Foundations of Business 5th Edition Pride Solutions Manual
Foundations of Business 5th Edition Pride Solutions Manual
Foundations of Business 5th Edition Pride Solutions Manual
Foundations of Business 5th Edition Pride Solutions Manual
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22. “No, only you,” retorted Jack. “For cats’ sake, cut out some of
those questions; will you? We’ll call you Interrogation Mark if you
don’t look out, only it’s too much of a mouthful to speak in a hurry.
Cut along now, before we’re caught.”
It was dark enough to elude a possible spying monitor, or one of
the proctor’s emissaries, and soon the four lads were on their way to
town. They went to a moving picture show, enjoying it greatly.
“Now if we can get in without being seen, we’ll be all right,”
remarked Tom, when they had neared the college on the return trip.
“Pshaw, I shouldn’t much mind getting caught,” declared Jack. “It
would be fun.”
“Doing double boning, or being kept in bounds for a week
wouldn’t though,” declared Tom with conviction. “I vote we don’t get
caught, if we can help it.”
“Maybe we can’t,” suggested Bert.
“Why not?” George wanted to know.
“Oh, ask us something easier,” laughed Tom. “Come on now, and
don’t make too much noise.”
They were about to cross the campus, and make for their
dormitory, when there was a movement behind a clump of
shrubbery, and a figure was seen to emerge.
“There’s some one!” whispered Bert.
“Caught!” murmured Tom.
“I wonder who it is?” came from George.
“It’s Bruce Bennington, the Senior,” came from Tom. “We are safe.”
“You won’t be if you continue on this way,” came grimly from
Bruce. “One of the proctor’s scouts is out to-night, just laying for
innocent Freshies. You’d better cut around the side, and go in the
back basement door. It’s generally open, or if it isn’t I’ve got a key
that will do the trick.”
23. “You know the ropes,” laughed Tom.
“I ought to. I was a Freshman once. Come on, I’ll show you the
way, but don’t work the trick too often.”
Bruce walked up to Tom, and remarked:
“Oh, it’s you, is it, Fairfield. Glad to see you again. I didn’t
recognize you in the darkness. I just got in to-day.”
“Yes, I saw you,” remarked our hero as he introduced his chums.
Bruce continued to walk on beside Tom, the others following. The
Senior led the way along a little-used path, well screened by trees
from spying eyes.
“Won’t you get caught yourself?” Tom wanted to know.
“No, we lordly Seniors are allowed a few more privileges than you
luckless squabs. Though I shouldn’t much mind if I was nabbed. It
would be like old times,” and Tom detected a sigh in the words.
Clearly Bruce was still worrying.
“I saw you in Professor Skeel’s summer house this afternoon,”
went on Tom.
“Oh, so you were the lads he warned away! Yes, Skeel is a—well I
guess I’d better not say anything,” spoke Bruce quickly. “It might not
be altogether healthy.”
“For you?” asked Tom.
“Yes. I’m under some obligations to him, and—well, I don’t like to
talk about it,” he finished.
“Then you haven’t gotten over your trouble?” asked Tom
sympathetically.
“No, it’s worse than ever. Oh, hang it all, what a chump I’ve
been!” exclaimed Bruce. “This thing is worrying the life out of me!”
“Why can’t some of your friends help you?” asked Tom. “If I could
——”
24. “No, thank you, Fairfield, no one can do anything but myself, and I
can’t, just now. It may come out all right in the end. Don’t say
anything about it. Here we are. Now to see if the door’s open.”
Letting Bruce lead the way, the other lads cautiously followed.
They saw him about to try the knob of the basement portal, when
suddenly Tom became aware of a light flickering through a side
window.
“Hist!” he signalled to Bruce. “Someone’s coming!”
“All right. You fellows lay low, and I’ll take a look,” volunteered
their guide. “I don’t mind being caught.”
“He’s got nerve,” said Jack, admiringly, as he and his chums
crouched down in the darkness.
Tom and the others saw Bruce boldly look in the window through
which the light shone.
25. CHAPTER VIII
THE CALL OF THE PIGSKIN
“Maybe it’s Professor Skeel,” whispered George, apprehensively.
“Or Merry himself,” added Jack.
“Nonsense!” replied Tom. “Neither of them would be in our
dormitory at this hour.”
“Unless they got wise to the fact that we went out, and they’re
laying to catch us when we come in,” declared Bert. “If I’m nabbed I
hope my dad doesn’t hear of it.”
“Come on, fellows,” came in a shrill whisper from Bruce. “It’s only
Demy, our studious janitor. He’s boning over some book, and if you
help him with his conjugation, or demonstrate a geometric
proposition for him, he’ll let you burn the school down and say
nothing about it. Come on; it’s all right.”
They entered through the door, which was not locked, so that
Bruce did not have to use his key, and at their advance, into what
was a sort of storeroom of the basement, the studious janitor looked
up from a book he was reading.
“Well, well!” he exclaimed. “Is this—ahem! young gentleman, I
hardly know what——”
“It’s all right, Demy,” interrupted Bruce with a laugh. “I brought
’em in. They want to help you do a little—let’s see what you’re at,
anyhow?” and he looked at the book.
“It’s Horace,” said the janitor. “I want to read some of his odes in
the original, but the translating is very hard, to say the least. Still, I
am determined to get an education while I have the chance.”
26. “Good for you!” exclaimed the Senior. “I’ll help you, Demy. Horace
is pie for me. You fellows cut along to your rooms,” he added,
significantly. “You haven’t seen them, have you, Demy?”
“No, Mr. Bennington, not if you don’t wish me to,” and the janitor,
with a grateful look at the Senior, prepared to listen to the Latin,
while Tom and his chums, grateful for the aid given them, hurried up
the stairs to their apartments.
“That was fine of him, wasn’t it?” remarked Jack, as good-nights
were being whispered.
“It sure was,” declared Tom, wishing more than ever that he could
help the unhappy Senior.
“I wonder why the janitor wants to know Latin?” came from the
human question mark.
“Oh, answer that in your dreams,” advised Tom.
From the fact that no mention was made of their little night
excursion, Tom and the others concluded that the studious janitor
had kept his pact with Bruce. The latter told Tom afterward that he
was kept busy giving Latin instruction until nearly midnight.
“It was good of you,” said our hero.
“Oh, pshaw! I’m glad I can do somebody good,” was the rejoinder.
That was Bruce Bennington’s way. As Reddy had said, the Senior
was his own worst enemy.
“Hear the news?” burst out Jack, as he entered the room where
Tom was studying, a few afternoons later.
“No, what news?”
“Call for Freshmen and regular football candidates is posted.
Practice begins to-morrow. Let’s get out our suits.”
“Fine!” cried Tom, tossing his book on the table, and scurrying for
his trunk where he had packed away his moleskin trousers and
27. canvas jacket. Jack soon had his out, looking for possible rents and
ripped seams.
“I’ve got to do some mending—worse luck!” exclaimed Tom, as he
saw a big hole in his trousers.
“Can you sew?” asked Jack.
“Oh, so-so,” laughed Tom. “I can make a stab at it, anyhow,” and
he proceeded to close up the rent by the simple process of gathering
the edges together like the mouth of a bag, and winding string
around them. “There! I guess that’ll do,” he added.
It was a clear, crisp day, and “the call of the pigskin” had been
heard all through the college. Several score of lads, in more or less
disreputable suits, that had seen lots of service, assembled on the
gridiron under the watchful eyes of the coaches.
“I hope I make the regular eleven,” said Tom, as he sent a
beautiful spiral kick to Jack.
“So do I,” was the reply. “But I hear there are lots of candidates
for it, and almost a whole team was left over from last season, so
there won’t be much chance for us.”
The practice was more or less ragged, and, in fact it was only
designed to let the coaches see how the new lads “sized-up.” Several
elevens were tentatively formed, and taken to different parts of the
field to play against each other.
Tom worked hard, and he was glad to note that one of the older
players had regarded him with what our hero thought were
favorable eyes. Jack was also doing well.
This practice was kept up for several days, and about a week later
Reddy Burke, meeting Tom, exclaimed:
“Say, you fellows are in luck!”
“How so?” asked Jack, who was with his chum.
“You’ve made the eleven, I hear. You’ll probably get notice to-day.”
28. “The regular?” cried Tom in delight.
“Hardly! There’s only one new fellow going on that, I understand,
though you might fill in as subs. But you’re both going to play on the
first Freshman eleven.”
“The Freshman team,” spoke Jack, somewhat disappointedly.
“Say, what do you want?” asked Tom. “I think it’s fine. Of course I
wish it was the regular, but maybe next year——”
“That’s the way to talk,” declared Reddy, who was on the leading
team himself. “But I tell you that you’re in luck to make the
Freshman team. There are no end of candidates, but you two
seemed to hit the mark.”
Tom rejoiced exceedingly, and when he received his formal notice,
as did Jack, our hero at once wrote to his parents, who were soon to
reach Australia. Tom had had several letters from them since leaving
home, but had yet to hear of their safe arrival. He sent the letter to
Sydney, in care of his father’s lawyer.
There were busy days for our hero and his chums now. With
lectures to attend, studying to do, and football practice, their time
was pretty well occupied. Bert Wilson had made the Freshman
eleven, and the three chums played well together.
Tom had not seen much of Bruce Bennington since the night the
Senior aided the first year lads, for Bruce was busy too, as he was
on the ’varsity.
Tom found that football, as played at Elmwood, was very different
from the Academy games, but he was made of tough material, and
he soon worked well into his place as right half-back, while Jack was
left tackle. Several scrub games had been played, and the Freshman
coaches seemed satisfied with the work of their charges.
“Hurray!” yelled Tom, running up to Jack one afternoon, as his
chum was strolling across the campus. “Yell, old man!”
“What for?”
29. “We play our first regular game Saturday against Holwell college.
They’ve got a strong team, but we’re going to win! I’m going to
make a touchdown!”
“Good! Oh, say, it’s great here!” and in the excess of their good
spirits Tom and Jack fell to pummelling each other in hearty fashion.
30. CHAPTER IX
TOM’S TOUCHDOWN
“Come on now, boys, line up!”
It was the call of Coach Jackson for the final practice of the
Freshmen eleven before their first big game. The regulars were to
play against the scrub, and, as some of the positions were yet in
doubt, there were some anxious hearts. For not a substitute but
wanted to fill in on the regular eleven.
Tom and Jack, because of the good showing they had made, were
assured of places, but Sam Heller, who, to do him credit, was a fairly
good player, was not so certain. It lay between him and Bert Wilson,
as to who would be quarter-back.
“But if I had my rights, and if that Fairfield chap hadn’t come
butting in,” declared Sam to his crony, Nick, “I would be sure of my
place.”
“That’s right,” agreed Nick. “We’ll have to get up something on
Fairfield, and make him quit Elmwood.”
“I wish I could. Say, the Sophs haven’t done any hazing this term
yet; have they?”
“No, but they will.”
“I suppose so. Well, just have ’em let me down easy; will you? I’m
a Soph myself, by rights, if old Hammond hadn’t marked me low in
maths. But have the Sophs give it to Fairfield and his chum good and
proper; will you?”
“Sure I will. We’re going to do some hazing after the football
game. We thought we’d put it off until then.”
31. “All right, only do Tom Fairfield up if you can.”
“I will. I don’t like him any more than you do. He’s got too many
airs to suit me—he and that Jack Fitch.”
“Line up! Line up!” called the coach, and the practice began. Sam
Heller was called on to take his place in the scrub, which he did with
no good grace, casting envious eyes at Bert Wilson, and with a
feeling of bitterness in his heart toward Tom. And with no good
cause, for Tom had done nothing to Sam.
“Now, boys, play your heads off!” ordered the coach. “I want to
see what sort of stuff you’re made of. The best players will go
against Holwell to-morrow.”
Then the scrub game began, with the Freshmen players doing
their best to shove back their opponents, and the latter equally
determined to make as good a showing as possible. Back and forth
the battle of the gridiron waged, with Tom jumping into every play,
looking for openings where he might wriggle through with the ball,
or help the man who had it to gain a yard or two.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” yelled the members of the first eleven,
as they got the ball well down toward the scrub goal. “Make it a
touchdown!”
It would have been, but for the fact that Bert Wilson fumbled the
ball in passing it back from centre. A scrub player broke through,
grabbed the pigskin, and was off down the field like a shot.
“Get him, boys!” cried Morse Denton, the Freshman captain, and
Jack Fitch, who was as fleet as some ends, was after the fleeing
youth. He caught him in time to prevent a score being made, but the
coach shook his head at the next line up.
“Heller, you go in at quarter to replace Wilson,” he said. “I am
sorry,” the arbiter added, at the look of gloom on the face of Tom’s
chum, “but fumbles are costly. I can’t afford to take any chances.”
Bert said nothing, but he knew that he was not altogether at fault,
for the centre had not passed the ball accurately. Sam Heller, with a
32. triumphant smile at Tom, went to quarter, and the game proceeded.
But it was noticed that Sam, who was giving signals, and deciding
on most of the plays, did not give Tom as many chances as when
Bert had been in place behind the centre.
“You want to look out for Sam in the game to-morrow,” said Jack
to Tom that night, when, after gruelling practice, the regular
Freshmen had shoved the scrub all over the field.
“Why so?”
“Because I think he has it in for you. He’ll spoil your plays if he
can, and he won’t give you a chance. Look out for him.”
“I will. But at the same time I don’t believe he’d do anything to
spoil the chance of the team winning.”
“I wouldn’t trust him. At the same time he may do nothing worse
than not give you a chance. It’s going to be a big game, I hear, and
the fellow who makes good will be in line for the ’varsity next
season.”
“I’ll watch out. Now let’s do something. Come on in Bert’s room.
He feels bad about not playing to-morrow.”
“I know. But it’s forbidden to visit in other fellows’ rooms after
hours.”
“Oh, what of it?” asked Tom, who liked to take chances. “We’ve
got to do something. It isn’t so late, and there are no lectures to-
morrow.”
“All right, go ahead. I’m with you. But I hope we don’t get caught.
It might mean being ruled out of the game to-morrow.”
Bert was grateful for the sympathy of his chums, and soon felt in
better humor. Jack offered to repeat his water pitcher juggling act,
and was only prevented by force on the part of Tom. There was a
merry scuffle, and George Abbot came in to see what was going on,
at the same time bringing warning that a sub-monitor had been
patroling the corridors.
33. “Then we’ve got to be quiet,” declared Tom. “Cut out your
juggling, Jack.”
The four chums talked for an hour or more, and then the three,
who were out of their rooms, taking a cautious survey of the hall,
prepared to go to bed, ready for the big game on the morrow. Jack
and Tom just escaped being caught as they slipped into their
apartment, but, as Tom remarked, “A miss was as good as a mile.”
Then came the day of the great game.
“Line up! Line up!”
“Over here, Elmwood!”
“This way, Holwell!”
“Rah! Rah! Rah!”
“Toot! Toot! Toot!”
These were only some of the cries that burst forth from hundreds
of throats at the annual game between the Elmwood and Holwell
schools, as the Freshmen prepared to clash in their gridiron battle.
The game was to take place on the Elmwood grounds, and both
teams were out for practice. The crowds were beginning to arrive,
and the bands were playing.
“Say, there’s a mob here all right,” remarked Jack to Tom. “A raft
of people.”
“Yes. I hope we win.”
“Oh, sure we will. Don’t get nervous. I only wish Bert was at
quarter instead of Sam Heller.”
“So do I, but it can’t be helped. I guess it will be all right.”
“Line up!”
It was the final call. The preliminaries had been all arranged, the
goals chosen, and the practice balls called in. Elmwood was to kick
34. off, and the new yellow pigskin was handed to her burly centre, who
was poising it on a little mound of earth in the middle of the field.
“Ready?” asked the official.
“Ready!” answered both captains.
The whistle shrilled out its signal, and the toe of the big centre
met the ball squarely. It was well kicked into the Holwell territory.
The full-back on the latter team caught it skillfully, and started to
return with it, well protected by interference, but Jack Fitch worked
his way through it, and tackled his man hard.
“Good! Good!” screamed the Elmwood enthusiasts, and then the
first scrimmage was prepared for.
I am not going to describe for you that game in detail, for it
formed but a small part in the life of Tom Fairfield. Sufficient to say
that the gridiron battle was fairly even, and that at the end of the
third quarter the score was a tie.
“But we’ve got to win!” declared the Elmwood captain, during the
rest period. “We’ve got to.”
“And we will, if there’s a change made,” declared Jack Fitch boldly.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Tom Fairfield isn’t getting a fair show.”
“Oh, Jack!” exclaimed Tom.
“That’s right! You’re not!” declared his chum. “Sam hasn’t called
on you three times during the game. It’s been all wing shift plays, or
place kicks, or forward passes, or fake kicks or something like that.
Why can’t we have some straight, old-fashioned football, with a rush
of the half-back through tackle and guard or centre? Tom’s a good
ground-gainer.”
“I’ve played him as much as I saw proper,” snapped Sam.
“You have not!” declared Jack hotly.
35. “Easy, boys,” cautioned the coach. “There must be no personal
feeling. Perhaps some straight football would go well, Heller.”
“All right, I’ll give it to ’em.”
The whistle blew to start the last quarter.
“Remember, boys, a touchdown will do the trick, and win the
game!” pleaded the Elmwood captain.
“Look out for yourself, Tom,” cautioned Jack.
“Why?”
“Because Sam is just mad enough to make you fumble the ball
and spoil a play. Then he’ll accuse you of losing the game.”
“I’ll watch out.”
The play was resumed. It was give and take, hammer and tongs,
with the best players making the most gains. The ball was slowly
forced down the field toward the Holwell goal.
“Touchdown! Touchdown!” screamed the supporters of our hero’s
college, and there were many of them.
“Seven, eleven, thirty-three, Elmwood! Eight—nine—twenty-one!”
called Sam.
It was the signal for the full-back to take the ball through centre.
It was almost the last chance, for the time was nearly up, and Tom
had not been given a single opportunity that quarter. His heart
burned against his enemy; yet what could he do?
The quarter-back dropped his hands as a signal for the centre to
snap the ball back. Sam caught it fairly, and turned to pass it to the
full-back. Then, that always fatal element in football developed.
There was a fumble. The ball was dropped.
“Grab it! Fall on it!” yelled half a dozen Holwell players.
The Elmwood line wavered. Could it hold?
36. Tom Fairfield, a mist before his eyes, saw the pigskin rolling
toward him. He picked it up on the jump. In another moment Jack
Fitch and Joe Rooney, his guard, had torn a hole in the opposing
line.
“Come on, Tom!” yelled Jack hoarsely.
And Tom, with lowered head, with the ball held close to his breast,
plunged into the line. He hit it hard. It yielded. He went through with
a rush, pushed by Jack and Joe. Then, seeing but a single man
between himself and the coveted goal, he rushed for it.
All but the opposing full-back had been drawn in at the sight of
the fumble, and the chance to secure the ball. Tom rushed at this
lone player.
There was a shock. Tom reeled, but managed to retain his footing.
He shoved the full-back aside, and ran on.
“Oh, great!” he heard hundreds yell. “Go on! Go on!”
How he ran! It was the opportunity for which he had waited. In
spite of Sam Heller it had come to him. Over the white chalk marks
Tom scudded, until, with panting breath, with a heart that seemed
bursting, and with eyes that scarcely saw, he fell over the last line,
and planted the ball between the goal posts, making the winning
touchdown. The other players—his own and his opponents—
straggled up to the last mark. The whistle blew, ending the game.
“Oh wow!” shrilled hundreds of voices. “Elmwood! Elmwood!
Elmwood forever!”
“Tom, you won the game! You won the game!” yelled Jack in his
chum’s ear, as Tom got up, holding his foot on the ball. “You won in
spite of Sam!”
“I—I’m glad—of—it!” panted Tom, scarcely able to breathe even
yet, for he had run hard.
38. CHAPTER X
A COWARD’S TRICK
“Three cheers for Fairfield!”
“Rah! Rah! Rah!—Elmwood!”
“Three cheers for Holwell!”
There were shouts, cries and cheers of joy at the victory on the
part of our hero’s followers, while there was corresponding gloom in
the camp of their unsuccessful rivals.
“Great work, old man!” complimented Tom’s captain. “You did the
trick for us!”
“It was an accident. I just managed to get the ball, and run,”
explained Tom.
“Lucky for us you did. It was an accident that might have counted
heavily against us. What was the matter with you, Sam, in passing
the ball?”
“Aw, it wasn’t my fault. It slipped. Anyhow our full-back had his
hands on it, and he dropped it.”
“I did not!” declared that player. “You didn’t pass it to me fairly.”
“That’ll do!” interrupted the captain sharply. “We don’t want any
quarrels. Besides, we won the game.”
Tom was surrounded by a joyous crowd of his chums, and other
admirers, as the team raced from the field, and the throng of
spectators filed out of the stands.
“Well, how do you feel?” asked Jack of his chum, as they were in
their room together, after a refreshing bath in the gymnasium.
39. “Great! I expect I’ll be a little lame and stiff tomorrow though.
Somebody gave me a beaut dig in the ribs.”
“And I guess our whole team, and half of the other one, was piled
on me at one stage of the game,” remarked Jack ruefully, as he
rubbed his back reflectively. “But it was a glorious win all right. And
how you did run, Tom!”
“I just had to, to make that touchdown.” And then the two boys
fell to talking of the game, playing it all over again in detail.
“I just thought Sam would be mean enough not to give you a
chance,” remarked Jack.
“Oh, maybe it wasn’t intentional,” replied our hero, who did not
like to think ill of anyone.
“Get out! Of course it was. Ask any of the fellows. But he fooled
himself. That fumble spoiled his plans, and you grabbed your
opportunity.”
“And the ball too,” added Tom, as there came a knock on their
door.
“Come!” called Jack, and Bert Wilson and George Abbot entered.
“Came to pay our respects,” spoke Bert. “How does it feel to be
hero? Aren’t your ears burning, with the way the fellows are talking
about you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Why should his ears burn?” asked George. “Is it because he—”
“Now you quit, or I’ll fire the dictionary at you,” threatened Bert. “I
told you I’d bring you in on one condition, and that was that you
wouldn’t be a question box.”
“But I just wanted to know,” pleaded George.
“Then look it up in an encyclopedia,” directed Jack, with a laugh.
“I’m not going to answer any more questions.”
40. “I hope you get a chance next game,” said Tom to Bert. “Maybe
you will after the fumble Sam made.”
And Bert did. For there was a conference between the Freshman
captain and coach that night, which resulted in Sam being sent back
to the scrub. He protested mightily.
“It wasn’t my fault—that fumble,” he declared.
“I think it was,” spoke the coach. “Anyhow you didn’t run the team
as well as I thought you would. Why, you didn’t give Fairfield half a
chance, and he showed what he could do when he did get a show.”
“Aw, he can’t play football.”
“I think he can. Anyhow, you’ll shift back, but if you do good work
I’ll play you on the regular team again before the season is over.”
And with this Sam had to be content.
Football practice was resumed on Monday, and the team seemed
to do better with the change in quarter-backs. There was a match in
the middle of the week, and again Elmwood won handily, Jack Fitch
distinguishing himself by a long run, while Tom made some star
tackles, once saving a touchdown by catching the player a short
distance from the goal.
“I’ll get even with Fairfield yet!” threatened Sam to Nick. “He
needn’t think he can run things here.”
“Go in and do him,” advised his crony. “Can’t you pick a quarrel
with him, and have it out?”
“I’ll try. If you see a chance, sail in and lick him.”
“I will,” promised Nick, but Sam’s chance came sooner than he
expected, or, rather, he made the opportunity.
There is a certain fine powder, a sort of a pepper-snuff so fine that
it can not be seen floating about, yet which, if scattered about a
room, will irritate the eyes, nose and throat in a marked degree.
Sam bought some of this powder, and making it up into a small
41. paper parcel, he watched his chance to slip it into Tom’s
handkerchief pocket.
“He’ll pull it out in class,” Sam explained to Nick, “and set the
whole room to sneezing. I’ll try and have him do it in Latin
recitation, and Skeel won’t do a thing to him, for Tom sits in the
front row, and the prof. will see him.”
“Suppose Fairfield catches you?”
“I’ll take care that he doesn’t,” declared Sam, and he was lucky
enough to bring about his cowardly trick undetected. As the students
went into the Latin class, presided over by Professor Skeel, Sam
slipped the sneezing powder into Tom’s pocket, on top of his
handkerchief. It was quickly done, and, in the press, our hero never
noticed it. Then Sam quickly joined one of his classmates, with
whom he was more or less thick, to prevent detection.
The recitation was about half over, and Tom, who had been called
on, had made a failure, for a very hard question, and one he had
never dreamed would be brought up in class, was asked him.
“Remain after the session, and write me out fifty lines of Cæsar,”
ordered the mean instructor. Tom shut his laps grimly. A little later
he pulled out his handkerchief, and, as might have been expected,
the powder flew out, scattering from the paper. A few moments later
a boy began to sneeze, and soon the whole room was doing it—even
the professor.
Now Professor Skeel was no simpleton, if he was mean, and he at
once detected the irritating powder. He realized at once that some
one had done it for a trick, and he had seen the paper fall from
Tom’s pocket, as the stuff scattered.
“Fairfield!” he exclaimed angrily, “did you scatter that powder?”
“Not intentionally, sir.”
“What do you mean?”
42. “I mean that I did not know it was there. Some one must have put
it in my pocket for a joke.”
“Nonsense! Do you expect me to believe that?” the professor
asked sharply of Tom.
“It’s the truth, sir.”
“Preposterous! I don’t believe you!”
“Sir!” exclaimed our hero, for he was not in the habit of being told
that he spoke an untruth.
“Don’t contradict me!” stormed the teacher. “I say you did it on
purpose—er—a-ker-choo! On purpose—ker-choo! I have known it to
be done before, in other classes, but never in mine. I will have no
nonsense! Ker-choo!”
The professor was having hard work to talk, for he sneezed quite
often, as, in fact, did every one in the class.
“This foolishness will have to stop!” he declared. “I am certain you
put that powder in your own pocket, Fairfield.”
“I did not, sir.”
“Ha! Did any one here put that powder in Fairfield’s pocket?”
asked the professor.
Naturally the guilty Sam did not answer.
“There, you see!” exclaimed Mr. Skeel, triumphantly. “I knew you
did it—ker-choo! But I have no doubt others may have been
implicated, and I will punish the whole class. You will all of you write
me out a hundred lines of Cæsar.”
“That is not fair, sir,” spoke Tom boldly.
“What! You dare to tell me that!” stormed Mr. Skeel.
“It is not fair,” insisted Tom. “Either I alone am responsible, which
I deny, or some one else is. I assure you, sir, that no one in the class
entered with me into any trick to do this thing.”
43. “I don’t believe you. The whole class will be punished unless the
guilty one confesses—and that includes you!” and the professor
looked angrily at Tom.
Sam, of course, would not admit his part in the affair, and as it
was impossible to have the class remain longer in the powder-
infested room, the students were dismissed. But Professor Skeel
would not remit the punishment.
“Say, this is tough luck—to have to write out all that Latin, for
something we didn’t do,” complained Frank Nelson.
“I should say so,” added Harry Morse. “Why don’t you own up to
it, Fairfield, and save our hides.”
“Because I didn’t do it intentionally.”
“Honestly?”
“Of course.”
“Say, if Tom says he didn’t do it, he didn’t,” declared Jack.
“I guess that’s right,” agreed Harry. “Excuse me, Tom,” and, to the
credit of Tom’s classmates, one and all expressed their belief in his
innocence. That is, all but Sam, and he kept quiet, avoiding our
hero. But, to ward off suspicion, Sam growled louder than anyone
about the task.
“I’d like to get hold of the fellow who used that powder,”
complained Ed. Ward.
“You won’t have to look far for him, I guess,” said Jack, in a voice
that only Tom heard.
“Do you think Sam did it?” asked Tom.
“I sure do. But you want to be certain of your proof against him
before you accuse him!”
“I will,” declared Tom. “I’ll do a bit of detective work.”
But he had no clews to work on, and, though he was sure his
enemy had made him and the others suffer, he could prove nothing,
44. for the paper in which the powder was wrapped was blank.
45. CHAPTER XI
A CLASS WARNING
“Well, if any of you young gentlemen have any more powder to
scatter around, you had better do it, and have done with it,”
remarked Professor Skeel a day or so later, when Tom and his chums
came in to recite. “Only if you do,” he added sarcastically, “the
punishment I meted out before will be doubled, and, in case the
offense is repeated a third time, I will go on doubling the task, if
necessary in arithmetical progression.”
He looked at the lads, with a sneering smile on his face. There
were mutterings of discontent from all, save perhaps Sam Heller, for
the lads felt not only the injustice of the uncalled-for remarks, but
the former punishment still rankled in their minds.
“No one seems inclined to take advantage of my offer,” went on
Professor Skeel, “so we will go on with the lesson. Fairfield, you may
begin. We’ll see if you are prepared.”
Tom was, fortunately, and it seemed not only to him, but to some
of the others, as if the teacher was displeased. Very likely he would
have been glad of a chance to punish Tom. But he did not get it—at
least that day.
“Unmannerly brute!” murmured Tom, as he sat down. “I’ll pay you
back yet. Not because of what you did to me, but because you’re
unfair to the rest of the class.”
Tom hated unfairness, and he also felt that, in a way, he was to
blame for the punishment the class had unjustly suffered. He had
not been able to learn anything about how the powder came to be
46. put in his pocket, though he suspected Heller more than ever, as he
saw how vindictive the Freshman bully was toward him.
“I almost wish he’d pick a fight with me,” thought Tom. “Then I
could give him what he deserves.”
But Sam saw no chance of doing any further harm to the lad
whom he hated with so little cause.
“Why can’t you think of something to help me out?” Sam asked of
his crony.
“Think of something yourself,” retorted Nick. “I’ve got my own
troubles. We’re going to haze the Freshmen tonight, and I’m on the
committee of rules and regulations,” and he laughed.
“You are? Then this is my chance! Come over here where we can
talk,” and the bully led his crony to one side.
This talk followed the dismissal of Professor Skeel’s Latin class,
during which nothing had occurred save that the instructor took
every chance of insulting the students.
“Say, if this keeps up much longer, we’ll have to do something,
Jack,” declared Tom, as they proceeded on to another recitation.
“That’s right. But what can we do?”
“Oh, I’m going to think of something. I wish we could haze him.”
“So do I. But I guess we’ll be hazed ourselves first.”
“How’s that?”
“Why it’s this week that the Sophs get after us. We may expect
them any night now. Going to crawl?”
“I am not! Might as well have it over with.”
“That’s what I say.”
Though Tom and his Freshmen chums rather expected the advent
of their traditional enemies, the Sophomores, they hardly looked for
47. visits that same night, and so, when a knock came on the door of
the room occupied by Tom and Jack, they opened it unsuspectingly.
“Here are two!” exclaimed a voice, as several masked figures
entered. “We’re in luck! Grab ’em!”
The orders of the ringleader were obeyed. Tom and Jack could not
tell who their captors were.
“I say, Tom, shall we fight ’em?” asked Jack, always ready for a
battle.
“No, what’s the use—in here?” asked Tom significantly.
“Ha! Scrappers, eh?” remarked another Sophomore. “You’re the
kind we’re looking for!”
“And maybe you’ll get more than you want!” exclaimed Tom.
Neither he nor Jack resisted as they were led forth. It was a sort of
unwritten rule that no fighting against the hazers should take place
in the dormitories, as property was likely to be damaged.
“Wait until we get in the open!” whispered Tom to Jack, as they
were being led down stairs. “Then we’ll upset ’em if we can, and
run. They don’t look to be very husky.”
“That’s right,” agreed Tom’s chum.
“Ha! No plotting!” cried the ringleader, giving Tom a dig in the ribs.
“I’ll give you that back with interest when I get the chance,”
murmured our hero.
Other parties of hazers made their appearance in the corridor,
some leading Bert Wilson and George Abbot.
“Where are you taking me? What are you going to do? Is this
allowed?” fired George at his captors.
“Sure it’s allowed, you little question mark!” exclaimed a
Sophomore. “Trot along now.”
Tom and his chums were led over the campus. They could see
other little groups of prisoners in like plight, and the Sophomores, all
48. of whom wore masks, gathered together with their captives.
“To the river!” ordered the ringleaders. “We’ll make ’em wade a
bit.”
“Oh, they’re going to duck us!” whimpered George. “I wonder why
they do it?”
“Oh, there goes Why!” exclaimed Jack. “He can’t keep still.”
“They’re not going to duck me!” murmured Tom. “Come on, Jack,
now’s our chance. Make a break!”
It was the best chance Tom had seen, and, with a sudden push,
and a putting out of his foot, he tripped the lad who had hold of his
arm. Then, with a well-directed punch, he paid him back for the dig
in the ribs. Tom was free to run.
“Come on, Jack!” he called. His chum, performing a like trick, was
also free, and their two captors were down on the ground. But the
flight did not go unnoticed.
“Two are loose! Grab the two Freshies!” yelled the lads who had
held Tom and Jack. The cry was taken up, and some of the
Sophomores, who had no Freshmen to take care of, ran after the
two chums. Our heroes might have gotten away but for the fact that
two lads, masked, who were coming across the campus to join their
fellows, saw them, and waited to catch the two fleeing ones.
Tom and Jack tried to dodge, but could not. There was a clash,
and Jack was caught. In a moment other Sophomores came up, and
had him. Tom was struggling with his captor.
“Take that!” cried the latter, when, finding he could not subdue
Tom, he struck our hero a blow in the face.
“I won’t take that from any one!” cried Tom fiercely. “Hazing
customs or not!” He retaliated, and with such good measure that he
knocked the other down. The black mask came off in the fall, and it
was light enough for Tom to see Sam Heller.
49. “You!” he cried. “You’re not a Sophomore! You have no right to
haze!”
“This is my second year here. I’m a Sophomore by rights!”
growled Sam, much put out that his trick had been discovered. “I’ll
get even with you, too!”
In his rage he leaped up and rushed at Tom. It was just the
chance the other wanted, and our hero promptly knocked Sam down
again. He was wild with rage. By this time a knot of Sophomores
surrounded Tom.
“Hold on there, Fresh!” cried some one who seemed to be in
authority. “This won’t do, you know. You shouldn’t fight back when
you’re being hazed.”
“Has a Freshman the right to help the Sophs haze us?” demanded
Tom, as he recognized Bruce Bennington in the objector. “Here’s
Sam Heller, of our class, joining against us.”
“Is that so?” asked Bruce in surprise. With some other Seniors he
had come out to see the fun. “That’s not allowed, you know,
Wendell,” he said, turning to the leader of the Second year lads.
“I didn’t know Heller was here,” replied Wendell. “That’s straight.
He has no right. We beg your pardon, Fairfield. Sam, how did this
happen?” Wendell was justly indignant.
“Well, I claim I’m a Sophomore, and I would be if I had a fair
show. I thought I had a right to help haze.” Sam was whining now,
like all cowards when found out. His trick, which he had formed with
the aid of Nick, had failed. The two had planned to get Jack and
Tom off alone, during the general excitement over the hazing, and
thrash them.
“You’re not a Soph, and you can’t do any hazing,” declared
Wendell decidedly. “You ought to be hazed yourself, and you would
be, only you got yours last year. Come along now, Fairfield, and take
what’s coming to you.”
50. “All right,” agreed Tom good-naturedly. He was satisfied with what
he had done to Sam. The crowd of Sophomores was now so large
that there was no chance for our hero and his chum to escape.
“Take your medicine, Fairfield,” advised Bruce with a laugh. “It
won’t be very bad.”
“All right,” said Tom again, and he and Jack were led back to their
luckless mates, the little group of Seniors following.
The hazing was not very severe. The Freshmen were made to
wade in the river up to their knees, and then, with coats turned
inside out, forced to dance in a ring, while the Sophomores laughed
their delight, and played mouth organs. Some few were tossed in
blankets, and much horse play was indulged in. But the discovery of
Heller’s trick rather discomfited the second year lads, and they felt
that there was a little blight on their class. Otherwise the hazing
might have been more severe.
“Now then, form in line, and give three cheers for the Sophs, and
you can go home to your beds,” declared Wendell. “Only remember,
every Freshman must wear his cap backwards every time he comes
on the campus, for the next two weeks, and salute every Sophomore
he meets, under penalty of being hazed over again. Remember! Now
for the cheers!”
They were given, and the hazing was over. No one had been much
annoyed by it, save perhaps Sam Heller.
“It didn’t work,” he grumbled to Nick, later that night. “We had a
fight, though.”
“Did you lick him?” asked Nick, who had been separated from his
crony during the fracas with Tom.
“I sure did.”
“How’d you get that bruise near your eye?” asked Nick.
“Oh—er—I—sort of fell,” stammered Sam. The bruise was where
Tom had hit him.
51. And thus the hazing of Tom’s Freshman class passed into history.
Several weeks passed, and our hero came to like the school more
and more. He made many new chums, and no more enemies,
though Sam and Nick disliked him more than ever, and thought
bitter thoughts, and devised endless schemes to “get even,” as they
expressed it, though the debt was on their side. But, though they
annoyed Tom and his chum often, the latter as often got back at
them in hearty fashion.
Tom heard from his parents, that they had arrived safely, and they
said the business was going on satisfactorily. The weather was
getting colder each day, and the boys began to have thoughts of
skating and ice boating as soon as the river should be frozen over.
The football season had closed.
Then, unexpectedly, there came another clash with Professor
Skeel. In Latin class one day several students came unprepared, and
failed in reciting.
“We’ll stop right here!” exclaimed the professor. “It is evident to
me that an organized attempt to miss in Latin is under way. I shall
double the usual number of lines that you are all to write out.
Perhaps that will teach you not to trifle with me.”
Several protested at this, saying that the reason for their failure
was additional work in other classes. Others, who had not failed,
declared that it was manifestly unfair to make them suffer with the
rest.
“Silence!” snapped the professor. “You may stay here until your
tasks are done,” and he prepared to leave the room, intending to
send a monitor to take charge of the lads.
“Say, this is rank injustice!” exclaimed Jack.
“It sure is,” came from Tom. “And the ice on the river is thick
enough for skating, I believe. If we didn’t have to stay here we could
cut the next lecture and have some fun.”
“We sure could. What’ll we do?”
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