CHAPTER X

A BOTTLE OF LINIMENT

Tom thought of many things as he walked up the silent campus at Randall, and prepared to go to his room. He went over again every happening from the time Miss Philock had grudgingly admitted him at Fairview, until he had bidden Ruth Clinton good-by. Tom had a very distinct mental picture of two girls' faces now, whereas, up to that evening, he had had but one. They were the faces of Ruth and Madge.

"Hang it all!" he burst out, as he was on the steps of the west dormitory. "I must be falling in love! This will never do, with the football season about to open. Better cut it out, Tom Parsons!"

His musing was suddenly interrupted by the appearance of a figure coming quickly from the teachers' residence, which was directly in front of the dormitory building. The figure exclaimed:

"Wait a minute, please."

"Proctor Zane!" whispered Tom to himself. "He thinks he's caught me. Probably he doesn't know I've got a permit. I'll have some fun with him."

A moment later the proctor stood beside Tom.

"Are you aware of the hour?" asked Mr. Zane, in what he meant to be a sarcastic tone.

"I--I believe it's nearly two o'clock," replied Tom. "I will tell you exactly in a moment, as soon as I look at my watch," and with a flourish he drew his timepiece from his pocket. "It lacks just eight minutes of two," he added.

"I didn't ask you the time!" exclaimed the proctor.

"I beg your pardon, sir; I thought you did," spoke Tom.

"Aren't you getting in rather late?" asked the official, as he drew out his book and prepared to enter Tom's name.

"Well, it might be called late," admitted Tom, as if there was some doubt about it. "That is, unless you choose to look at it from another standpoint, and call it early morning. On the whole, I think I prefer the latter method. It is more comforting, Mr. Zane."

"None of your impertinence, Parsons!" exclaimed the proctor. "You are out after hours, and you will report to my office directly after chapel. This matter of students staying out must be broken up."

"I agree with you," went on Tom easily, "but I'm afraid I can't report to you after chapel to-morrow, or, rather, to-day, Mr. Zane."

"You can't? What do you mean, Parsons?"

"Why, you see, I have to attend a lecture by Moses--I beg your pardon--Dr. Churchill--at that hour."

The proctor, as Tom could see in the light of the hall lamp, as the rays streamed from the glass door of the dormitory, looked pained at the appellation of "Moses" to the venerable head of the college. The boys all called Dr. Churchill that among themselves, though they meant no disrespect. They had evolved the title from his name; from the fact that, as one of the first students put it, the original Moses went up on a hill to establish the first church--hence Church--Hill; and thus "Moses."

"I am sure Dr. Churchill will excuse you when he knows the circumstances, Parsons," went on the proctor with a malicious smile. "You will report to me for being out after hours without permission."

"Oh, but I have permission," spoke Tom, as he drew out a note which the president had given him. "I beg your pardon for not mentioning it before. Very stupid of me, I'm sure," and this time it was Tom's turn to grin.

The proctor looked at the permit, saw that it was in regular form, and knew that he was beaten. Without a word he turned and went back to his apartments, but the look he gave Tom augured no good to the talented pitcher. Tom went to his room, chuckling to himself.

"Well?" asked Phil, who was not asleep when Tom entered. "Did you see Ruth?"

"Yes, old chap. It's all right," and Tom told something of his visit--that is, as much as he thought Phil would care to know. "Your sister and Miss Tyler are both sorry you were laid up," he went on.

"I guess I'll be out inside of a week," said Phil. "The doc was here a while ago, and left some new liniment that he said would soften up the strained muscles and ligaments. I tried some, and I feel better already. Say, put that blamed alarm clock out in the hall, will you? I can't sleep with the ticking of it."

Tom did so, and then undressed. He turned the light down low, and, as he put on his pajamas, he knew, by the regular breathing of Phil, that the injured lad had fallen into a slumber. Sid, too, was sound asleep. Tom sat down on the old sofa, sinking far down into the depths of the weak springs. It creaked like an old man uttering his protest against rheumatic joints, and, in spite of the new leg Phil had put on and the strengthening boards, it threatened to collapse. Tom sat there in the half darkness dreaming--reflecting of his visit to Fairview. He imagined he could see, in the gloom of a distant corner, a fair face--which one was it?

"Oh, I've got to cut this out," he remarked, and then he extinguished the light and got into bed.

The next day was Saturday, and as several of the football squad were a little lame, Coach Lighton only put them through light practice. Thus the absence of Phil was not felt. He was much better, the new liniment working like a charm.

One afternoon, a few days later, Tom and Sid went for a walk, Tom as a matter of training, and Sid because he wanted to get some specimens for use in his biology class. They strolled toward the town of Haddonfield, and shortly after crossing the bridge over Sunny River, saw on the road ahead of them two figures.

"There are Langridge and Gerhart," remarked Tom.

"Yes," spoke Sid. "They're quite chummy for a freshman and a sophomore. Langridge tried to save Gerhart from being hazed, but the fellows wouldn't stand for it."

"I should say not. He ought to take his medicine the same as the rest of us had to. But look, they don't seem to want to meet us."

As Tom spoke, Langridge and his crony suddenly left the road and took to the woods which lined the highway on either side.

"I wonder what they did that for?" went on Tom.

"Oh, I guess they don't like our style," was Sid's opinion. "We're not sporty enough for them."

But it was not for this reason that Langridge and Gerhart did not want to meet their two schoolmates.

"Lucky we saw them in time," observed Gerhart to the other, as he and Langridge sneaked along. "They might have asked us why we had gone to town."

"We shouldn't have told them. I guess they won't pay much attention to us. Are you going to work the trick to-day?"

"To-night, if I have a chance. There's going to be a meeting of the glee club, and Tom and Sid both will go. That will leave Phil alone in the room, and I can get in and make the change."

"Be careful you're not caught. It's a risky thing to do."

"I know it, but it's worth the risk if I can get back on the team. Besides, it won't hurt Clinton much."

"Well, it's your funeral, not mine. You've got to stand for it all. I did my share helping plan it. You'll have to take the blame."

"I will. Don't worry."

"But what puzzles me is how Clinton can help knowing it when you change the liniment. As soon as he uses it he'll see that something is wrong, and he'll recall that you were in the room."

"Oh, no, he won't. You see, the two liquids are so nearly alike that it's hard to tell the difference. Then, the beauty of it is that the one I'm going to put in place of his regular liniment doesn't take effect for twelve hours. So he'll never connect me with his trouble."

"All right. It's up to you. But come on, let's get out on the road again. I don't fancy tramping through the woods."

They emerged at a point some distance back of Tom and Sid, who continued their walk.

"Did I tell you I met Langridge and Gerhart the night I went to see Phil's sister?" asked Tom after a pause.

"No. What were they doing?"

Tom related the conversation he had heard, and gave his speculations as to what Gerhart could have meant.

"I guess he's counting on Phil being laid up so long that he can have his place at quarter-back," was Sid's opinion, and Tom agreed.

The specimens of unfortunate frogs, to be used in biology, were stowed away in a box Sid carried, and then he and Tom turned back to college. That night they went to a rehearsal of the glee club.

"Do you mind staying alone, old chap?" asked Tom of Phil as they prepared to depart.

"Not a bit. Glad to get rid of you. I can move about the room, doc says, and it isn't so bad as it might be. I'll be glad to be alone, so I can think."

"All right. So long, then."

It was quiet in the room after Tom and Sid had departed. Phil tried to read, but he was too nervous, and took no interest in the book. It was out of the question to study, and, as his shoulder ached, he went back to bed again. He was in a half doze, when the door opened and Gerhart entered the room.

"Hope I didn't disturb you, old chap," he began with easy familiarity--entirely too easy, for a freshman, Phil thought with a scowl. "Parsons and Henderson out?" asked Gerhart, as if he did not know it.

"Yes, at the meeting of the glee club," answered Phil shortly.

"That's so. I'd forgotten. Well, here's a note for Parsons. Will you see that he gets it?" And Gerhart walked over to the table and laid an envelope down. There was a miscellaneous collection on the table. Among other things was a bottle of liniment which the doctor had left for Phil. "I'll just leave the note here," went on Gerhart. "That's a swell picture over your bed," he said quickly, pointing to a sporting print that hung over Phil's cot.

Naturally, the injured lad turned to see where Gerhart pointed.

"Oh, it will do very well," he answered. He rather resented this familiarity on the part of a freshman. Still, as Gerhart had called to leave a note for Tom, Phil could not order him out, as he felt like doing. When Phil turned his head back toward the middle of the room the visitor was standing near the door.

"I guess I'll be going," he said. "Hope you'll be out soon. I'm going to make another try with Lighton, and see if he won't let me play."

"Um!" spoke Phil, as he turned over to doze.

Gerhart, with an ugly smile on his face, hurried to his room in the east dormitory. Langridge was waiting for him there.

"Well?" asked the former pitcher.

"It's done!" exulted Gerhart, producing from beneath his coat a bottle that had contained liniment. "I threw the stuff out, and now I'll get rid of the bottle. I guess Phil Clinton won't play football any more this season!" He put the bottle far back on a closet shelf.

"Why don't you throw that away?" asked Langridge.

"I may need it," answered Gerhart. "I'll save it for a while."