The Rival Pitchers: A Story of College Baseball

Fiction > Sports

Description

by Lester Chadwick

CHAPTER I

THE OLD BELL CLAPPER

Down the green campus they strolled, a motley group of sturdy freshmen, talking excitedly. In their midst was a tall, good-looking lad, who seemed to be the center of discussion. Yet, in spite of the fact that the others appeared to be deferring something to him, he regarded them with rather an amused and cynical smile on his face. He paused to brush an invisible bit of dust from his well-fitting clothes.

“Well, aren’t we going to make a try for it to-night?” asked one youth, whose hat was decorated with a silk band, yellow and maroon in color. “My uncle, who used to be a football coach here, says the freshmen always used to get it the first week of the term. My uncle——”

“Oh, let up about your uncle, Fenton!” exclaimed the lad on whose word the others seemed to depend a great deal. “I’ve heard nothing but your uncle, your uncle, ever since you came here. Give us something new.”

“That’s all right, Fred Langridge, but my uncle——”

“There you go again!” interrupted Fred. “I guess I know what the custom is, as well as your uncle. He hasn’t been here in fifteen years.”

“I know that, but he says——”

“Say, if you speak uncle again, I’ll land you one on the jaw, and that’ll keep you quiet for a while.” The words, in spite of their aggressiveness, were good-natured enough, and were spoken with a smile. Ford Fenton, who seldom took part in any conversation about college sports or frolics without mentioning his relative, who had been a well-known coach at Randall, looked first surprised, then hurt, but as he saw that the sympathies of his companion freshmen were with Langridge, he concluded to make the best of it.

“I guess I know what the customs are here,” repeated the well-dressed lad. “Didn’t I get turned down at the exams, and ain’t I putting in my second year as freshman? I helped get the clapper last year, and I’ll help again this term. But I know one thing, Fenton, and that’s not two.”

“What’s that?” eagerly asked the youth who had boasted of his uncle.

“That’s this: You may not get the clapper, but you’ll get something else.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

For answer Langridge silently pointed to the gay hatband of the other.

“Take it off—take it off,” he said. “Don’t you know it’s against the sacred customs of Randall College for a freshman to wear the colors on his hat until after the flagpole rush? Don’t you know it, I ask?”

“Yes, I heard something about it.”

“Better strip it off, then,” went on Langridge. “Here come Morse and Denfield, a couple of scrappy sophs. They’ll have it off you before you can say ‘all Gaul is divided into three parts,’ which you slumped on in Latin to-day.”

Fenton looked up, and saw approaching the group of freshmen which included himself, two tall lads, who walked along with the swagger that betokened their second year at college. The hand of Fenton went to his hat, to take off the offending band, but he was too late. The sophomores had seen it. They turned quickly and strode over to the group of first years.

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