die, but never surrender,” spoke Tom. “We’re not going to back down, Langridge. It’s easier for you to go back than for us.”

“Well, I’m not going to do it. You have no right to move your stuff in here, anyhow. The rooms are furnished.”

“We want our old chair and sofa,” explained Sid.

“I should think you’d be ashamed to bring such truck into a decent college,” expostulated Langridge. “It looks as if it had been through a fire in a second-hand store.”

“That’ll do you,” remarked Phil. “This is our sofa, and we’ll do as we please with it.”

“You won’t block up my way, that’s one thing you won’t do,” declared Langridge fiercely. “I’m going down. Look out! If I upset you fellows it won’t be my fault.”

He started down the stairs, and managed to squeeze past Phil, who, though he did not like Langridge, moved as far to one side as possible in the narrow passage. As Langridge passed the sofa he struck it with a little cane he carried. A cloud of dust arose.

“Whew!” exclaimed the sporty lad. “Smell the germs! Wow! Get me some disinfectant, Gerhart.”

Whether it was the action of Langridge in hitting the sofa that caused Tom to stagger, or whether Phil was unsteady on his feet and pushed on the sofa, did not develop. At any rate, just as Langridge came opposite to Tom on the stairs, the former pitcher was jostled against his rival. Langridge stumbled, tried to save himself by clutching at Tom and then at the sofa. He missed both, and, with a loud exclamation, plunged down head first, bringing up with a resounding thud at the bottom.

CHAPTER III

PHIL GETS BAD NEWS

For a moment after he struck the bottom of the stairs, Fred Langridge remained stretched out, making no move. Tom Parsons feared his former rival was badly hurt, and was about to call to Sid to go and investigate, when Langridge got up. His face showed the rage he felt, though it was characteristic of him that he first brushed the dust off his clothes. He was nothing if not neat about his person.

“What did you do that for?” he cried to Tom.

“Do what?”

“Shove me down like that. I might have broken my neck. As it is, I’ve wrenched my ankle.”

“I didn’t do it,” said Tom. “If you’d stayed up where you were, until we got past with the sofa, it wouldn’t have happened. You shouldn’t have tried to pass us.”

“I shouldn’t, eh? Well, I guess I’ve got as good a right on these stairs as you fellows have, with your musty old furniture. You oughtn’t be allowed to have it. You deliberately pushed me down, Tom Parsons, and I’ll fix you for it!” and Langridge limped about, exaggerating the hurt to his ankle.

“I didn’t push you!” exclaimed Tom. “It was an accident that you jostled against me.”

“I didn’t jostle against you. You deliberately leaned against me to save yourself from falling.”

“I did not! And if you——”

“You brought it on yourself, Langridge,” interrupted Phil. “You got fresh and hit the sofa, and that made you lose your balance. It’s your own fault.”

“You mind your business! When I want you to speak I’ll address my remarks to you. I’m talking to Parsons now, and I tell him——”

“You needn’t take the trouble to tell me anything,” declared Tom. “I don’t want to hear you. I’ve told you it was an accident, and if you insist that it was done purposely I have only to say that you are intimating that I am not telling the truth. In that case there can be but one thing to do, and I’ll do it as soon as I’ve gotten this sofa into our room.”

There was an obvious meaning in Tom’s words, and Langridge had no trouble in fathoming it. He did not care to come to a personal encounter with Tom.

“Well, if you fellows hadn’t been moving that measly old sofa in, this would never have happened,” growled Langridge as he limped away. “Come on, Gerhart. We’ll find more congenial company.”

“I guess I’ll wait until they get the sofa out of the way,” remarked the new chum Langridge appeared to have picked up.

Tom, Sid and Phil resumed their journey, and the old piece of furniture was carried to the upper hall. The stairs were clear, and Gerhart descended. As he passed Tom he looked at him with something of a sneer on his face, and remarked:

“I’ll lay you even money that Langridge can whip you in a fair fight.”

“Why, you little freshie,” exclaimed Phil, “fair fights are the only kind we have at Randall! We don’t have ’em very often, but every time we do Tom puts the kibosh all over your friend Langridge. Another thing—it isn’t healthy for freshies to bet too much. They might go broke,” and with these words of advice Phil caught up his end of the sofa and Tom the other. It was soon in the room the three sophomore chums had selected.

“Now for the chair and the rest of the truck,” called Phil.

“Oh, let’s rest a bit,” suggested Sid, as he stretched out on the sofa. No sooner had he reached a reclining position than he sat up suddenly.

“Wow!” he cried. “What in the name of the labors of Hercules is that?”

He drew from the back of his coat a long nail.

“Why, I must have left it on the sofa when I fixed it,” said Phil innocently. “I wondered what had become of it.”

“You needn’t wonder any longer,” spoke Sid ruefully. “Tom, take a look, that’s a good chap, and see if there’s a very big hole in my back. I think my lungs are punctured.”

“Not a bit of it, from the way you let out that yell,” said Phil. “That will teach you not to take a siesta during moving operations.”

“Not much damage done,” Tom reported with a laugh, as he inspected his chum’s coat. “Come on now, let’s get the rest of it done.”

“Do you think it will be safe to leave the sofa here?” asked Sid. “Perhaps I’d better stay and keep guard over it, while you fellows fetch the rest of the things in.”

“Well, listen to him!” burst out Phil. “What harm will come to it here?”

“Why, Langridge and that sporty new chum of his may slip in and damage it.”

“Say, if they can damage this sofa any more than it is now, I’d like to see them,” spoke Tom. “I defy even the fingers of Father Time himself to work further havoc. No, most noble Anthony, the sofa will be perfectly safe here.”

“I wouldn’t say as much for you, if Langridge gets a chance at you,” said Phil to Tom. “You know what tricks he played on you last term.”

“Yes; but I guess he’s had his lesson,” remarked Tom. “Now come on, and we’ll finish up.”

The three lads went back to the room formerly occupied by Sid and Tom during their freshman year. The chums were pretty much of a size, and they made an interesting picture as they strolled across the campus.

Tom Parsons had come to Randall College the term previous, from the town of Northville, where his parents lived. He did not care to follow his father’s occupation of farming, and so had decided on a college education, using part of his own money to pay his way.

As told in the first volume of this series, entitled “The Rival Pitchers,” Tom had no sooner reached Randall than he incurred the enmity of Fred Langridge, a rich youth from Chicago, who was manager of the ’varsity ball nine, and also its pitcher. Tom had ambitions to fill