Tom followed Dutch softly. There were no other students about and they managed to gain the screen of the bushes unobserved by the Grasshopper, who was intent on measuring distances with a pocket tape. The two conspirators could see where he had been practicing the broad jump. The Grasshopper stood close to a clump of elder bushes, with his back to them. He was preparing for another test. Dutch Housenlager, who was not happy unless he was engaged in some joke or horse play, silently cut a long pole and fastened to it a big pin, which he extracted from some part of his garments. Then, seeing a good opening that gave access to a tender part of the rear elevation of the Grasshopper's legs, he thrust with no gentle hand just as poor Pete was about to throw himself forward in a standing broad jump. "Wow!" cried the punctured one. But it was so sudden that he did not have time to stop his leap, which he was on the verge of making, and he sprang through the air like an animated jumping-jack. "Fine! fine!" cried Dutch, rising up from his place of concealment. "That's the time you beat your own record, Grasshopper." Pete turned. He looked over the space he had covered. His heels had come down at least a foot beyond where he had previously landed. The look of anger on his face, as he felt of his pricked leg, turned to one of satisfaction. "By Jove! I believe you're right," he exclaimed. "I have done better by--let's see"--and he measured it--"by fourteen inches." "I told you so," called Dutch, still laughing. "Next time you want to jump, just let me get in the bushes behind you. It'll be good for an extra foot every time." "Um," murmured the Grasshopper, still rubbing his leg reflectively. "It was an awful jab though, Dutch." "What of it? Look at your distance," and once more Pete looked happy as he again measured the space he had covered. "Poor old Grasshopper," commented Dutch as he and Tom strolled along the campus, leaving the jumper still at his practice. "Poor old Grasshopper! He'll never make the track team." The next few days saw Tom putting in all his spare time practicing curves under the watchful eye of Mr. Lighton. The 'varsity played with the scrub and narrowly escaped a good drubbing. Langridge seemed to be asleep part of the time and issued a number of walking papers. It was after the contest, which the regulars had pulled out of the fire with rather scorched fingers, that the coach called Captain Woodhouse and Langridge to him. "I rather think we'd better make a little shift," he said. "In what way?" asked Langridge quickly. "Well, I think we ought to name Parsons as substitute pitcher on the 'varsity. He's been doing excellent work, fully equal to yours, Langridge. Of course he's a little uncertain yet, but one big game would take that out of him. I'd like to see him pitch at least part of the game against Boxer next week." "Does that mean you're dissatisfied with me?" asked Langridge quickly, and his face flushed.