CHAPTER VI

PROFESSOR TINES OBJECTS

"Are you going to fight him?" asked Langridge of Gerhart, when they were beyond the hearing of Tom and Phil.

"Of course! I owe him something for being instrumental in getting me put out of the game."

"Are you sure he did?"

"Certainly. Didn't I see him sneak up to Lighton and put him wise to the fact that I'd taken a few whiffs? I only smoked half a cigarette in the dressing-room, but Clinton must have spied on me."

"That's what Parsons did on me, last term, and I got dumped for it. There isn't much to this athletic business, anyway. I don't see why you go in for it."

"Well, I do, but I'm not going to stand for Clinton butting in the way he did. I wish he had come at me. You'd seen the prettiest fight you ever witnessed."

"I don't doubt it," spoke Langridge dryly.

"What do you mean?" asked his crony, struck by some hidden meaning in the words.

"I mean that Clinton would just about have wiped up the field with you."

"I'll lay you ten to one he wouldn't! I've taken boxing lessons from a professional," and Gerhart seemed to swell up.

"Pooh! That's nothing," declared Langridge. "Phil Clinton has boxed with professionals, and beaten them, too. We had a little friendly mill here last term. It was on the quiet, so don't say anything about it. Phil went up against a heavy hitter and knocked him out in four rounds."

"He did?" and Gerhart spoke in a curiously quiet voice.

"Sure thing. I just mention this to show that you won't have a very easy thing of it."

There was silence between the two for several seconds. Then Gerhart asked:

"Do you think he wants me to apologize?"

"Would you?" asked his chum, and he looked sharply at him.

"Well, I'm not a fool. If he's as good as you say he is, there's no use in me having my face smashed just for fun. I think he gave me away, and nothing he can say will change it. Only I don't mind saying to him that I was mistaken."

"I think you're sensible there," was Langridge's comment. "It would be a one-sided fight. Shall I tell him you apologize?"

"Have you got to make it as bald as that? Can't you say I was mistaken?"

"I don't know. I'll try. Clinton is one of those fellows who don't believe in half-measures. You leave it to me. I'll fix it up. I don't want to see you knocked out so early in the term. Besides--well, never mind now."

"What is it?" asked Gerhart quickly.

"Well, I was going to say we'd get square on him some other way."

"That's what we will!" came eagerly from the deposed quarter-back. "I counted on playing football this term, and he's to blame if I can't."

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," came from Langridge. "I never knew Clinton to lie. Maybe what he says is true."

"I don't believe it. I think he informed on me, and I always will. Do you think there's a chance for me to get back?"

"No. Lighton is too strict. It's all up with you."

"Then I'll have my revenge on Phil Clinton, that's all."

"And I'll help you," added Langridge eagerly. "I haven't any use for him and his crowd. He pushed me down stairs the other day, and I owe him one for that. We'll work together against him. What do you say?"

"It's a go!" and they shook hands over the mean bargain.

"Then you'll fix it up with him?" asked Gerhart after a pause.

"Yes, leave it to me."

So that is how it was, that, a couple of hours later, Tom and Phil received a call from Langridge. He seemed quite at his ease, in spite of the feeling that existed between himself and the two chums.

"I suppose you know what I've come for," he said easily.

"We can guess," spoke Tom. "Take a seat," and he motioned to the old sofa.

"No, thanks--not on that. It looks as if it would collapse. I don't see why you fellows have such beastly furniture. It's frowsy."

"We value it for the associations," said Phil simply. "If you don't like it----"

"Oh, it's all right, if you care for it. Every one to his notion, as the poet says. But I came on my friend Gerhart's account. He says he was mistaken about you, Clinton."

"Does that mean he apologizes?" asked Phil stiffly.

"Of course, you old fire-eater," said Langridge, lighting a cigarette. "Is it satisfactory?"

"Yes; but tell him to be more careful in the future."

"Oh, I guess he will be. He's heard of your reputation," and Langridge blew a ring of smoke toward the ceiling.

"I'll take him on, if he thinks Phil is too much for him," said Tom with a laugh.

"No, thanks; he's satisfied, but it's hard lines that he can't play," observed the bearer of the apology.

"That's not my fault," said Phil.

"No, I suppose not. Well, I'll be going," and, having filled the room with particularly pungent smoke, Langridge took his departure. If Tom and Phil could have seen him in the hall, a moment later, they would have observed him shaking his fist at the closed door.

"Whew!" cried Tom. "Open a window, Phil. It smells as if the place had been disinfected!"

"Worse! I wonder what sort of dope they put in those cigarettes? I like a good pipe or a cigar, but I'm blessed if I can go those coffin nails! Ah, that air smells good," and he breathed in deep of the September air at the window.

Thus it was that there came about no fight between Phil and the "sporty freshman," as he began to be called. There was some disappointment, among the students who liked a "mill," but as there were sure to be fights later in the term, they consoled themselves.

Meanwhile, the football practice went on. Candidates were being weeded out, and many were dropped. Gerhart made an unsuccessful attempt to regain his place at quarter, but the coach was firm; and though Langridge used all his influence, which was not small, it had no effect. Gerhart would not be allowed to play on the 'varsity (which was the goal of every candidate), though he was allowed to line up with the scrub.

"But I'll get even with Clinton for this," he said more than once to his crony, who eagerly assented.

Phil, meanwhile, was clinching his position at quarter, and was fast developing into a "rattling good player," as Holly Cross said. Tom was not quite sure of his place at end, though he was improving, and ran mile after mile to better his wind and speed.

"You're coming on," said Coach Lighton enthusiastically. "I think you'll do, Tom. Keep it up."

There had been particularly hard practice one afternoon, and word went down the line for some kicking. The backs fell to it with vigor, and the pigskin was "booted" all over the field.

"Now for a good try at goal!" called the coach, as the ball was passed to Holly Cross, who was playing at full-back. He drew back his foot, and his shoe made quite a dent in the side of the ball. But, as often occurs, the kick was not a success. The spheroid went to the side, sailing low, and out of bounds.

As it happened, Professor Emerson Tines, who had been dubbed "Pitchfork" the very first time the students heard his name, was crossing the field at that moment. He was looking at a book of Greek, and paying little attention to whither his steps led. The ball was coming with terrific speed directly at his back.

"Look out, professor!" yelled a score of voices.

Mr. Tines did look, but not in the right direction. He merely gazed ahead, and seeing nothing, and being totally oblivious to the football practice, he resumed his reading.

The next moment, with considerable speed, the pigskin struck him full in the back. It caught him just as he had lifted one foot to avoid a stone, and his balance was none too good. Down he went in a heap, his book flying off on a tangent.

"Wow!" exclaimed Holly Cross, who had been the innocent cause of the downfall. "I'll be in for it now."

"Keep mum, everybody, as to who did it," proposed Phil. "The whole crowd will shoulder the blame."

The players started on the run toward the professor, who still reclined in a sprawling attitude on the ground. He was the least liked of all the faculty, yet the lads could do no less than go to his assistance.

"Maybe he's hurt," said Tom.

"He's too tough for that," was the opinion of Bricktop.

Before the crowd of players reached the prostrate teacher he had arisen. His face was first red and then pale by turns, so great was his rage. He looked at the dirt on his clothes, and then at his book, lying face downward some distance away.

"Young gentlemen!" he cried in his sternest voice. "Young gentlemen, I object to this! Most emphatically do I object! You have gone entirely too far! It is disgraceful! You shall hear further of this! You may all report to me in half an hour in my room! I most seriously object! It is disgraceful that such conduct should be allowed at any college! I shall speak to Dr. Churchill and enter a most strenuous objection! The idea!"

He replaced his glasses, which had fallen off, and accepted his book that Tom picked up.

"Don't forget," he added severely. "I shall expect you all to report to me in half an hour."

At that moment Dr. Albertus Churchill, the aged and dignified head of the college, and Mr. Andrew Zane, a proctor, came strolling along.

"Ah! I shall report your disgraceful conduct to Dr. Churchill at once," added Professor Tines, as he walked toward the venerable, white-haired doctor. "I shall enter my strongest objection to the continuance of football here."

There were blank looks on the faces of the players.