to."

"We're playing better ball," fired Tom at him.

"That may be. I'm only talking from a money standpoint. We're in debt ten dollars. Not that I mind, for I don't need the money, but I thought Kerr ought to know. I can't advance any more, and the team can't go to Richfield without cash for railroad fare."

"That's right," agreed Tom, scratching his head. "Well, the only thing to do is to call a meeting and ask for subscriptions. The fellows will easily make up the deficit, and give enough over to provide for traveling expenses. Dutch can use his old glove for a few games yet, and we ought to get enough out of this Richfield game to put us on our feet.

After that we have a number of contests that will draw big crowds. Then comes the final whack at Boxer Hall, and that is always a money-maker.

We'll come out right yet, Ed. Don't worry."

"I'm not, only it looks as if I hadn't managed things right."

"Nonsense! Of course you have. The fellows will go down in their pockets. I'll call a meeting for this afternoon."

CHAPTER XXIV