"He didn't come," replied Dutch Housenlager. "We've been waiting for him."

"Nasty scandal to get out about Randall," commented Phil.

"Oh, we'll take care that it doesn't get out," responded Holly. "Ford will keep still, and I'll make a school-honor matter of it for the others. Only Fenton had better go back to his friends," he added significantly.

I presume my readers have already guessed how the affair came about.

Holly and his chums suspected, after seeing Fenton so chummy with Bascome and his crowd, that there might be at least a "leak" in regard to the time and place of the soph.o.m.ore dinner. To forestall any such event, a ruse was adopted. It was arranged to hold the real dinner in a seldom-used hall, but to go ahead with arrangements as if one was going to take place in the usual building. To give color to this, Holly, Tom, Sid and Phil pretended to sneak off, as if to avoid the freshmen, but, in reality, to lead them on. Bascome and his followers trailed after, were drawn into the hall where the "fake" dinner table was set, and trapped, as told. They were locked in, and it was some time before they could summon help to open the doors.

Meanwhile the real banquet came off most successfully. Later the picture Sid had taken, of Bascome and the freshmen, rushing pell-mell into the supposed dining hall, was developed and printed, while its companion-piece was hung up with it, showing the triumphant soph.o.m.ores gathered at the board, making merry. It made a great hit, and the freshmen did not hear the last of their defeat for many moons.

As for Fenton, he was made aware, that very night, of the fact that his indiscrete conduct, to give it the mildest term, was common knowledge.

He withdrew from college, fearing the just wrath of his cla.s.smates, but, lest the scandal might stand against the fair name of Randall, he was induced to come back. He was promised that no punishment would be meted out to him, and none was, in the common acceptance of that term. But his life was made miserable in more ways than one.

The spring term was drawing to a close. With all the excitement attending the annual examinations there was mingled with it the anxiety about the baseball team, and Randall's chances for winning the championship, and the gold loving cup. The latter was placed on view in one of the Haddonfield stores, and daily a crowd of persons, including many students, could be seen in front of the place.

"I wonder if we'll get it?" asked Tom of Phil, a few days before the final game with Fairview.

"How are you on pitching?" asked Phil, for Tom had done little more than light practice since his accident.

"All right, I think. My hand is in fair shape."

"Pity you're not a southpaw, or else it's too bad you caught that ball,"

said Phil.

"Nonsense. I can pitch all right, and I would have felt like leaving the team, if I had let that liner get past me, hot as it was. No, I'm not worrying from my end, though perhaps I should. It's our batting I'm alarmed about. Hang it all, if only Sid----"

"There's no use going over that again," and Phil spoke quietly.

"No, I presume not. Well, we've just got to win from Fairview."

"Suppose it would do any good to tackle Sid again?"

"I don't know. I'll try, if I get a chance. I wish I knew his secret."

The chance came sooner than Tom or Phil expected it would. It was the evening of the day before the final game with Fairview. There had been hard practice in the afternoon, and though Tom found himself in good shape, and noted an improvement in his fielding forces, the batting was weak. He was tired, and not a little discouraged. His one thought was:

"If I could only get Sid to play, it would strengthen the whole team. He would stiffen the rest of 'em up, and stiffening is all that some of them need. Oh--well, what's the use."

Tom and Phil were alone in the room, discussing plans for the game the next day, when Sid entered. One look at his face showed that he was moody and out of sorts. He had been off on a tramp, after biology specimens, and with scarcely a word to his chums he began changing his field clothes for other garments.

"Going out this evening?" asked Phil.

"No. Guess not," was the rather short answer. "I've got to do some studying. What have you fellows got on the carpet?"

"Rest," answered Tom, and after supper he returned to the apartment, and stretched out on the creaking sofa, while Phil occupied the easy chair.

Sid was at his desk writing, when a knock came at the door.

The deposed second baseman started, and half arose. Then he sat down again.

"Well, aren't some of you going to answer it?" asked Tom. "I'm too tired to move."

"Same here," added Phil, but, as he was nearer the portal than Sid, he got up, with much groaning, and opened the door. Wallops stood there.

"A message for Mr. Henderson," he announced, and he handed Phil a letter.

"Here! Give it to me!" cried Sid, almost s.n.a.t.c.hing it from Phil's fingers.

"I was just going to, old man," was the gentle answer, and it seemed as if Sid was afraid his chum would see the writing on the envelope.

Sid tore open the epistle, read it at a glance, and tore it up, scattering the fragments in his waste paper basket. Then he strode over to his closet, and got out his coat and cap.

"Going out?" asked Phil, politely interested.

"Yes--I've got to," muttered Sid.

Tom slowly arose from the old sofa, the boards on the back and front creaking dismally with the strain.

"Sid," spoke Tom, and there was that in his voice which made Phil and Sid both look at the captain. "Sid, I'm going to make a last appeal to you."

"No--don't," almost begged the second baseman, and he put up his arm, as though to ward off a blow. "Don't, Tom, I--I can't stand it."

"You've got to!" insisted Tom, almost fiercely. "I've stood this long enough. It's not fair to yourself--not fair to the nine."

"I don't know what you mean," and Sid tried to speak calmly.

"Yes, you do," and by this time Tom was on his feet, and had walked over toward the door. "Yes, you do know. You received a note just now.

There's no use in me pretending I don't know what it is, for I do."

Sid started.

"I mean," went on Tom, "that I know what it portends. I don't know who it's from, and I don't care; neither do I know what's in it. But I do know that it calls you out----"

"Yes, I've got to go," murmured Sid, as though it was a summons from fate, and he could not avoid it.

"You've got to do nothing of the sort!" cried Tom. "Don't go!"

"I've got to, I tell you!"

"To that gambling hall? To lose your money again? Haven't you manhood enough to say 'no'? Can't you stay away? Oh, Sid, why do you go? Why don't you be fair to yourself--fair to the nine? We need you!"

Tom held out his hands appealingly. There was a mist before his eyes, and, he fancied, something glistened in those of his chum. Phil stood, a silent spectator of the little scene, and the clock ticked on relentlessly.

"Don't you want to help us win?" asked Tom.

"You know I do!" exclaimed Sid brokenly.

"Then do it!" cried Tom, in ringing tones. "Break off this miserable life! Give up this gambling!"

"I'm not gambling!" cried Sid, and he shrank back, as though Tom had struck him.