"Thanks. But if you think it's all right for me to go right to your room, and bunk, without telling Dr. Churchill--excuse me, Moses--why, I'm willing." "That's all right. Come on, we'll go to my room. There may be some excitement after a bit." "How?" "Well, the sophs may try to get the clapper back. They generally do. We'll have to help fight 'em in that case." "Of course. By the way, what do you fellows do with the bell tongue, anyhow?" Sid told about the watch charms. "You'll get one," he added. "That was a good throw you made." "Well, maybe. It was hard to see in the dark. I guess What's-his-name could have made it, only he tired himself all out." "Oh, you mean Langridge." "Is that his name?" "Yes. I don't like him very well, but he's got lots of dough, and the fellows hang around him. He's manager of the baseball team." "He is?" "Yes. Got the election because he's willing to spend some of his money to support the team." "Well, that's white of him." "Oh, yes, Fred's all right, only for what ails him. He's got some queer ways, and he thinks some of us ought to bow down to him more than we do. But I won't, and I guess Kerr is getting sick of him. Some fellows think he got to be manager, and keeps the place, because he used some money. There's been talk about it." "Who's Kerr?" "The fellow with the black hair. He's catcher on the nine." "I see." "Are you going to play ball?" asked Henderson as they entered the room Tom was to share. "I'd like to. Is there any chance?" "Guess so. The nine's not all made up yet. They're going to have a meeting to-morrow, or next day, and try out candidates. You'll have as good a chance as any one. Where do you play?" "I've been pitching." Henderson uttered a low, long whistle. "What's the matter?" "That's Langridge's pet place. He thinks he's a regular Christy Mathewson." "Well, I haven't disputed it," replied Tom quietly. "But if you don't mind, I'm going to take off my shoes; my feet are tired. Think any sophs will come?" "It isn't likely now. They'd been here some time ago if they were coming. Guess I'll turn in. I've got to get up early and do some boning on my trigonometry. It's rotten stuff, ain't it?" "Oh, I rather like it." "Um!" was all the answer Sid made, as he prepared for bed, while Tom also undressed. Tom Parsons had come to college, not because he wanted to have "a good time," nor because it was the fashion, nor because his father had the money to send him. Tom came because he wanted to gain knowledge, to fit himself for a place in life, and he earnestly wanted to learn. At the same time he did not belong to the class known as "digs." Tom was a sport-loving lad, and it needed but a look at his well-set head, on broad shoulders, his perfectly rounded neck, his long, lithe limbs, small hips and deep chest, to tell that he was an athlete of no little ability.