He got up to take a turn in the corridors to change the current of his thoughts when there came a knock at the door. "Come!" he cried, thinking it would prove to be some of his chums. The portal slowly swung and Tom, looking at the widening crack, saw the pale face of Langridge. "May I come in?" asked the former pitcher, and his voice trembled. "Of course," answered Tom heartily. "Where have you been keeping yourself?" "It doesn't much matter. I--I've come to ask a favor of you, Parsons." "A favor of me?" "Yes, and it's a mighty big one." There was a dogged, determined air about him as he stood there facing his rival who had supplanted him, and Tom wondered what was coming next. "Why, I'll do anything I can for you, Langridge, of course." "Wait until you hear what I want. There's no use beating about the bush, Parsons. I've been mighty mean to you. I've played a low-down hand against you, but I'm not going to apologize--not now. I thought it was fair--in war, you know. I didn't want you to pitch in my place, but you've done me out of it." "I think I acted square," said Tom quietly. "Yes, you did. You were white. I wasn't. I didn't play fair about that wire nor yet about sneaking in the dormitory that night. You did. I suppose you know--about the night you were captured--the night of the freshman dinner." "I think you knew it was I before you----" began Tom. "Yes, I knew it was you before I kicked you," went on Langridge, and he spoke as if he was getting through a disagreeable confession. "I--I didn't mean to boot you so hard, though. I thought maybe you'd give up pitching if you got a good crack on the arm, but you didn't." "No, I'm not that kind." "So I see. Well, you've got what you wanted and I got what I never expected. Now I want you to do me a favor." "What is it?" "I want you to refuse to pitch in the Fairview game." Tom wondered whether he had heard aright. "You want me to refuse----" he began. "That's it," went on Langridge eagerly. "Tell Kindlings--tell Lighton you can't pitch--that your arm has given out." "But it hasn't." "Never mind. Tell them. Tell them anything, as long as you don't pitch." "And why don't you want me to pitch? Do you want to see your college lose? Not because I'm the best pitcher that ever happened, but you know there's no one else they can put in at this late day." "Yes, there is." "Who?" "Me! I'll pitch. I want to pitch. I've just got to. You don't know what it means to me. Let me pitch this last game. Please, Parsons! It won't mean much to you and it means everything to me. I can do it. See, I--I haven't touched a drop since--since the Boxer game. I've been getting in shape. I'm as steady as a rock. I can pitch the game of my life. Come, do! Say you won't pitch. They'll give me a chance then. I want to get in the last game--and win. Will you? Will you let me get in this last game in your place?" He was leaning forward, his hands held out to Tom, his rival, begging a boon of him.