the proctor said, in his hard, cold voice. "You were out an hour after closing time, Mr. Henderson."

"Very well, sir," answered Sid quietly, as he closed the door, and listened to Mr. Zane walking down the corridor.

"Caught?" asked Tom, though there was no need of the query.

"Sure," replied Sid shortly.

"Where were you?" asked Phil, sitting up in bed, and trying to peer through the darkness toward his unfortunate chum.

"Out," was the answer, which was none at all.

"Humph!" grunted Tom. Then, suddenly: "You must have been hitting it up, Sid. I thought you didn't smoke. Been trying it for the first time?"

"I haven't been smoking!" came the answer, in evident surprise.

"Your clothes smell as if you'd been at the smoker of the Gamma Sig fraternity," declared Tom.

"Oh, shut up, and let a fellow alone; can't you?" burst out Sid, and he threw his shoes savagely into the corner of the room. Neither Tom nor Phil replied, but they were doing a great deal of thinking. They could not fathom Sid's manner--he had never acted that way before. What could be the matter? It was some time before they learned Sid's secret, and the keeping of it involved Sid in no small difficulties, and nearly cost the college the baseball championship.

CHAPTER III

MISS MABEL HARRISON

Neither Tom nor Phil made any reference, the following morning, to the incident of the night before. As usual, none of the boys got up when the warning of the alarm clock summoned them, for they always allowed half an hour for its persistent habit of running fast. As it was, it happened to be correct on this occasion, and they were barely in time for chapel, Tom having to adjust his necktie on the race across the campus.

"Well, what's on for to-day?" asked Phil, as, with Tom and Sid, he strolled from the chapel after service.

"Baseball practice this afternoon," decided Tom, for the rain had stopped.

"It'll be pretty sloppy," observed Phil dubiously.

"Wear rubbers," advised the captain. "The fellows need some fresh air, and they're going to get it. Be on hand, Sid?"

"Sure. Now I've got to get a disagreeable job over with. Me for the doctor's office," and that was his only reference to the punishment meted out to him. He was required to do the usual number of lines of Latin prose, which was not hard for him, as he was a good scholar. Tom and Sid went to their lectures, the captain, on the way, calling to the various members of the team to be on hand at the diamond in the afternoon.

Sid accomplished his sentence of punishment in the room, and after dinner the three chums, with a motley crowd of players, and lovers of the great game, moved over the campus toward the diamond.

"Done anything about a manager?" asked Holly Cross, as he tightened his belt and began tossing up a gra.s.s-stained ball.

"Not yet," replied Tom. "There's time enough. I want to get the fellows in some kind of shape. We won't play a game for a month yet--that is any except practice ones, and we don't need a manager to arrange for them.

Whom have you fellows in mind?"

"Ed Kerr," spoke Holly promptly. "He knows the game from A to Z."

"I thought he was going to play," came quickly from Tom. "We need him on the nine."

"He isn't going to play this season," went on Holly. "I heard him say so. He wants to save himself for football, and he says he can't risk going in for both. He'd make a good manager."

"Fine!" agreed Tom, Sid and Phil.

"Yes, but did you hear the latest?" asked Snail Looper, gliding along, almost like the reptile he was christened after.

"What?" demanded several.

"There's talk of Ford Fenton for manager," went on Snail.

"What, Ford!" cried Tom. "He'd be giving us nothing all the while but 'my uncle says this' and 'my uncle used to do it that way'! No Ford for mine, though I like the chap fairly well."

"Same here," agreed Phil. "We can stand him, but not his uncle," for, be it known, Ford Fenton, one of the soph.o.m.ore students, was the nephew of a man who had been a celebrated coach at Randall in the years gone by.

Ford believed in keeping his memory green, and on every possible, and some impossible, occasions he would preface his remarks with "My Uncle says" and then go on and tell something. It got on the nerves of his fellows, and they "rigged" him unmercifully about it, but Fenton could not seem to take the hint. His uncle was a source of pride to him, but it is doubtful if the former coach knew how his reputation suffered at the hands of his indiscrete youthful relative.

"Who told you Fenton had a chance for manager?" asked Sid Henderson.

"Why, Bert Bascome is his press agent."

"Bascome, the freshman?" Phil wanted to know, and Snail Looper nodded.

"Guess he didn't get all the hazing that was coming to him last fall,"

remarked Tom. "We'll have to tackle him again. Kerr is the only logical candidate for manager, if he isn't going to play."

"That's right," came in a chorus, as the lads kept on toward the diamond.

Tom was doing some hard thinking. It was a new responsibility for him--to run the team--and he wanted a manager on whom he could depend.

If there was a contest over the place, as seemed likely from what Snail Looper had said, it would mean perhaps a dividing of interests, and lack of support for the team. He did not like the prospect, but he knew better than to tell his worries to the players now. At present he wanted to get them into some kind of shape, after a winter of comparative idleness.

"Here comes Mr. Leighton," observed Phil, as a young, and pleasant-faced gentleman was seen strolling toward the diamond. "Everybody work hard now--no sloppy work."

"That's right," a.s.sented Tom. "Fellows, what I want most to bring out this season," he went on, "is some good hitting. Good batting wins games, other things being equal. We've got to bat to win."

"You needn't talk," put in Dutch Housenlager, coming up then, and, with his usual horse play trying to trip Tom. "You are the worst hitter on the team."

"I know it," admitted Tom good naturedly, as he gave Dutch a welt on the chest, which made that worthy gasp. "My strong point isn't batting, and I know it. I can pitch a little, perhaps----"

"You're there with the goods when it comes to twirling," called out Holly Cross.

"Well, then, I'm going to depend on you fellows for the stick work,"

went on Tom. "But let's get down to business. The ground isn't so wet."

"Well, boys, let's see what we can do," proposed the coach, and presently b.a.l.l.s were being pitched and batted to and fro, grounders were being picked up by Bricktop Molloy, who excelled in his position of shortstop, while Jerry and Joe Jackson, the Jersey twins, with Phil Clinton, who on this occasion filled, respectively, the positions of right, left and center field were catching high flies.

"Now for a practice game," proposed Tom. "I want to see if I have any of my curves left."

Two scrub nines were soon picked out, and a game was gotten under way.

It was "ragged and sloppy" as Holly Cross said, but it served to warm up the lads, and to bring out strong and weak points, which was the object sought.