"Will you resign in my favor?" he asked. "I know it's a big request, but will you, Parsons?" Tom did not know what to answer. CHAPTER XXXII THE FINAL CONTEST Langridge stood before his rival, waiting. It was quiet in the little room, so quiet that the ticking of the alarm clock sounded loud. Outside could be heard the tramp of feet in the corridor, students going to and fro. Langridge glanced nervously at the door. He was plainly afraid lest some one should enter and find him there. It was a hard problem for Tom to solve. The appeal of the lad who had done much to injure him moved him strongly. He knew what it would mean to Langridge not to pitch--that he would be out of athletics for the rest of his college course. If Tom gave way in his favor, it would mean his rehabilitation and for Tom only a temporary loss of prestige. "Will you do it?" asked Langridge softly. Tom did not answer. He paced up and down the room. What ought he to say? He felt that he could afford to sacrifice his own interests--could even forego the high honor of pitching in what was the greatest game of the college year--for the sake of Langridge. If he did not and if Langridge went away disheartened, it might mean that he would plunge deeper into dissipation. Then there came to Tom the thought of the nine. Was it fair to the others, to the college? Something told him it was not, that it was his duty to pitch--to do his best--to win for the sake of the college and the nine. Langridge might possibly do it, but it was doubtful. The former pitcher could not be sure of himself, sure that he had mastered his desire for stimulant. Then Tom decided, not on his own account but for the sake of the team and the college. "I can't do it, Langridge," he replied, and his voice showed the anguish he felt at the pain he inflicted. "Then you'll pitch?" asked his rival. "Yes, I feel that I must. The team depends on me, and--and I can't go back on them." Langridge must have seen that Tom's answer was final, for without a word he turned and left the room. Then Tom felt a wave of remorse sweep over him. After all, had he done right? Had he done the best thing? He was almost on the point of rushing after Langridge and telling him he could pitch in the final game, for the memory of his face haunted Tom. But when his hand was on the knob of the door Sid entered. "What's the matter?" asked Tom's chum, looking curiously at him. "Nothing. Why?" "You look as if you had been seeing ghosts." "Well, I have--a sort of one," answered Tom with an uneasy laugh. "How'd you make out with the Latin?" "Pretty punk, I guess. Bricktop says I've got to put in all my spare time boning. If I slump and can't play that last game, I'll--I'll----" "Don't you dare slump!" cried Tom earnestly. "We can't put a new man on first at this late day. Don't you dare slump, Sid."