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.”

“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 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.”

“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?”

“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.