"Yes, it's me, Clinton. They tried to put me in there, but I fought 'em, and then there came a yell for help for the sophs who were bringing up a lot of our fellows, and the ones who had me and those on guard cut for it. I guess our lads got away. I heard a row back here and came to see what it was. Are you all right now? Can you walk? If you can, we'll go on to the dinner. We've beaten out the sophs. Can you manage?" "I--I guess so," replied Tom, who was feeling stronger every moment. If only that terrible pain in his arm would cease. "Where's Langridge?" he asked. "Langridge? He isn't around. I haven't seen him to-night at all," answered Clinton. "Feeling better?" "Yes, I'm all right. Only my arm." "Is it broken?" "No, only bruised. Some one kicked--I guess I must have fallen on it," Tom corrected himself quickly. His mind was in a tumult over what had happened. He had seen Langridge plainly in the light of a lantern carried by one of the sophomores, and he felt that Langridge must have seen him, for the gleam struck full on his face. Yet why had the 'varsity pitcher attacked Tom? Could he have mistaken him for a sophomore? Tom hardly thought so, yet the kick had been a savage one. His arm was swelling from it. "Are you sure they didn't catch Langridge?" asked Tom as he stumbled on beside Phil. "Sure. He said he wasn't going to the dinner at all. Had a date in town with some girl, I believe." Tom winced, not altogether with pain. "Why are you so anxious about Langridge?" went on Phil. "Nothing, only--only I thought I saw him around the shack." "Must have been mistaken. You and I were the only ones they managed to get this far, and they wouldn't have had me, only about a dozen of them tackled me at once." "That's what they did to me," admitted Tom. "Our fellows made a mistake," declared Phil. "We should have been more foxy. However, I think we all got away. The last bunch the sophs tackled were too much for them, and they had to call for help. That's why those at the shack left it. But come on, we'll get to Haddonfield. It isn't very late." Tom did not feel much like going to a dinner, but he repressed his disinclination and bit his lips to keep back little exclamations of pain. Phil and Tom, eluding the sophomores who prowled about in scattered parties, found most of their chums gathered in the hall where the spread was arranged. They were greeted with cheers on their entrance and made to tell their adventures, but Tom did not mention Langridge. He explained his injured arm by saying he had twisted it in his fall. "Hope it doesn't knock you out from pitching, old man," spoke Sid sympathetically. "It would if I had a chance to pitch," responded Tom, "but, as it is, I guess it isn't going to make much difference."