Chapter 7 GETTING BACK AT "PITCHFORK"

The three chums were not very jolly as they began their return to Randall college, whither the baseball team had preceded them some time before. Sid, Phil and Tom had sent their suits back with some of their friends while they attended the little tea given by Ruth Clinton-the tea which had had such an unfortunate ending.

Tom and Phil conversed in low tones about the team and the showing made that day in the first formal game of the season, but as for Sid, he kept to himself in one corner of the electric car, and there was a moody look on his face.

"He's taking it hard," observed Phil in a low voice.

Tom shook his head. "I can't understand it," he said.

Sid stalked into the room ahead of his chums and threw himself down on the old sofa, which creaked and groaned with his weight.

"Easy, old man," called Phil good naturedly. "We've had that in the family for three terms, now, and it's a regular heirloom. Don't smash it for us. Remember what a time we had last term, patching it up, and moving it here from our old room?"

"Yes, and how Langridge was upset trying to get down stairs past us," added Tom. "Have a little regard for the sofa, Sid."

"Oh, hang the sofa!" burst out the lad, and then Tom and Phil knew it was useless to talk to him. Phil crossed the room softly and sat cautiously down in the old armchair. Tom looked at the alarm clock, and exclaimed:

"Jove! If it hasn't stopped! Must be something wrong," and he hurriedly wound it, and then started it by the gentle process of pounding it on the edge of the table. Soon the fussy clicking was again heard. "It's all right," went on the pitcher, in relieved tones. "Gave me heart disease at first. The clock is as much of a relic as the chair and sofa. But I've got to mend my glove again. It's ripped in the same place. Rotten athletic goods they're selling nowadays."

There came a knock on the door, and Wallops, the messenger, who stood revealed as the portal was opened, announced:

"Mr. Zane would like to see you, Mr. Henderson."

"MR. ZANE WOULD LIKE TO SEE YOU, MR. HENDERSON."

"Me?" inquired Sid.

"Yep," was the sententious answer.

Saying nothing further, the second baseman got up, and, as the messenger went down the hall, he followed slowly.

"He's in for it, I'm afraid," remarked Tom dubiously.

"Looks so," agreed Phil. "It's about that item in the paper, of course. Too bad it leaked out."

But what took place at the interview with the proctor, Sid's chums did not learn until long afterward. All that became known was that Dr. Churchill was summoned, and that Sid was in the proctor's study a long time. He returned to his room a trifle pale, and with unnaturally bright eyes. Throwing himself on the creaking sofa he stared at the ceiling moodily, while Phil and Tom maintained a discrete silence.

"Why don't some of you fellows say something?" burst out Sid finally. "Think this is a funeral?"

"We didn't think you wanted to have a talk-fest," observed Tom.

"What in blazes am I to do?" asked Sid desperately.

"What about?" inquired Phil.

"You know-Miss Harrison. I don't want to have her think I'm a gambler. I'm not-I--"

"Then why don't you tell her why you were in Dartwell the night of the raid?" suggested the captain.

"I-I can't," burst out Sid. "It's impossible!"

Tom shrugged his shoulders.

"Oh, I know what you mean!" burst out Sid. "It looks as if I wasn't telling the truth. But I am-you'll believe me-some day."

"Forget it," advised Phil. "Let's talk about baseball. Have you seen the loving cup trophy?"

"It's a beaut!" declared Tom. "I saw it in the doctor's study. We're going to win it, too!"

"Hope so," murmured Phil. "If we have a few more games like to-day, we may. But speaking of games--"

He was interrupted by a knock on the door. Sid started and leaped up from the sofa.

"I'll go," he exclaimed. "If it's a message--"

He did not finish, but Tom and Phil looked significantly at each other. Clearly Sid expected another mysterious summons. But, as he opened the portal there stood the Jersey twins.

"Hello, fellows," began Joe, "do you want to see some sport?"

"Fine sport," added Jerry, who sometimes echoed his brother, a trick that was interchangeable with the twins.

"We're always ready for sport," replied Tom. "What is it: baiting a professor, or hazing some freshies?"

"Professor," replied Joe.

"Pitchfork," echoed Jerry, that name, as I have explained, being applied to Professor Emerson Tines.

"What's up now?" asked Phil.

"Oh, he's been particularly obnoxious of late," went on Joe. "Some of us had a little smoker the other night, strictly sub-rosa, you understand, but he smelled us out, and now some of us are doing time for it. To-day Bricktop Molloy evolved a little scheme, and we thought we'd let you fellows in on it. Want to come, Sid?" for Sid had gone back to the sofa.

"No, I guess not," he answered listlessly.

"What's the matter-sick?" inquired Joe, in a whisper of Tom and Phil. They shook their heads, and motioned to the twins not to make further inquiries.

"What's the game?" asked Tom. "We'll come."

"We're going to get back at Pitchfork," went on Jerry. "Come along and you'll see. I'll just explain, though, that he has quietly been 'tipped off' to the effect that another smoker is in progress, and if he does as we expect him to, he'll try to raid the room."

"And if he does?"

"Well, he won't find what he expects to. Come on, and keep quiet. What's the matter with Sid, anyhow?" for by this time the four were out in the corridor, leaving the moody one in the room.

"Hanged if we know," replied Phil, "except that there's a girl mixed up in it." He refrained from saying anything about the accusation, thinking that would be noised about soon enough.

"Oh, if it's only a girl he'll soon be over it," declared Joe with a professional air.

"Of course," echoed his brother. "Come on."

Phil and Tom soon found themselves in the midst of a number of choice spirits, who moved silently about the lower end of the corridor, near a room that was sometimes used for student meetings, and where, more than once, it was whispered, smokers had been held, in violation of the rules. The reason for the selection of this apartment was that it had an open fireplace, which carried off the fumes of the tobacco.

"Did he get the tip?" asked Jerry, as he and his brother, together with Phil and Tom, came up.

"He sure did," answered Bricktop. "Reports from the front are that he is on the warpath."

"Is everything working all right?" asked Joe.

"Fine. Can't you smell it?"

Tom and Phil sniffed the air. There was an unmistakable odor of tobacco.

"But if there's a smoker going on in there, why was Pitchfork tipped off?" inquired Tom.

"Wait an' ye'll see, me lad," advised Bricktop in his rich brogue. "I think he's coming now. Pump her up, Kindlings!"

Then, for the first time Tom and his chum noticed that Dan Woodhouse had a small air pump, which he was vigorously working, as he stood in a dark corner.

Footsteps sounded down the corridor. There were hasty cautions from the ringleaders, and the lads hid themselves in the dim shadows of the big hall. The footsteps came nearer, and then they seemed to cease. But the reason was soon apparent, for Professor Emerson Tines was now tip-toeing his way toward the door of the suspected room. By the dim light of a half-turned down gas jet he could be seen sneaking up. The only sound from the students was the faint sound of the air pump. Tom and Phil could not imagine what it was for.

Professor Tines reached the portal. Then he gave a sudden knock, and called:

"I demand to be admitted at once, young gentlemen! I know the nefarious practice that is going on in there, and it must stop at once! Open the door or I shall summon the janitor and have it forced! Open at once!"

The professor tried the knob. To his surprise it at once opened the door, and he almost stumbled into the apartment. He uttered an exclamation of delight, probably in the belief that he had caught the students red-handed, but the next moment he gave a gasp of dismay.

For, as Tom, Phil, and all the others could see from their vantage points in the shadowy recesses, the room was empty. It was lighted, however, and in plain view on a table in the middle of the floor was a large flask. In the top of this there was a receptacle which contained a pile of burning tobacco, and it was glowing as though some giant was puffing on the improvised pipe. From a glass tube extending from the flask there poured out volumes of the pungent odor, and, as the puffs came, Tom and Phil could hear the air pump being worked. It was a "studentless smoker," the air pump, attached to a rubber hose which exhausted the air from the flask, producing exactly the effect of some one puffing a pipe. The room was blue with the haze of tobacco, and as the astonished professor stood and gazed at the strange sight more smoke arose from the flask. Then, from somewhere in the dark recesses of the corridor came a voice.

"Stung!" it ejaculated, and there was a hurried movement as the students fled in the darkness.

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