Batting to Win

Sid Henderson arose from the depths of an antiquated easy chair, not without some effort, for the operation caused the piece of furniture to creak and groan, while from the thick cushions a cloud of dust arose, making a sort of haze about the student lamp, and forcing two other occupants of the college room to sneeze.

"Oh, I say, Sid!" expostulated Tom Parsons, "give a fellow notice, will you, when you're going to liberate a colony of sneeze germs. I-er-ah! kerchoo! Hoo! Boo!" and he made a dive for his pocket handkerchief.

"Yes," added Phil Clinton, as he coughed protestingly. "What do you want to get up for and disturb everything, when Tom and I were so nice and quiet? Why can't you sit still and enjoy a good think once in a while? Besides, do you want to give that chair spinal meningitis or lumbago? Our old armchair, that has stuck to us, through thick and thin, for better and for worse-mostly worse, I guess. I say--"

"I came near sticking to it, myself," remarked Sidney Henderson, otherwise known as, and called, Sid. "It's like getting out of the middle of a featherbed to leave it. And say, it does act as if it was going to pieces every time one gets in or out of it," he added, making a critical inspection of the chair.

"Then why do you want to get in or out?" asked Phil, closing a book, over which he had made a pretense of studying. "Why do you do it, I ask? You may consider that I have moved the previous question, and answer," he went on. "How about it, Tom?"

"The gentleman is out of order," decided Tom, a tall, good-looking lad, with the bronzed skin of an athlete, summer and fall, barely dimmed by the enforced idleness of winter. "Sid, you are most decidedly out of order-I think I'm going to sneeze again," and he held up a protesting hand. "No, I'm not, either," he continued. "False alarm. My, what a lot of dust! But, go ahead, Sid, answer the gentleman's query."

"Gentleman?" repeated the lad, who had arisen from the easy chair, and there was a questioning note in his voice.

"Here! Here! Save that for the amateur theatricals!" cautioned Tom, looking about for something to throw at his chum. "Why did you get up? Answer!"

"I wanted to see if it had stopped raining," announced Sid, as he moved over toward one of the two windows in the rather small living room and study, occupied by the three chums, who were completing their sophomore year at Randall College. "Seems to me it's slacking up some."

"Slacking up some!" exclaimed Tom.

"Stopped raining!" echoed Phil. "Listen to it! Cats and dogs, to say nothing of little puppies, aren't in it. It's a regular deluge. Listen to it!"

He held up his hand. Above the fussy ticking of a small alarm clock, which seemed to contain a six-cylindered voice in a one-cylindered body, and which timepiece was resting at a dangerous angle on a pile of books, there sounded the patter of rain on the windows and the tin gutter outside.

"Rain, rain, nothing but rain!" grumbled Phil. "We haven't had a decent day for baseball practice in two weeks. I'm sick of the inside cage, and the smell of tan bark. I want to get into the open, with the green grass of the outfield to fall on."

"Well, this weather is good for making the grass grow," observed Tom, as he got up from his chair, and joined Sid at the window, down which rain drops were chasing each other as if in glee at the anguish of mind they were causing the three youths.

"Aren't you anxious to begin twirling the horsehide?" asked Sid. "I should think you'd lose some speed, having only the cage to practice in, Tom."

"I am, but I guess we'll get some decent weather soon. This can't last forever."

"It's in a fair way to," grumbled Phil.

"It would be a nice night if it didn't rain," came from Sid musingly, as he turned back to the old easy chair, "which remark," he added, "is one a little boy made in the midst of a driving storm, when he met his Sunday-school teacher, and wanted to say something, but didn't know what."

"Your apology is accepted," murmured Tom. "I don't know what you fellows are going to do, but I'm going to sew up a rip in my pitcher's glove. I think maybe if I do the weather man will get a hunch on himself, and hand us out a sample of a nice day for us to select from."

"Nice nothing!" was what Phil growled, but with the activity of Tom in getting out his glove, and searching for needle and thread, there came a change of atmosphere in the room. The rain came down as insistently, and the wind lashed the drops against the panes, but there was an air of relief among the chums.

"I've got to fix a rip in my own glove," murmured Sid. "Guess I might as well get at it," and he noted Tom threading a needle.

"And I've got to do a little more boning on this trigonometry," added Phil, as, with a sigh, he opened the despised book.

For a time there was silence in the apartment, while the rain on the windows played a tattoo, more or less gentle, as the wind whipped the drops; the timepiece fussed away, as if reminding its hearers that time and tide waited for no man, and that 99-cent alarm clocks were especially exacting in the matter. Occasionally Sid shifted his position in the big chair, to which he had returned, each movement bringing out a cloud of dust, and protests from his chums.

The room was typical of the three lads who occupied it. At the beginning of their friendship, and their joint occupation of a study, they had agreed that each was to be allowed one side of the apartment to decorate as he saw fit. The fourth side of this particular room was broken by two windows, and not of much use, while one of the other walls contained the door, and this one Sid had chosen, for the simple reason that his fancy did not run to such things as did Tom's and Phil's, and he required less space for his ornaments.

Sid was rather an odd character, somewhat quiet, much given to study, and to delving after the odd and unusual. One of his fads was biology, and another, allied to it, nature study. He would tramp all day for a sight of some comparatively rare bird, nesting; or walk many miles to get a picture of a fox, or a ground-hog, just as it darted into its burrow. In consequence Sid's taste did not run to gay flags and banners of the college colors, worked by the fair hands of pretty girls, nor did he care to collect the pictures of the aforesaid girls, and stick them up on his wall. He had one print which he prized, a representation of a football scrimmage, and this occupied the place of honor.

As for Tom and Phil, the more adornments they had the better they liked it, though I must do them the credit to say that they only had one place of honor for one girl's photograph at a time. But they sometimes changed girls. Then, on their side, were more or less fancy pictures-scenes, mottoes, and what not. Much of the ornamentation had been given them by young lady friends.

Of course the old chair and an older sofa, together with the alarm clock, which had been handed down from student to student until the mind of Randallites ran not to the contrary, were the chief other things in the apartment, aside from the occupants thereof. Each lad had a desk, and a bureau or chiffonier, or "Chauffeur" as Holly Cross used to dub them. These articles of furniture were more or less in confusion. Neckties, handkerchiefs, collars and cuffs were piled in a seemingly inextricable, if not artistic, confusion. Nor could much else be expected in a room where three chums made a habit of indiscriminately borrowing each other's articles of wearing apparel, provided they came any where near fitting.

On the floor was a much worn rug, which Phil had bought at auction at an almost prohibitive price, under the delusion that it was a rare Oriental. Learning to the contrary he and his chums had decided to keep it, since, old and dirty as it was, they argued that it saved them the worriment of cleaning their feet when they came in.

Then there were three neat, white, iron beds-neat because they were made up fresh every day, and there was a dormitory rule against having them in disorder. Otherwise they would have suffered the fate of the walls, the rug or the couch and easy chair. Altogether it was a fairly typical student apartment, and it was occupied, as I hope my readers will believe, by three of the finest chaps it has been my lot to write about; and it is in this room that my story opens, with the three lads busily engaged in one way or another.

"Oh, I say! Hang it all!" burst out Sid finally. "How in the mischief do you shove a needle through this leather, Tom? It won't seem to go, for me."

"You should use a thimble," observed Tom. "Nothing like 'em, son."

"Thimble!" cried Sid scornfully. "Do you take me for an old maid? Where did you ever learn to use a thimble?" and he walked over to where Tom was making an exceedingly neat job of mending his glove.

"Oh, I picked it up," responded the pitcher of the Randall 'varsity nine. "Comes in handy when your foot goes through your socks."

"Yes, and that's what they do pretty frequently these days," added Phil. "If you haven't anything to do, Tom, I wish you'd get busy on some of my footwear. I just got a batch back from the laundry, and I'm blessed if out of the ten pairs of socks I can get one whole pair."

"I'll look 'em over," promised the pitcher. "There, that's as good as new; in fact better, for it fits my hand," and he held up and gazed critically at the mended glove. "Where's yours, Sid?" he went on. "I'll mend it for you."

Silence was the atmosphere of the apartment for a few minutes-that is comparative silence, though the pushing of Tom's needle through the leather, squeaking as he forced it, mingled with the ticking of the clock.

"I guess we can count on a good nine this year," observed Tom judicially, apropos of the glove repairing.

"It's up to you, cap," remarked Sid, for Tom had been elected to that coveted honor.

"You mean it's up to you fellows," retorted the pitcher-captain. "I want some good batters, that's what I want. It's all right enough to have a team that can hold down Boxer Hall and Fairview Institute, but you can't win games by shutting out the other fellows. Runs are what count, and to get runs you've got to bat to win."

"Listen to the oracle!" mocked Phil, but with no malice in his voice. "You want to do better than three hundred with the stick, Sid."

"Physician, heal thyself!" quoted Tom, smiling. "I think we will have a good--"

He was interrupted by the sound of footsteps coming along the corridor. Instinctively the three lads started, then, as a glance at the clock showed that they were not burning lights beyond the prescribed hour, there was a breath of relief.

"Who's coming?" asked Tom.

"Woodhouse, Bricktop or some of the royal family," was Phil's opinion.

"No," remarked Sid quietly, and there was that in his voice which made his chums look curiously at him, for it seemed as if he expected some one. A moment later there came a rap on the door, and then, with a seeming knowledge of the nerve-racking effect this always has on college students, a voice added:

"I'm Wallops, the messenger. I have a note for Mr. Henderson."

"For me?" and there was a startled query in Sid's voice, as he went to the door.

Outside the portal stood a diminutive figure-Wallops-the college messenger, so christened in ages gone by-perhaps because of the chastisements inflicted on him. At any rate Wallops he was, and Wallops he remained.

"A message for me?" repeated Sid. "Where from?"

"Dunno. Feller brought it, and said it was for you," and, handing the youth an envelope, the messenger departed.

Sid took out the note, and rapidly scanned it.

"See him blush!" exclaimed Phil. "Think of it, Tom, Sid Henderson, the old anchorite, the petrified misogynist, getting notes from a girl."

"Yes," added Tom. "Why don't you sport her photograph, old man?" and he glanced at several pictures of pretty girls that adorned the sides of the room claimed by Phil and himself.

Sid did not answer. He read the note through again, and then began to tear it into bits. The pieces he thrust into his pocket, but one fluttered, unnoticed, to the floor.

"I've got to go out, fellows," he announced in a curiously quiet voice.

"Out-on a night like this?" cried Tom. "You're crazy. Listen to the rain! It's pouring."

"I can't help it," was the answer, as the lad began delving among his things for a raincoat.

"You're crazy!" burst out Phil. "Can't you wait until to-morrow to see her, old sport? My, but you've got 'em bad for a fellow who wouldn't look at a girl all winter!"

"It isn't a girl," and Sid's voice was still oddly calm. "I've got to go, that's all-don't bother me-you chaps."

There was such a sudden snap to the last words-something so different from Sid's usual gentle manner-that Phil and Tom looked at each other in surprise. Then, as if realizing what he had said, Sid added:

"It's something I can't talk about-just yet. I've got to go-I promised-that's all. I'll be back soon-I guess."

"How about Proc. Zane?" asked Tom, for the proctor of Randall College was very strict.

"I'll have to chance it," replied Sid. "I've got about two hours yet, before locking-up time, and if I get caught-well my reputation's pretty good," and he laughed uneasily.

This was not the Sid that Tom and Phil-his closest chums-had known for the last three terms. It was a different Sid, and the note he received, and had so quickly destroyed, seemed to have worked the change in him. Slowly he drew on his raincoat and took up an umbrella. He paused a moment in the doorway. The rain was coming down harder than ever.

"So long," said Sid, as he stepped into the corridor. He almost collided with another youth on the point of entering, and the newcomer exclaimed:

"Say, fellows! I've got great news! Baseball news! I know this is a rotten night to talk diamond conversation, but listen. There's been a new trophy offered for the championship of the Tonoka Lake League! Just heard of it. Dr. Churchill told me. Some old geezer that did some endowing for the college years ago, had a spasm of virtue recently and is now taking an interest in sports. It's a peach of a gold loving cup, and say--"

"Come on in, Holly," invited Tom, "Holly" being about all that Holman Cross was ever called. "Come on in," went on Tom, "and chew it all over for us. Say, it's great! A gold loving cup! We must lick the pants off Boxer and Fairview now!"

Holly started to enter the room, Phil and Tom reaching out and clasping his hands.

"Where are you bound for?" asked Holly, looking at Sid, attired in the raincoat.

"I've got to go out," was the hesitating answer.

"Wait until you hear the news," invited Holly. "It's great! It will be the baseball sensation of the year, Sid."

"No-no-sorry, but I've got to go. I'll be back-soon-I guess. I've-I've got to go," and breaking away from the detaining hand of Holly, the strangely-acting boy turned down the corridor, leaving his roommates, and the newcomer, to stare curiously after him.

"Whatever has gotten into old Sid?" inquired Holly.

"Search us," answered Phil. "He got a note a little while ago; seemed quite put out about it, tore it up and then tore out, just as you saw."

"A note, eh?" mused Holly, as he threw himself full length on a rickety old sofa, much patched fore and aft with retaining boards-a sofa that was a fit companion for the ancient chair. It creaked and groaned under the substantial bulk of Holly.

"Easy!" cautioned Phil. "Do you want to wreck our most cherished possession?"

"Anyone who can wreck this would be a wonder," retorted Holly, as he looked over the edge, and saw the boards that had been nailed on to repair a bad fracture. "Hello!" he exclaimed a moment later, as he picked up from the floor a scrap of paper. "You fellows are getting most uncommon untidy. First you know Proc. Zane will have you up on the carpet. You should keep your scraps of paper picked up."

"We didn't put that there," declared Tom. "That must be part of the note Sid tore up."

Idly Holly turned the bit of paper over. It was blank on one side, but, at the sight of the reverse the athlete uttered a cry.

"I say, fellows, look here!" he said.

He held the paper scrap out for their inspection. It needed but a glance to see that it bore but one word, though there were pen tracings of parts of other words on the edges. But the word that stood plainly out was "trouble," and it appeared to be the end of a sentence, for a period followed it.

"Trouble," mused Holly.

"Trouble," repeated Phil. "I wonder if that means Sid is going to get into trouble?" and his voice took a curious turn.

"Trouble," added Tom, the last of the trio to use the word. "Certainly something is up or Sid wouldn't act the way he did. I wonder--"

"It isn't any of our affair," spoke Holly softly, "that is unless Sid wants our help, of course. I guess we shouldn't have looked at this. It's like reading another chap's letters."

"We couldn't help it," decided Phil. "Go ahead, Holly. Tell us about the trophy. Sid may be back soon."

"All right, here goes," and wiggling into a more comfortable position on the sofa, an operation fraught with much anxiety on the part of Phil and Tom, Holly launched into a description of the loving cup. But, unconsciously perhaps, he still held in his hand that scrap of paper-the paper with that one word on-"trouble."

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