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fairly burst into the room where Tom Parsons was studying. The first baseman strode over to the window, looked out as though he was glaring at some attacking force and then throwing himself into a chair, exclaimed:

"It's rotten, that's what it is!"

"What?" asked Tom, looking up from his book. "Has Pitchfork been at you again about the Latin?"

"No, this is worse. I don't see how we're going to win the game to-morrow. And if we lose!"

"Why, what's the matter?" asked Tom, for he had seldom seen his chum so excited.

"Matter enough. Langridge is pitching fierce ball. We just had some light work and arranged a code of signals for him and Kerr. Why, you'd think our pitcher didn't have to practice! He seemed to think that all he had to do was to stand up in front of the Boxer players and they'd strike out just to please him. It makes me sick! But that's not the worst of it."