Tom looked Langridge straight in the eye, and the other turned aside. The country lad put back the comb into his pocket. "What's your name?" growled Langridge, though he knew it full well. "Tom Parsons." "Where do you want to try for?" "Pitcher." There was some confusion in the room, but it ceased at Tom's reply. "Pitcher!" exclaimed Langridge. "I said pitcher," replied Tom quietly. "Why--er--I'm pitcher on the 'varsity nine!" fairly snarled Langridge. "That is, I was last year and expect to be again. Do you mean pitcher on the scrub?" "On the 'varsity," spoke Tom, smiling the least bit. Langridge shot a look at him from his black eyes. It was a look that boded Tom no good, for the former pitcher had recognized in the new arrival a formidable rival. "Put his name down," called Sid. "You might get a sore arm, and we'd need a substitute." Langridge glanced quickly at the speaker. "His name is down," he answered quietly--more quietly than any one expected him to speak. "Are there any others?" No one answered. "We'll meet for practice to-morrow afternoon," went on Langridge. "Of course, it's understood that no one plays on the team who doesn't contribute his share of expenses," and he looked straight at Tom Parsons. Without a word the country lad drew out a wallet, none too well filled, to judge by the looks of it. "What's the tax?" he asked, still smiling. "The--er--the finance committee attends to that," was the answer Langridge made. "They'll meet to-night." Evidently he had not expected so ready a compliance on Tom's part. "Well, if it's all settled, I move we adjourn," suggested Ed Kerr. "Let's have a scrub game, for luck." At that moment a lad came hurrying into the gymnasium. "Where's Langridge?" he asked excitedly. "Here," replied the baseball manager. "What's up?" "Hazing!" was the somewhat breathless answer. "The sophs are going to try it on to-night, to get square about the bell clapper. I just heard it." "That's the stuff!" cried Phil Clinton. "Now we'll get a chance to have some fun." "And I'll pay 'em back for slashing my hat," added Ford Fenton. "My uncle says----" But what his respected relative had remarked was not learned, as the boys rushed from the room to prepare for the ordeal that they knew awaited them. CHAPTER IV THE HAZING "What sort of hazing do they do?" asked Tom Parsons of Sid Henderson as the two youths followed their companions from the gymnasium. "Oh, all sorts. It's hard to tell. Mostly they come in your room and make a rough house, but not too rough, for the proctor doesn't stand for it. They'll tumble you about, tear down any ornaments you may have up, pour a pitcher of water in the bed, and make things unpleasant generally." "Are we supposed to stand for that?" There was a grim look settling on Tom's face. "Well, what can you do when three or four big sophs are holding you?" "Not much, that's a fact. But I'm going to fight back."