CHAPTER XXXV
RANDALL'S HONOR CLEARED
"Come on boys! One last song!" begged Bean Perkins of his well-nighexhausted lads. "One last song to celebrate the victory!"
They gave it with a will, followed by cheer after cheer,--for the team,for the college, for the colors, for their rivals, for thegirls--anything and everything was cheered.
Exter, Boxer Hall and Fairview nobly did their share, too. They paidfull tribute to their successful rivals.
"And we win! We win! We win!" cried Kindlings, as he capered about thegroup of tired but happy athletes.
"As if there ever was a doubt," said Holly Cross.
"Oh, you get out!" protested Kindlings. "It was all in the air until thelast minute. Tom and Sid pulled us out of the fire."
The field was being overrun with spectators, who sought to congratulatevictors, or commiserate with the losers. Randall's colors were seen onevery side, for, as is always the case in college games, the winninghues always appear mysteriously at the end of the contest.
"Come on, the girls are waiting for us," said Phil, who had changed intohis ordinary garments. "They want to congratulate you, Sid."
"Then they'll have to wait," was the seeming ungracious answer. "I'm alldust, and I'm going to have a shower first. I'll be with you in fiveminutes."
He raced away to the dressing rooms, and Tom, Phil and Frank, who were"presentable" now, went to talk to Madge and her chums.
"Well, how about it?" asked Tom, as he approached them.
"We haven't a word to say," replied Miss Tyler. "You won fairly andsquarely, and--well----"
"You helped," said Tom boldly. "You waved our colors at the right time."
"Yes, just as if she belonged to Randall, instead of Fairview," saidMiss Harrison.
"She does, I guess," said Ruth, with a glance at Tom.
There was laughter, talking, quips and jibes, but over all there was thespirit of gaiety.
"Your mother wired her congratulations," said Mr. Parsons, making hisway to Tom. "I'm going back home again now."
"No, you're not, dad," insisted the winner of the mile run. "You'regoing to stay here to-night."
"You'll have the time of your life," added Sid. "Better stay."
"Well, I guess I will," agreed Mr. Parsons. "I begin to feel like a boyagain."
Tom and his chums said farewell to their girl friends, promising to callon them later. Then, while still the cheers of Bean Perkins and his ladswere ringing over the field, faint but full of spirit, the winning teamstarted for Randall. Mr. Parsons went with them.
And such a night as it was that followed.
Proctor Zane threw up his hands early in the evening, and retired to hisquarters. Dr. Churchill said it was the best thing to do under thecircumstances. For the spirit of fun, of jollity, and of victory wasabroad in the land, and Randall celebrated as she had never celebratedbefore.
Mr. Parsons was an honored guest, and he proved himself to be imbuedwith the immortal spirit of youth, for he was like a lad again, caperingabout.
Bonfires were built, spreads innumerable were held, professors wereserenaded, and forced to make congratulatory speeches. Even"Pitchfork," had to come out to speak to the team, though he did notshow very good grace. But dear old Dr. Churchill struck the right note,and was roundly cheered as he gracefully spoke of the victory of the"track eleven and the baseball racers."
But he meant well.
And so that night at Randall passed into honored and never-to-be-forgottenhistory.
They were in their room--the four inseparables. It was a few days afterthe great games, and the trophies indicating the championship of Randallhad been placed in an honored place in the gymnasium. Also the tale ofthe victory had gone abroad to the world.
Tom's father had returned home, to tell the details, the law case was aclosed event. Now came talk--talk of what had been.
"It was great--couldn't have been better," declared Frank Simpson."There is only one regret."
"What's that?" asked Phil.
"About that charge against me. I don't say anything about Shambler, forhe admitted his guilt. But I know I didn't do anything wrong."
"We'll forget Shambler," suggested Tom. "I guess he's vanished."
"But I would like to have a ruling on my case," went on Frank. "I thinkit sort of stands as a black mark against Randall. I don't see why thatA. A. U. committee doesn't answer."
There was a moment of silence. No one seemed to know what to say. Thealarm clock ticked off the seconds. Tom was sprawled out on the sofa,with Phil crowding him. In the armchairs were Frank and Sid. There camea knock on the door.
"Who's there?" demanded Tom.
"A telegram for Mr. Simpson," announced Wallops.
The Big Californian leaped for the portal, and swung it open. In aninstant he had snatched the yellow envelope, and torn it open. Rapidlyhe scanned the message:
"Wow! Hurray!" he shouted.
"What is it?" demanded Tom.
"It's good news! This is a telegram from the protest committee of the A.A. U. It says: 'Your case, and others like it, ruled on some time ago.Settled you were strictly amateurs. Letter follows. You are eligible inall amateur contests.' What do you think of that?" cried Frank, caperingabout. "I knew I was right."
"And so did we!" cried Phil.
The letter settled any last doubts. It came a few days later, and statedthat soon after the charity games, in which Frank, and others, tookpart, that the question of professionalism, on account of the moneyprizes, had come up, and had been settled in favor of the amateurs. Nohint, even, of professionalism tainted them, it was said.
A copy of the ruling was at once sent to Exter and the other colleges inthe Tonoka League, and Wallace replied at once, expressing his regret athaving raised the point, and congratulating Frank.
"But it's all for the best," declared Frank.
"Yes," agreed Tom, "for now there's nothing against the honor ofRandall, since Shambler has left."
"And now there won't be any question of your playing baseball, footballor rowing on the boat crew--if we have one," said Phil.
"Are we going to have a boat crew?" inquired Tom.
"There's talk of it," was the answer.
And what Randall's crew did may be learned by reading the next book ofthis series, to be entitled "The Eight-Oared Victors; A Story of CollegeWater Sports." In that we will meet all our old friends once more.
It was several days later. The celebrations of Randall's track and fieldvictory were about over, and the diamond was beginning to take on anunusually active appearance.
One evening, in the room of the inseparables, the four chums sat insilence, broken only by the ticking of the clock, or the creak of theold sofa, or easy chair.
Frank walked over to the table, and began writing.
"It's to a girl," said Phil, in a low voice as he heard the scratchingof his friend's pen.
"What of it?" snapped the big Californian. "I guess you would write tooif you wanted to."
"Guess I will," decided Phil, and soon four pens were scratching.
"Well, for cats' sake, what's this?" demanded Dutch Housenlager, alittle later, as he came into the room. "Is it a new literary club thatI've stacked up against?"
"Something like it," remarked Tom, as he began on his fourth page.
"Hey, what rhymes with dove?" asked Sid dreamily.
"Love, you old moon-calf!" grunted Dutch, as he backed out. "Say, whenyou fellows get over being spoony, come out and have some fun," he addedclosing the door. And the scratching of the four pens went on.
THE END
For the Honor of Randall: A Story of College Athletics Page 35
