CHAPTER VIII.A BARGAIN IS STRUCK.The fellow in the red bathing suit descended to the edge of the water and plunged in without hesitation. Three others came running from the larger tent—a fat chap, a lean one, and the third almost as stocky as Red Phillips. Rex Kingdon could identify them all by what he had heard the night before.After a minute a fifth youth appeared from the smaller tent, and by his look and dress Rex knew this last must be the Joe Bootleg with whom he had had the struggle."Five of 'em," said Peewee. "Even Stephen.""We ought to be able to hold our own with that crowd," Red murmured."You can have my share of the Indian, Red," Kingdon drawled."Well, what are you going to do?" demanded Midkiff.Only the tall fellow of the party of campers ventured into the water. The others dressed hastily, chattering excitedly the while. The tall fellow went ashore, stripped, rubbed himself down, and got into his own clothes leisurely."Well set up lad, that," Phillips said to Rex, admiringly. "He looks about your build, Beauty. Made of whipcord and wire cable, too. Notice those biceps when he put on his shirt?"Red had been looking through the glasses, and forgot that the rest were not eagle-eyed. Hicks chuckled:"If it comes to a rough-and-tumble, I choose the fat one for my meat. He must be so clumsy he can't get out of the way of his own feet.""Always looking for the easy work, infant," said Rex. "Go wash up the dishes; that's your job. We'll up anchor and——""Make sail for Blackport?" put in Midkiff."Like fun we will!" cried Phillips. "Aren't going to turn tail and run from those chaps, are you, Rex?""Guess we'd better have a pow-wow first," admitted Kingdon. "Time enough to shout for help when we find we need it.""I wouldn't say a word to them," complained John Midkiff."Gentle lamb, Jawn is," drawled Kingdon. "Hedoesn't like a fuss, of course—oh, no!""Not for the sake of the fuss, as you and Red do," snapped Midkiff. "You two are always hunting trouble."They paid little attention to Midkiff's complaints. The anchor was dragged over the bows. The sail was hoisted. It filled, and theSpoondriftbegan to move. She was not a graceful craft, but she slid through the water rapidly. The painters of the canoes tautened and they hobbled along astern. Rex shortened the line of one so that they would not bump and damage each other. He steered the cat for the deep mooring place under the two arching trees below the encampment."They chose a pretty place to set up their tents," Peewee said, lying on his stomach and trailing dish after dish overboard to wash them. "Just as pretty places all along the shore here," Rex said. "A hundred parties could easily find room on the island."Midkiff stared at him. "I know you're getting ready to do something foolish," he declared, sourly."I'd hate to have your suspicious nature, Jawn," was the retort as Kingdon skillfully steered theSpoondriftshoreward."Hey! What are you doing with our canoes?" was the shouted greeting of the fellow whom Rex suspected was named Ben."Why, I declare! are these your boats?" drawled the blond chap. "Don't you think you were mighty careless with them?""Now you said a mouthful," barked the belligerent Kirby. "But we didn't know there were thieves about.""No?""We hadn't seen anybody who looked dishonest before," said the good-looking, black-haired fellow they called Horrors, as Red Phillips let out the sheet at a gesture from Rex and the flapping sail came down on the run."What's the matter?" squealed little Hicks in reply to the last speech. "Did you all forget to bring your pocket mirrors?""You come ashore here, you little chipmunk," blustered Ben Comas, "and I'll show you something. It won't be in a looking-glass, either.""Naughty! Naughty!" laughed Kingdon. "Don't threaten; it isn't nice. Drop the anchor again, Jawn. You fellows let me do a little of the talking, will you?""Aw, well——" began Hicks. But Cloudman reached for him and laid him carefully on his back."Hush up, infant!" the Westerner advised. "We can't hear ourselves think for your chatter.""Going to give us back our canoes?" shouted Kirby."For a price," Kingdon coolly told him. "Of course, you don't expect to get anything for nothing? It isn't done, my boy; it isn't done."Before Harry Kirby could sputter again, the tall, dark fellow interfered. The catboat now swung so near the shore on the morning tide that a conversational tone between the two parties was all that was necessary."I say," Horace Pence said, "you're Rex Kingdon, aren't you?""Bull's-eye," admitted the blond youth lazily. "But I haven't the pleasure, have I?""That makes no difference. I suppose it was you who came ashore here last night?""Seems to me I remember something like that," admitted Rex suddenly a-smile. He saw the Indian behind the group of other boys, and the smile was for him. But Joe Bootleg did not respond; only stared down at his erstwhile antagonist threateningly."What do you want here at Storm Island, anyway?" demanded Pence boldly."You ought to go ashore and tell him, Rex," declared Red Phillips in disgust. "The gall of him!""We ought to go to Blackport and get a constable to put the whole gang off the island," added Midkiff."Why be childish?" said Rex. "I rather like our neighbor with the black eyebrows.""Well?" demanded Pence. "Lost your voice?""Not any," quoth Kingdon. "Was just wondering how much you fellows would be willing to pay for your canoes? We might keep 'em, you know.""You'd better not!" yelled Ben Comas, red in the face and shaking his fist at the catboat's crew."My father——""Drop it!" growled Kirby, yet loud enough for the Walcott Hall boys to hear. "If your father knew where you were——""They're a bunch of thieves," declared Ben, just as wildly. "Ain't they, Pudge?"The fat boy kept discreetly silent. The black-haired youth said:"Stop your yipping, you fellows, and let somebody talk sense. Hey, Kingdon! You needn't think you've got us caged here for the rest of the summer. We could hail a fishing party before the day's over, and get a boat from Blackport. Don't fool yourself.""Got it all planned out, haven't you?" said Cloudman.Rex made a gesture to quiet Applejack, and said:"I have an idea you don't care to stir up any inquiry at the port. Am I right? Let's settle this between ourselves—right in the bosom of the family, as it were. What do you say?""Shoot!" said Pence. "Let's have your idea.""We give up the canoes. You let us land and set up our camp, and let us alone. Is it understood?" asked Rex with more seriousness.The expressions on the faces of the fat fellow, Ben, and Kirby showed relief. Horace Pence said:"It's a bargain. The island's big enough.""All agreed?" drawled Rex."I think we are," Kirby said."Sure!" chimed in Ben and Pudge MacComber. Yet the former murmured: "There's something up his sleeve. There must be!" Pudge looked doubtful, too. Joe Bootleg scowled in the background, saying nothing."Hope you may die, cross your heart, and all the rest of it," said Rex, cheerfully. "I put you all on honor. It may be an awful strain; but they say a singed cat is often better than it looks. We're to camp where we choose, and let you alone. You fellows ditto with us. Is it agreed?""Come along," invited the black-haired chap. "You needn't waste so much breath over it."Rex looked inquiringly at the others. Kirby, Ben and Pudge nodded. But it was noticeable that the Indian youth made no sign of acquiescence.CHAPTER IX.A CHALLENGE.They chose a pretty cove, half way along the northern shore of the island, where there was a little beach but where the water deepened quickly so that theSpoondriftcould be moored inshore. With her centerboard raised, her draught was small."We should have a tender, King, just as I said," Red Phillips declared. "What's the good of a fellow getting wet to his waist every time he wants to 'board ship?""Hold your horses, you scarlet pimpernel," requested Rex. "Maybe this isn't the only water vehicle we'll have. The summer's young yet.""And you're fresh," growled Red. "Pimpernel, indeed! I'm a healthy looking roadside flower.""We might have kept one of those canoes," suggested Peewee, with one of his impish grins."I don't want anything to do with them or their canoes," Midkiff announced. "I've a mighty poor opinion of that gang.""Here, too," said Red. "I've a notion they're not going to be good neighbors.""They promised," Hicks observed seriously."What's a promise to fellows like them?" growled he of the auburn hair."What do you know about them, Reddy?" Kingdon asked. "Jumping at conclusions, aren't you?""If a dog shows his teeth I take it for granted he can bite," was the prompt reply. "I don't have to go up to him and put my hand in his mouth to make sure.""True, true, Carrots. And quite philosophical. You are improving."Suddenly, Cloudman appeared from the wood that covered the heights of the island behind the camping place. He came scrambling down toward the tent that had already been set up and secured."Here comes the P.L.," said Phillips, squinting up at the lank Western youth."What's that?" asked Midkiff. "'P.L.'—pretty lucky? He's missed most of the work.""Principal Loafer," explained Red. "And my hands are sore tugging at those guy-ropes.""You said something," agreed Hicks. "Cloudman's a regular pet, isn't he? He's too strong for work.""He's got a bad wing, and you know it," Kingdon put in admonishingly. "Don't want him to make it worse. He's had a lame arm ever since that chap from Winchester—the one that nicked Henderson's brother for his roll—hit Cloud with a club. I told him to go easy.""How about me?" growled Midkiff. "That same fellow took a twist at my arm, too. If he'd been trying to break up our nine so Winchester could win the pennant, that scoundrel couldn't have done better.""But you showed 'em, Middy, in the last game—didn't he, fellows?" cried Peewee. "You put the starch into those last few innings, believe me!""And near ruined your arm," said Kingdon, eyeing his roommate with lazy pride. "I've got a couple of cripples on my hands. That's why I was particularly anxious for you and Applejack to come on this cruise, Midkiff.""How's that?" asked the Colorado lad, landing suddenly with a crash beside them."Want you both to get into A-1 shape by fall. We'll have a series to play off in September and October, and you two fellows must be able to do your very best on the mound.""How 'bout Henderson?""Hen's promised to keep in trim, too. Walcott is mighty weak in its pitching staff. We've got three—three, mind you! And we ought to have half a dozen good twirlers.""Don't you suppose any of those fellows Stanley Downs was nursing along on the scrub nines will develop, Rex?" Red Phillips asked anxiously.His place was fixed in the infield, but Red was thoroughly loyal to old Walcott. Indeed, it had been his scouting for athletic material that had brought Rex Kingdon to the school."About as much chance of the coach developing a comer out of that bunch as you have of developing a love for mathematics, Sunset," responded Rex."There isn't a natural born pitcher among 'em, and if there's no natural talent, what can we expect of the coach? It isn't his fault.""I'm going right to work with John and Applejack, here. If there's a level spot on this whole island——""I've found it," interposed Cloudman."Eh?""Found just the place. Right on the top of this hill. Big enough for a three-ring circus.""Fine!" Kingdon exclaimed. "Let's have dinner and a nap, and then go up and look it over. If we could get those chaps over there into it, we could have a half decent ball game—all positions filled and somebody to rap out a few.""Oh, prunes!" grunted Red. "They don't look as though they could play beanbag.""Don't you get attached to that idea so that you can't be pried loose, old man," Kingdon advised. "That tall fellow looks good to me."They had drawn lots and it had fallen to Rex to get dinner, with Phillips to assist. Hunger urged them to prepare a "bounteous repast," but neither of the cooks would ever win a medal from the Association of Chefs, and Peewee so declared."If it wasn't for the canned beans, this layout would be a frost," croaked that diminutive critic. "Who couldn't warm over beans? Is that dish going to be about all we get our teeth clamped on this week?""I'll try some flapjacks for supper," promised Phillips.Cloudman grinned. "Ever make any?" he asked."No. But we've got a cook at home that makes 'em fine.""What are you going to make 'em out of?""There's a package of flapjack flour. All you got to do is to mix 'em up and fry 'em, I s'pose.""The directions say, 'Mix with buttermilk,'" chuckled Applejack."Huh!""Oh, my!" chortled Peewee. "Where you going to get buttermilk, Red?""We got canned milk and butter. Can't we combine 'em and make buttermilk? Nothing to it!""Listen to that!" cried Midkiff. "This red-headed lunatic will poison us before he gets through.""Wish we'd hired an Injun to cook for us, same as that other crowd have," Cloudman said."Not a bad idea," Peewee agreed patronizingly. "You're pretty near as wild as any Indian, Cloud. I move you be made permanent cook.""Like fun!" said the Colorado youth. "I cooked all the way over in that boat. No more.""What do you know about this, Red?" Rex said. "Mutiny, hey?""And the worst kind," agreed Phillips. "It's a great deal worse to mutiny against the cook than against the skipper and other officers.""Here we have both forms of the iniquity. What, ho! call the guard! Sentinels to their places! Let the pork and cabbage fall—I mean the portcullis! I sentence the entire mutinous gang to sharp practice at three o'clock. Let the dishes alone, Red, till later. I hanker for forty winks. Talk as you please, fellows, canned beans are filling."The island, which had been steaming all the morning after the rain, was beginning to cool off by three o'clock. The five Walcott Hall lads climbed the stiff hill to the hidden lawn, and were delighted with it. It was not long before they discovered that others had been ahead of them."Those interlopers, I suppose," Midkiff said, sniffing."Here's where they laid out their diamond," said Hicks. "Home plate, first base, third. Yonder's second. Looks like the real thing.""And the box," Cloudman said, stepping into place, vigorously swinging his arm the while. "Somebody's pitched ball from here, Kingdon, that's sure.""And now you're going to pitch some," Rex told him, adjusting his mitt. "See if you can put something on it, Wild-and-Woolly."Cloudman's performance pleased him. Midkiff was taking his turn on the mound when there was a sudden sound of voices in the wood behind the catcher's station. The Walcott lads turned to see the crowd from the other camp appear."Oh, see who's here!" murmured Hicks.The four approached the spot where Midkiff was shooting them over. Kirby swung his catcher's mask and mitt while Pence juggled a couple of balls. Pudge trudged behind the scowling Ben Comas, bearing the bats."Hoh!" grunted Ben. "What did I tell you? These prep. school fellows have grabbed our place. You might have known it."Rex put up his hand to stop Midkiff in the middle of his wind-up, and looked over his shoulder."Why don't you keep a dog and let him do the growling for you?" he asked Comas. "Any crime in our tossing a few here? 'Bout the only level spot on the island—what?""It's our place," said Ben, weakly."I don't suppose you mean to camp here all day?" Pence said lazily. Then to Ben: "There's time enough. Let 'em go ahead with their practice," he added, patronizingly. "Let's see what they can do."Phillips, who had got up from his seat in the shade, sat down again, with a grunt. Pence threw himself beside the red-haired youth. Midkiff scowled, but took the signal from Kingdon."Sure," the latter flung at Pence with a laugh. "There's nothing secret about this warming up. Now, old man, put something on it."Midkiff whipped in a fast one, but it was wide."Very bad," said Horace Pence, pleasantly."Rather," agreed Kirby."They didn't like that one, Jawn," Rex Kingdon said sadly. "Didn't think so much of it myself. Try again."In a regular game John Midkiff could stand the chaffing of the enemy pretty well, but the remarks of these strangers, looking on at practice, seemed to fret him. He tried to curve his ball, and made a mess of it. Kirby laughed. Pence drawled:"Strike one—not!"Even Pudge MacComber giggled at the next one, it was so wild. Midkiff turned to glare at the group."Look out, Horrors!" Kirby said to Pence. "He's going to bean you.""If he did," said Red Phillips, "old Kid Horrors would certainly have something in his bean beside atmospheric pressure. He'd have a dent in it.""Never mind the remarks from the side lines, Jawn," Rex found it necessary to say. "Keep your mind on that spherical object in your lily white hand. Let's do something with it. Now——"He signaled again, and squatted to get the drop he had called for. Midkiff, steadied as he usually was by the captain's voice, sent in one that fairly grooved the pan."Bravo!" acclaimed Pence. "Quite pretty. But no speed."Kingdon would not let his roommate use all his speed. Midkiff had not been using his arm much for a fortnight, and there was a reason for petting it a little. After a few more passes, Harry Kirby said impatiently:"You fellers make me ill. Stop throwing kisses at each other, and let arealman pitch.""I'd like to catch for a real swift ball tosser," Rex said meekly."Believe me, you'd think you were doing it if you tried to hold Horrors.""Is he good as all that?" queried Kingdon, picking a rather wild one of Midkiff's out of the air."He is," declared Kirby."Maybe I couldn't hold him," Rex said gently."You'd know you'd been catching something when you got through," the other laughed sneeringly.Kingdon looked quizzically over at the silent Pence."You've got a good booster," he said. "Wish you'd show me a few.""Oh, I can wait my turn," Pence drawled."No time like the present. Come on in, Mid. Our friend here is going to show us something fancy.""Think you can hold me, do you?" asked Pence."I can try," Rex rejoined modestly."I've heard you think yourself the real thing," said Pence, rising languidly as the scowling Midkiff came in."Put 'em anywhere within reach and I'll grab at 'em," Rex promised.CHAPTER X.KINGDON STATES A DETERMINATION."'Minds me of Wash Hornbrook, Red. 'Member?" whispered Peewee Hicks, watching the tall, dark fellow going out to the mound.Kingdon had already noted the resemblance of Pence to the clever, good-looking athlete who had once been the leading spirit at Walcott Hall. Horace Pence did not look at all like Hornbrook, but his manner suggested the prep. school hero, now gone to college.That Pence was a leader the attitude of his mates plainly revealed. He was a personable fellow, and as graceful as a panther. Kingdon smiled and settled himself to receive the first pitched ball.Kingdon had succeeded as captain of the school ball team, principally because he was a good reader of character. He gave less attention now to the muscular development of Horace Pence than he did to his face.He saw in Pence's handsome, reckless visage with its sneeringly uplifted lip, a certain cool determination that Rex could not but admire. The black-haired chap was going out there with the intention of making the Walcott Hall backstop flinch before his speed. He saw, likewise, that Pence was a left-hander; for when the chap reached the pitcher's station he turned his right side to Kingdon. He took little time for his wind-up, merely tossing over his shoulder:"Ready?""Waiting," answered Rex.The horsehide struck the catcher's mitt, seemingly the next second."Oh, boy!" yelled Red Phillips, giving credit where credit was due. "Some speed!"Kingdon tossed the sphere back. The bullet that next shot over hummed like a bee. Kingdon spread his legs wider and waited impassively for the third ball. Pence took more time about it and put even more speed into his throw. It was a wonder. The Walcott Hall lads, camped in the shade, gasped.A flush had come into the dark fellow's face. He rolled up his sleeve with a vexed motion, spat upon his hand, grinned at the waiting backstop, and drove in his fourth ball.It was caught as the others had been, but the force of the delivery was so great that Kingdon stepped back to recover his balance. Then he drawled:"That's four balls. Man takes his base. Say, the speed is all right; why not put over a strike now and then?""Your eyesight's bad," declared Pence, poised for another throw. "You're weakening.""Maybe," Kingdon said, holding up his hand. "But I don't think so. What's the use of having all that speed if you have no control?"The pitcher's black eyes flashed. "Who says I don't get 'em over?" he snapped.Kingdon beckoned to Harry Kirby. "You umpire," he invited.Kirby looked at Pence for permission. The latter said:"Oh, go ahead. The blond person's beginning to feel weary already. When I've poured a few more into him he'll claim his lip's cracked, or something, and quit."Kingdon smiled as Kirby ran to take his station, adjusting his mask."Now, son," muttered the Walcott Hall backstop, "keep your eye on the ball."The southpaw wound up again, and the ball whizzed in and slapped against Kingdon's glove. The latter held it and looked at Kirby."Ball!" Kirby was forced to proclaim."What?" ejaculated the boy on the mound. "Give me that——"He caught Kingdon's accurate throw, and immediately flung another hot one. "How's that?" he demanded exultantly.Kirby actually flushed. "Ball again," he said."Why, you poor bat!" Pence exclaimed. "Can't you see anything?"Kingdon chuckled and tossed up the ball. "Two to one, Mister," he said. "You've got to do better than that. Your speed's all right; but you're as wild as an Igorote. Come down to Mother Earth."Horace Pence recovered from his momentary display of spleen, and smiled. That uplift of his lip was not pleasant to observe. He was cool again.He marked the plate well, poised himself with more care for the throw, and grooved the pan. Kingdon caught the ball in his ungloved hand."Right over," he said. "But the batter could have poled it over the fence, if he'd had any kind of luck at all.""That's all right," Pence said easily. "I'll work up to my speed in a minute or two. You don't want to stop many of them with your bare hand."He flung another that cut the corner of the plate. Then another. His arm seemed tireless, and the balls were soon whizzing in again with terrific speed. About half of them the prejudiced Kirby pronounced strikes.Kingdon beckoned to Red Phillips. "Let's see how these limited expresses look to a real batsman," he said. "Bring your club, Red. See if you can aeroplane one of these hot ones. Run down toward center, Peewee, and watch it sail.""Don't let that lanky chap hit me, King," said the red-haired youth. "He's as wild as a hawk."Pence smiled his canine smile and waited for Red to take his position. Without accepting any advice from the catcher, he sent in the first ball. Red was not on the job, and Kirby shouted:"Strike!""Hold your bat out, Carrots, and I'll hit it," drawled the black-haired chap."See that I don't hityouone," warned Phillips. Then he swung, with a grunt. The ball came like a shot from a cannon, but Red was well used to fast ones. Bat and ball connected, and the latter sailed high over Horace Pence's head into center field. Peewee retrieved it; and it was relayed home; for Midkiff had gone out by the second bag rather than sit with the crew from the other camp."You see," said Kingdon softly, "that's what a real good batsman would do to your fast balls when you got 'em over.""Not to all of 'em," returned Pence, his black eyes flashing and the red deepening in his cheeks."Enough to make you tired," drawled Kingdon."You're mighty smart!" scoffed Kirby, as Pence made no reply. "Who told you so much, Curly?"Phillips continued to connect with about two out of every three balls Pence pitched. And the dark chap grew hotter and hotter—inside. On the surface he was like ice. Kingdon admired him."Red," the backstop whispered while Peewee and Midkiff were relaying the ball on one occasion, "that lad will be a pitcher some day.""He thinks he is now," returned the batter."You're the only man I know could bump his speed this way. Things aren't breaking good for him, but he keeps his head. And he's a southpaw. Red, I'd give all my old hats to have that chap at Walcott Hall!"Phillips stared at him. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Some of your gears are loose.""Believe me," said Kingdon, softly, "if it can be did, your uncle is going to bring it about. Don't you think thatyouare the only real, blow-in-the-bottle scout for the old school. There are others. You lassoed me into the Hall, didn't you?""Aw—well—you——""I wasn't as good as this Pence," admitted Kingdon, honestly. "I tell you I yearn for Blacky on our pitching staff, and I hope to see him there.""The foolish factory's where you belong," returned Red.CHAPTER XI.ENOS QUIBB AGAIN.Pence got down to curving a few, and Red Phillips did not find it so easy to hammer the ball. The black-haired fellow's benders weren't remarkable; it was evident that he had gone in for speed almost entirely, and had not tried for control.Without doubt Horace Pence felt that his showing was not of the first class. Used as he was to lording it over his fellows, being superior to them in almost every sport and pastime, it cut him to be criticized right where he felt himself to be strongest.He was a small town ball-player, used to playing with High School nines and factory teams on Saturday afternoons. No real coach had ever trained Pence, and it is doubtful if he—with his excellent opinion of himself—would have taken at all kindly to the advice of an ordinary coach. That was really the principal trouble with Horace Pence; he had never been disciplined.Rex Kingdon was different from the ordinary coach. Pence had gone up to the pitcher's position with every expectation of making the blond chap flinch and cry quits. Kirby was a husky fellow, with hands toughened by hard toil; for his father made him work in his coal and wood yard when he was out of school. Harry at times had difficulty in holding Pence.This catcher from Walcott Hall was not feazed by all the speed at Pence's command. He came up smiling every time. Not only that, but he had used Kirby to display the fact that few of those speedy balls would ever pass muster in a regular game where there were good batters.Kirby had scoffed at Kingdon and Red Phillips; Ben Comas had sneered; while Pudge's expression of countenance was disdainful. Nevertheless, Pence knew his exhibition had not been distinctly brilliant.These Walcott Hall fellows knew more about baseball than he and his friends. The confidence of that red-haired chap with the stick, the force and accuracy with which Midkiff flung the ball from behind second, and Kingdon's ease and attitude of nonchalance, showed Pence that they all had attainments superior to his own.He remembered Rex Kingdon from the time when the latter had come down out of the backwoods with the Ridgewood High nine to play a local team of which Pence was a member. Rex had pitched part of that game. The black-browed chap had nursed a grudge against Kingdon since that occasion because of some few personal remarks that were passed in the heat of argument over a play. Kingdon, of course, had forgotten all about it long ago.At the time of that gone-by game Horace was sure he was a better pitcher than Rex, though he had little opportunity of learning much about Kingdon's all-round ability in the game. Learning, through the refusal of the Manatee Lumber Company to grant Ben Comas and his friends permission to camp on Storm Island, that Rex Kingdon was to be there for the summer, Horace had instantly made up his mind that he desired to cross swords with the blond fellow of whom he had taken such a dislike.With the two parties encamped upon the island, there would be plenty of opportunity to try conclusions with Kingdon. Pence had no intention of having the meetings of his party with the Walcott Hall boys to be so friendly. Somehow, Kingdon's careless good nature had removed the friction.Horace had the elements of a decent chap in his makeup. His standard of honor was not high; yet he was not of the caliber of Ben Comas. Having actually challenged Kingdon, and having been given a square deal, Horace could not bring himself to end the session in an open wrangle with Rex and his crowd."There!" he finally observed, sending in a twister that quite puzzled Red Phillips. "That's my last for to-day. I've amused you chaps enough.""Didn't want to suggest it," Kingdon said seriously, coming forward to meet the black-haired fellow, "but I do think, old chap, that you rather overdo it. No wing will stand such a steady strain. You've got a lot of speed in that left arm, and you ought to take care of it. Where's your sweater?""This hot day?" laughed Pence, uncertain that Kingdon was not chaffing.The backstop picked up his own discarded jacket and held it out so that Pence could easily slip his arms into it."No josh," he said as Horace slowly got into the coat. "I'm going to make my cripples work a little—if you fellows don't want your diamond for a while.""Your cripples?" repeated Horace, interested in spite of himself."Cloudman and Midkiff, our two star pitchers. Both have done some good work this last term. And both of 'em have the spring halt in their elbows." Kingdon laughed."Help yourself," said Horace carelessly. "I want a rest, and Harry and the others won't play if I don't."Kingdon's voice dropped a point or two as he said:"I'd like to show you a few, Pence, if you'll stand without hitching. You don't play regularly with any team, do you?""No.""If our coach could get hold of you he'd turn out a real ball-player before he got through with you, believe me!""Indeed?" drawled Horace. "I had no idea you had a coach at that fresh-water kindergarten. Thought you were the whole cheese there.""Oh, no," laughed Kingdon, apparently not at all ruffled. "There are other cheeses at Walcott Hall."He turned away and called his crew together, while Pence went back to his friends and sat down in the shade."Say!" exploded Ben Comas. "You're thicker'n hasty-puddin' with that blond fellow. What's the idea?""Why didn't you knock his head off?" growled the glowering Kirby. "He's too fresh!""He wasn't fresh with me," Horace Pence returned cheerfully. "Knock his head off yourself, Harry—if you think you can do it.""Huh!" grunted Ben. "You said you was going to fix him if he came to Storm Island. Didn't he, Pudge?""That's what you did, Horrors," agreed the fat chap."Wait till he gives me an opening, will you?" snapped Horace with some fretfulness."What sort of an opening do you want?" demanded Ben. "Look what he did to us last night.""Old stuff," responded Horace, cool again. "We've made a bargain, haven't we, that wipes that out?""Bargain!" sneered Ben."He stole our canoes," said Kirby."And he did it to make the bargain," laughed Pence. "Smart chap, that Rex King. You got to hand it to him.""Wait till Joe Bootleg gets a chance at him," said Ben. "He'll hand him something he won't forget. Joe's eye is in mourning, and he's as lame and bruised as though he'd been through a threshing machine."Horace remained silent.Kingdon sent out his men to bat and practice base running, and Hicks gave an exhibition of his ability to steal sacks, being highly successful. Horace Pence was really interested in this practice. Such snappy work he had never seen before. Kirby and Ben Comas lighted cigarettes."You fellows better cut out the coffin-nails if you want to keep your wind," Kingdon advised them."You better smoke a few yourself, Blondy," growled Kirby, "if they'll really reduce your supply of hot air.""He's right," drawled Horace. "I guess I won't smoke now." But his real reason for not smoking was that he had discovered he was not wearing his own coat.The sun was getting low when Kingdon called it a day's work. Horace and his party scrambled to their feet, too, when the Walcott Hall boys collected their possessions and prepared to go down to their camp. Horace tossed the borrowed jacket to Kingdon, saying:"Much obliged.""Same to you," Kingdon returned, "for the use of your lay-out here.""You're welcome whenever we're not playing," Horace said lazily and walked off with his crowd."What d'ye think of that bunch?" Cloudman said as the Walcott Hall boys approached camp."That Horrors has some speed," little Hicks stated wisely."He's an ugly brute," was Red's opinion."So are you," laughed Kingdon. "There are no medals on you, Bricktop, for politeness. And as for Mid—he's got a grouch that won't rub off.""Well," said Midkiff, decidedly, "I don't like one little thing about that gang.""And here is this blue-eyed beauty," said Red, "wants to inveigle Horrors into——"He broke off suddenly; but it wasn't a warning from Kingdon that hushed Phillips. They had come in sight of the camp. Moored to the bank below it was a motorboat. A fellow with a straw-colored chin whisker and a plentiful sprinkling of freckles on his red face, sat on a rock before their tent."Hullo! Who's the guest?" drawled Kingdon."Look!" whispered Hicks. "It's a constable! See his badge, fellows?"The freckle-faced officer was none other than Enos Quibb, of Blackport.
CHAPTER VIII.
A BARGAIN IS STRUCK.
The fellow in the red bathing suit descended to the edge of the water and plunged in without hesitation. Three others came running from the larger tent—a fat chap, a lean one, and the third almost as stocky as Red Phillips. Rex Kingdon could identify them all by what he had heard the night before.
After a minute a fifth youth appeared from the smaller tent, and by his look and dress Rex knew this last must be the Joe Bootleg with whom he had had the struggle.
"Five of 'em," said Peewee. "Even Stephen."
"We ought to be able to hold our own with that crowd," Red murmured.
"You can have my share of the Indian, Red," Kingdon drawled.
"Well, what are you going to do?" demanded Midkiff.
Only the tall fellow of the party of campers ventured into the water. The others dressed hastily, chattering excitedly the while. The tall fellow went ashore, stripped, rubbed himself down, and got into his own clothes leisurely.
"Well set up lad, that," Phillips said to Rex, admiringly. "He looks about your build, Beauty. Made of whipcord and wire cable, too. Notice those biceps when he put on his shirt?"
Red had been looking through the glasses, and forgot that the rest were not eagle-eyed. Hicks chuckled:
"If it comes to a rough-and-tumble, I choose the fat one for my meat. He must be so clumsy he can't get out of the way of his own feet."
"Always looking for the easy work, infant," said Rex. "Go wash up the dishes; that's your job. We'll up anchor and——"
"Make sail for Blackport?" put in Midkiff.
"Like fun we will!" cried Phillips. "Aren't going to turn tail and run from those chaps, are you, Rex?"
"Guess we'd better have a pow-wow first," admitted Kingdon. "Time enough to shout for help when we find we need it."
"I wouldn't say a word to them," complained John Midkiff.
"Gentle lamb, Jawn is," drawled Kingdon. "Hedoesn't like a fuss, of course—oh, no!"
"Not for the sake of the fuss, as you and Red do," snapped Midkiff. "You two are always hunting trouble."
They paid little attention to Midkiff's complaints. The anchor was dragged over the bows. The sail was hoisted. It filled, and theSpoondriftbegan to move. She was not a graceful craft, but she slid through the water rapidly. The painters of the canoes tautened and they hobbled along astern. Rex shortened the line of one so that they would not bump and damage each other. He steered the cat for the deep mooring place under the two arching trees below the encampment.
"They chose a pretty place to set up their tents," Peewee said, lying on his stomach and trailing dish after dish overboard to wash them. "Just as pretty places all along the shore here," Rex said. "A hundred parties could easily find room on the island."
Midkiff stared at him. "I know you're getting ready to do something foolish," he declared, sourly.
"I'd hate to have your suspicious nature, Jawn," was the retort as Kingdon skillfully steered theSpoondriftshoreward.
"Hey! What are you doing with our canoes?" was the shouted greeting of the fellow whom Rex suspected was named Ben.
"Why, I declare! are these your boats?" drawled the blond chap. "Don't you think you were mighty careless with them?"
"Now you said a mouthful," barked the belligerent Kirby. "But we didn't know there were thieves about."
"No?"
"We hadn't seen anybody who looked dishonest before," said the good-looking, black-haired fellow they called Horrors, as Red Phillips let out the sheet at a gesture from Rex and the flapping sail came down on the run.
"What's the matter?" squealed little Hicks in reply to the last speech. "Did you all forget to bring your pocket mirrors?"
"You come ashore here, you little chipmunk," blustered Ben Comas, "and I'll show you something. It won't be in a looking-glass, either."
"Naughty! Naughty!" laughed Kingdon. "Don't threaten; it isn't nice. Drop the anchor again, Jawn. You fellows let me do a little of the talking, will you?"
"Aw, well——" began Hicks. But Cloudman reached for him and laid him carefully on his back.
"Hush up, infant!" the Westerner advised. "We can't hear ourselves think for your chatter."
"Going to give us back our canoes?" shouted Kirby.
"For a price," Kingdon coolly told him. "Of course, you don't expect to get anything for nothing? It isn't done, my boy; it isn't done."
Before Harry Kirby could sputter again, the tall, dark fellow interfered. The catboat now swung so near the shore on the morning tide that a conversational tone between the two parties was all that was necessary.
"I say," Horace Pence said, "you're Rex Kingdon, aren't you?"
"Bull's-eye," admitted the blond youth lazily. "But I haven't the pleasure, have I?"
"That makes no difference. I suppose it was you who came ashore here last night?"
"Seems to me I remember something like that," admitted Rex suddenly a-smile. He saw the Indian behind the group of other boys, and the smile was for him. But Joe Bootleg did not respond; only stared down at his erstwhile antagonist threateningly.
"What do you want here at Storm Island, anyway?" demanded Pence boldly.
"You ought to go ashore and tell him, Rex," declared Red Phillips in disgust. "The gall of him!"
"We ought to go to Blackport and get a constable to put the whole gang off the island," added Midkiff.
"Why be childish?" said Rex. "I rather like our neighbor with the black eyebrows."
"Well?" demanded Pence. "Lost your voice?"
"Not any," quoth Kingdon. "Was just wondering how much you fellows would be willing to pay for your canoes? We might keep 'em, you know."
"You'd better not!" yelled Ben Comas, red in the face and shaking his fist at the catboat's crew.
"My father——"
"Drop it!" growled Kirby, yet loud enough for the Walcott Hall boys to hear. "If your father knew where you were——"
"They're a bunch of thieves," declared Ben, just as wildly. "Ain't they, Pudge?"
The fat boy kept discreetly silent. The black-haired youth said:
"Stop your yipping, you fellows, and let somebody talk sense. Hey, Kingdon! You needn't think you've got us caged here for the rest of the summer. We could hail a fishing party before the day's over, and get a boat from Blackport. Don't fool yourself."
"Got it all planned out, haven't you?" said Cloudman.
Rex made a gesture to quiet Applejack, and said:
"I have an idea you don't care to stir up any inquiry at the port. Am I right? Let's settle this between ourselves—right in the bosom of the family, as it were. What do you say?"
"Shoot!" said Pence. "Let's have your idea."
"We give up the canoes. You let us land and set up our camp, and let us alone. Is it understood?" asked Rex with more seriousness.
The expressions on the faces of the fat fellow, Ben, and Kirby showed relief. Horace Pence said:
"It's a bargain. The island's big enough."
"All agreed?" drawled Rex.
"I think we are," Kirby said.
"Sure!" chimed in Ben and Pudge MacComber. Yet the former murmured: "There's something up his sleeve. There must be!" Pudge looked doubtful, too. Joe Bootleg scowled in the background, saying nothing.
"Hope you may die, cross your heart, and all the rest of it," said Rex, cheerfully. "I put you all on honor. It may be an awful strain; but they say a singed cat is often better than it looks. We're to camp where we choose, and let you alone. You fellows ditto with us. Is it agreed?"
"Come along," invited the black-haired chap. "You needn't waste so much breath over it."
Rex looked inquiringly at the others. Kirby, Ben and Pudge nodded. But it was noticeable that the Indian youth made no sign of acquiescence.
CHAPTER IX.
A CHALLENGE.
They chose a pretty cove, half way along the northern shore of the island, where there was a little beach but where the water deepened quickly so that theSpoondriftcould be moored inshore. With her centerboard raised, her draught was small.
"We should have a tender, King, just as I said," Red Phillips declared. "What's the good of a fellow getting wet to his waist every time he wants to 'board ship?"
"Hold your horses, you scarlet pimpernel," requested Rex. "Maybe this isn't the only water vehicle we'll have. The summer's young yet."
"And you're fresh," growled Red. "Pimpernel, indeed! I'm a healthy looking roadside flower."
"We might have kept one of those canoes," suggested Peewee, with one of his impish grins.
"I don't want anything to do with them or their canoes," Midkiff announced. "I've a mighty poor opinion of that gang."
"Here, too," said Red. "I've a notion they're not going to be good neighbors."
"They promised," Hicks observed seriously.
"What's a promise to fellows like them?" growled he of the auburn hair.
"What do you know about them, Reddy?" Kingdon asked. "Jumping at conclusions, aren't you?"
"If a dog shows his teeth I take it for granted he can bite," was the prompt reply. "I don't have to go up to him and put my hand in his mouth to make sure."
"True, true, Carrots. And quite philosophical. You are improving."
Suddenly, Cloudman appeared from the wood that covered the heights of the island behind the camping place. He came scrambling down toward the tent that had already been set up and secured.
"Here comes the P.L.," said Phillips, squinting up at the lank Western youth.
"What's that?" asked Midkiff. "'P.L.'—pretty lucky? He's missed most of the work."
"Principal Loafer," explained Red. "And my hands are sore tugging at those guy-ropes."
"You said something," agreed Hicks. "Cloudman's a regular pet, isn't he? He's too strong for work."
"He's got a bad wing, and you know it," Kingdon put in admonishingly. "Don't want him to make it worse. He's had a lame arm ever since that chap from Winchester—the one that nicked Henderson's brother for his roll—hit Cloud with a club. I told him to go easy."
"How about me?" growled Midkiff. "That same fellow took a twist at my arm, too. If he'd been trying to break up our nine so Winchester could win the pennant, that scoundrel couldn't have done better."
"But you showed 'em, Middy, in the last game—didn't he, fellows?" cried Peewee. "You put the starch into those last few innings, believe me!"
"And near ruined your arm," said Kingdon, eyeing his roommate with lazy pride. "I've got a couple of cripples on my hands. That's why I was particularly anxious for you and Applejack to come on this cruise, Midkiff."
"How's that?" asked the Colorado lad, landing suddenly with a crash beside them.
"Want you both to get into A-1 shape by fall. We'll have a series to play off in September and October, and you two fellows must be able to do your very best on the mound."
"How 'bout Henderson?"
"Hen's promised to keep in trim, too. Walcott is mighty weak in its pitching staff. We've got three—three, mind you! And we ought to have half a dozen good twirlers."
"Don't you suppose any of those fellows Stanley Downs was nursing along on the scrub nines will develop, Rex?" Red Phillips asked anxiously.
His place was fixed in the infield, but Red was thoroughly loyal to old Walcott. Indeed, it had been his scouting for athletic material that had brought Rex Kingdon to the school.
"About as much chance of the coach developing a comer out of that bunch as you have of developing a love for mathematics, Sunset," responded Rex.
"There isn't a natural born pitcher among 'em, and if there's no natural talent, what can we expect of the coach? It isn't his fault."
"I'm going right to work with John and Applejack, here. If there's a level spot on this whole island——"
"I've found it," interposed Cloudman.
"Eh?"
"Found just the place. Right on the top of this hill. Big enough for a three-ring circus."
"Fine!" Kingdon exclaimed. "Let's have dinner and a nap, and then go up and look it over. If we could get those chaps over there into it, we could have a half decent ball game—all positions filled and somebody to rap out a few."
"Oh, prunes!" grunted Red. "They don't look as though they could play beanbag."
"Don't you get attached to that idea so that you can't be pried loose, old man," Kingdon advised. "That tall fellow looks good to me."
They had drawn lots and it had fallen to Rex to get dinner, with Phillips to assist. Hunger urged them to prepare a "bounteous repast," but neither of the cooks would ever win a medal from the Association of Chefs, and Peewee so declared.
"If it wasn't for the canned beans, this layout would be a frost," croaked that diminutive critic. "Who couldn't warm over beans? Is that dish going to be about all we get our teeth clamped on this week?"
"I'll try some flapjacks for supper," promised Phillips.
Cloudman grinned. "Ever make any?" he asked.
"No. But we've got a cook at home that makes 'em fine."
"What are you going to make 'em out of?"
"There's a package of flapjack flour. All you got to do is to mix 'em up and fry 'em, I s'pose."
"The directions say, 'Mix with buttermilk,'" chuckled Applejack.
"Huh!"
"Oh, my!" chortled Peewee. "Where you going to get buttermilk, Red?"
"We got canned milk and butter. Can't we combine 'em and make buttermilk? Nothing to it!"
"Listen to that!" cried Midkiff. "This red-headed lunatic will poison us before he gets through."
"Wish we'd hired an Injun to cook for us, same as that other crowd have," Cloudman said.
"Not a bad idea," Peewee agreed patronizingly. "You're pretty near as wild as any Indian, Cloud. I move you be made permanent cook."
"Like fun!" said the Colorado youth. "I cooked all the way over in that boat. No more."
"What do you know about this, Red?" Rex said. "Mutiny, hey?"
"And the worst kind," agreed Phillips. "It's a great deal worse to mutiny against the cook than against the skipper and other officers."
"Here we have both forms of the iniquity. What, ho! call the guard! Sentinels to their places! Let the pork and cabbage fall—I mean the portcullis! I sentence the entire mutinous gang to sharp practice at three o'clock. Let the dishes alone, Red, till later. I hanker for forty winks. Talk as you please, fellows, canned beans are filling."
The island, which had been steaming all the morning after the rain, was beginning to cool off by three o'clock. The five Walcott Hall lads climbed the stiff hill to the hidden lawn, and were delighted with it. It was not long before they discovered that others had been ahead of them.
"Those interlopers, I suppose," Midkiff said, sniffing.
"Here's where they laid out their diamond," said Hicks. "Home plate, first base, third. Yonder's second. Looks like the real thing."
"And the box," Cloudman said, stepping into place, vigorously swinging his arm the while. "Somebody's pitched ball from here, Kingdon, that's sure."
"And now you're going to pitch some," Rex told him, adjusting his mitt. "See if you can put something on it, Wild-and-Woolly."
Cloudman's performance pleased him. Midkiff was taking his turn on the mound when there was a sudden sound of voices in the wood behind the catcher's station. The Walcott lads turned to see the crowd from the other camp appear.
"Oh, see who's here!" murmured Hicks.
The four approached the spot where Midkiff was shooting them over. Kirby swung his catcher's mask and mitt while Pence juggled a couple of balls. Pudge trudged behind the scowling Ben Comas, bearing the bats.
"Hoh!" grunted Ben. "What did I tell you? These prep. school fellows have grabbed our place. You might have known it."
Rex put up his hand to stop Midkiff in the middle of his wind-up, and looked over his shoulder.
"Why don't you keep a dog and let him do the growling for you?" he asked Comas. "Any crime in our tossing a few here? 'Bout the only level spot on the island—what?"
"It's our place," said Ben, weakly.
"I don't suppose you mean to camp here all day?" Pence said lazily. Then to Ben: "There's time enough. Let 'em go ahead with their practice," he added, patronizingly. "Let's see what they can do."
Phillips, who had got up from his seat in the shade, sat down again, with a grunt. Pence threw himself beside the red-haired youth. Midkiff scowled, but took the signal from Kingdon.
"Sure," the latter flung at Pence with a laugh. "There's nothing secret about this warming up. Now, old man, put something on it."
Midkiff whipped in a fast one, but it was wide.
"Very bad," said Horace Pence, pleasantly.
"Rather," agreed Kirby.
"They didn't like that one, Jawn," Rex Kingdon said sadly. "Didn't think so much of it myself. Try again."
In a regular game John Midkiff could stand the chaffing of the enemy pretty well, but the remarks of these strangers, looking on at practice, seemed to fret him. He tried to curve his ball, and made a mess of it. Kirby laughed. Pence drawled:
"Strike one—not!"
Even Pudge MacComber giggled at the next one, it was so wild. Midkiff turned to glare at the group.
"Look out, Horrors!" Kirby said to Pence. "He's going to bean you."
"If he did," said Red Phillips, "old Kid Horrors would certainly have something in his bean beside atmospheric pressure. He'd have a dent in it."
"Never mind the remarks from the side lines, Jawn," Rex found it necessary to say. "Keep your mind on that spherical object in your lily white hand. Let's do something with it. Now——"
He signaled again, and squatted to get the drop he had called for. Midkiff, steadied as he usually was by the captain's voice, sent in one that fairly grooved the pan.
"Bravo!" acclaimed Pence. "Quite pretty. But no speed."
Kingdon would not let his roommate use all his speed. Midkiff had not been using his arm much for a fortnight, and there was a reason for petting it a little. After a few more passes, Harry Kirby said impatiently:
"You fellers make me ill. Stop throwing kisses at each other, and let arealman pitch."
"I'd like to catch for a real swift ball tosser," Rex said meekly.
"Believe me, you'd think you were doing it if you tried to hold Horrors."
"Is he good as all that?" queried Kingdon, picking a rather wild one of Midkiff's out of the air.
"He is," declared Kirby.
"Maybe I couldn't hold him," Rex said gently.
"You'd know you'd been catching something when you got through," the other laughed sneeringly.
Kingdon looked quizzically over at the silent Pence.
"You've got a good booster," he said. "Wish you'd show me a few."
"Oh, I can wait my turn," Pence drawled.
"No time like the present. Come on in, Mid. Our friend here is going to show us something fancy."
"Think you can hold me, do you?" asked Pence.
"I can try," Rex rejoined modestly.
"I've heard you think yourself the real thing," said Pence, rising languidly as the scowling Midkiff came in.
"Put 'em anywhere within reach and I'll grab at 'em," Rex promised.
CHAPTER X.
KINGDON STATES A DETERMINATION.
"'Minds me of Wash Hornbrook, Red. 'Member?" whispered Peewee Hicks, watching the tall, dark fellow going out to the mound.
Kingdon had already noted the resemblance of Pence to the clever, good-looking athlete who had once been the leading spirit at Walcott Hall. Horace Pence did not look at all like Hornbrook, but his manner suggested the prep. school hero, now gone to college.
That Pence was a leader the attitude of his mates plainly revealed. He was a personable fellow, and as graceful as a panther. Kingdon smiled and settled himself to receive the first pitched ball.
Kingdon had succeeded as captain of the school ball team, principally because he was a good reader of character. He gave less attention now to the muscular development of Horace Pence than he did to his face.
He saw in Pence's handsome, reckless visage with its sneeringly uplifted lip, a certain cool determination that Rex could not but admire. The black-haired chap was going out there with the intention of making the Walcott Hall backstop flinch before his speed. He saw, likewise, that Pence was a left-hander; for when the chap reached the pitcher's station he turned his right side to Kingdon. He took little time for his wind-up, merely tossing over his shoulder:
"Ready?"
"Waiting," answered Rex.
The horsehide struck the catcher's mitt, seemingly the next second.
"Oh, boy!" yelled Red Phillips, giving credit where credit was due. "Some speed!"
Kingdon tossed the sphere back. The bullet that next shot over hummed like a bee. Kingdon spread his legs wider and waited impassively for the third ball. Pence took more time about it and put even more speed into his throw. It was a wonder. The Walcott Hall lads, camped in the shade, gasped.
A flush had come into the dark fellow's face. He rolled up his sleeve with a vexed motion, spat upon his hand, grinned at the waiting backstop, and drove in his fourth ball.
It was caught as the others had been, but the force of the delivery was so great that Kingdon stepped back to recover his balance. Then he drawled:
"That's four balls. Man takes his base. Say, the speed is all right; why not put over a strike now and then?"
"Your eyesight's bad," declared Pence, poised for another throw. "You're weakening."
"Maybe," Kingdon said, holding up his hand. "But I don't think so. What's the use of having all that speed if you have no control?"
The pitcher's black eyes flashed. "Who says I don't get 'em over?" he snapped.
Kingdon beckoned to Harry Kirby. "You umpire," he invited.
Kirby looked at Pence for permission. The latter said:
"Oh, go ahead. The blond person's beginning to feel weary already. When I've poured a few more into him he'll claim his lip's cracked, or something, and quit."
Kingdon smiled as Kirby ran to take his station, adjusting his mask.
"Now, son," muttered the Walcott Hall backstop, "keep your eye on the ball."
The southpaw wound up again, and the ball whizzed in and slapped against Kingdon's glove. The latter held it and looked at Kirby.
"Ball!" Kirby was forced to proclaim.
"What?" ejaculated the boy on the mound. "Give me that——"
He caught Kingdon's accurate throw, and immediately flung another hot one. "How's that?" he demanded exultantly.
Kirby actually flushed. "Ball again," he said.
"Why, you poor bat!" Pence exclaimed. "Can't you see anything?"
Kingdon chuckled and tossed up the ball. "Two to one, Mister," he said. "You've got to do better than that. Your speed's all right; but you're as wild as an Igorote. Come down to Mother Earth."
Horace Pence recovered from his momentary display of spleen, and smiled. That uplift of his lip was not pleasant to observe. He was cool again.
He marked the plate well, poised himself with more care for the throw, and grooved the pan. Kingdon caught the ball in his ungloved hand.
"Right over," he said. "But the batter could have poled it over the fence, if he'd had any kind of luck at all."
"That's all right," Pence said easily. "I'll work up to my speed in a minute or two. You don't want to stop many of them with your bare hand."
He flung another that cut the corner of the plate. Then another. His arm seemed tireless, and the balls were soon whizzing in again with terrific speed. About half of them the prejudiced Kirby pronounced strikes.
Kingdon beckoned to Red Phillips. "Let's see how these limited expresses look to a real batsman," he said. "Bring your club, Red. See if you can aeroplane one of these hot ones. Run down toward center, Peewee, and watch it sail."
"Don't let that lanky chap hit me, King," said the red-haired youth. "He's as wild as a hawk."
Pence smiled his canine smile and waited for Red to take his position. Without accepting any advice from the catcher, he sent in the first ball. Red was not on the job, and Kirby shouted:
"Strike!"
"Hold your bat out, Carrots, and I'll hit it," drawled the black-haired chap.
"See that I don't hityouone," warned Phillips. Then he swung, with a grunt. The ball came like a shot from a cannon, but Red was well used to fast ones. Bat and ball connected, and the latter sailed high over Horace Pence's head into center field. Peewee retrieved it; and it was relayed home; for Midkiff had gone out by the second bag rather than sit with the crew from the other camp.
"You see," said Kingdon softly, "that's what a real good batsman would do to your fast balls when you got 'em over."
"Not to all of 'em," returned Pence, his black eyes flashing and the red deepening in his cheeks.
"Enough to make you tired," drawled Kingdon.
"You're mighty smart!" scoffed Kirby, as Pence made no reply. "Who told you so much, Curly?"
Phillips continued to connect with about two out of every three balls Pence pitched. And the dark chap grew hotter and hotter—inside. On the surface he was like ice. Kingdon admired him.
"Red," the backstop whispered while Peewee and Midkiff were relaying the ball on one occasion, "that lad will be a pitcher some day."
"He thinks he is now," returned the batter.
"You're the only man I know could bump his speed this way. Things aren't breaking good for him, but he keeps his head. And he's a southpaw. Red, I'd give all my old hats to have that chap at Walcott Hall!"
Phillips stared at him. "What's the matter with you?" he demanded. "Some of your gears are loose."
"Believe me," said Kingdon, softly, "if it can be did, your uncle is going to bring it about. Don't you think thatyouare the only real, blow-in-the-bottle scout for the old school. There are others. You lassoed me into the Hall, didn't you?"
"Aw—well—you——"
"I wasn't as good as this Pence," admitted Kingdon, honestly. "I tell you I yearn for Blacky on our pitching staff, and I hope to see him there."
"The foolish factory's where you belong," returned Red.
CHAPTER XI.
ENOS QUIBB AGAIN.
Pence got down to curving a few, and Red Phillips did not find it so easy to hammer the ball. The black-haired fellow's benders weren't remarkable; it was evident that he had gone in for speed almost entirely, and had not tried for control.
Without doubt Horace Pence felt that his showing was not of the first class. Used as he was to lording it over his fellows, being superior to them in almost every sport and pastime, it cut him to be criticized right where he felt himself to be strongest.
He was a small town ball-player, used to playing with High School nines and factory teams on Saturday afternoons. No real coach had ever trained Pence, and it is doubtful if he—with his excellent opinion of himself—would have taken at all kindly to the advice of an ordinary coach. That was really the principal trouble with Horace Pence; he had never been disciplined.
Rex Kingdon was different from the ordinary coach. Pence had gone up to the pitcher's position with every expectation of making the blond chap flinch and cry quits. Kirby was a husky fellow, with hands toughened by hard toil; for his father made him work in his coal and wood yard when he was out of school. Harry at times had difficulty in holding Pence.
This catcher from Walcott Hall was not feazed by all the speed at Pence's command. He came up smiling every time. Not only that, but he had used Kirby to display the fact that few of those speedy balls would ever pass muster in a regular game where there were good batters.
Kirby had scoffed at Kingdon and Red Phillips; Ben Comas had sneered; while Pudge's expression of countenance was disdainful. Nevertheless, Pence knew his exhibition had not been distinctly brilliant.
These Walcott Hall fellows knew more about baseball than he and his friends. The confidence of that red-haired chap with the stick, the force and accuracy with which Midkiff flung the ball from behind second, and Kingdon's ease and attitude of nonchalance, showed Pence that they all had attainments superior to his own.
He remembered Rex Kingdon from the time when the latter had come down out of the backwoods with the Ridgewood High nine to play a local team of which Pence was a member. Rex had pitched part of that game. The black-browed chap had nursed a grudge against Kingdon since that occasion because of some few personal remarks that were passed in the heat of argument over a play. Kingdon, of course, had forgotten all about it long ago.
At the time of that gone-by game Horace was sure he was a better pitcher than Rex, though he had little opportunity of learning much about Kingdon's all-round ability in the game. Learning, through the refusal of the Manatee Lumber Company to grant Ben Comas and his friends permission to camp on Storm Island, that Rex Kingdon was to be there for the summer, Horace had instantly made up his mind that he desired to cross swords with the blond fellow of whom he had taken such a dislike.
With the two parties encamped upon the island, there would be plenty of opportunity to try conclusions with Kingdon. Pence had no intention of having the meetings of his party with the Walcott Hall boys to be so friendly. Somehow, Kingdon's careless good nature had removed the friction.
Horace had the elements of a decent chap in his makeup. His standard of honor was not high; yet he was not of the caliber of Ben Comas. Having actually challenged Kingdon, and having been given a square deal, Horace could not bring himself to end the session in an open wrangle with Rex and his crowd.
"There!" he finally observed, sending in a twister that quite puzzled Red Phillips. "That's my last for to-day. I've amused you chaps enough."
"Didn't want to suggest it," Kingdon said seriously, coming forward to meet the black-haired fellow, "but I do think, old chap, that you rather overdo it. No wing will stand such a steady strain. You've got a lot of speed in that left arm, and you ought to take care of it. Where's your sweater?"
"This hot day?" laughed Pence, uncertain that Kingdon was not chaffing.
The backstop picked up his own discarded jacket and held it out so that Pence could easily slip his arms into it.
"No josh," he said as Horace slowly got into the coat. "I'm going to make my cripples work a little—if you fellows don't want your diamond for a while."
"Your cripples?" repeated Horace, interested in spite of himself.
"Cloudman and Midkiff, our two star pitchers. Both have done some good work this last term. And both of 'em have the spring halt in their elbows." Kingdon laughed.
"Help yourself," said Horace carelessly. "I want a rest, and Harry and the others won't play if I don't."
Kingdon's voice dropped a point or two as he said:
"I'd like to show you a few, Pence, if you'll stand without hitching. You don't play regularly with any team, do you?"
"No."
"If our coach could get hold of you he'd turn out a real ball-player before he got through with you, believe me!"
"Indeed?" drawled Horace. "I had no idea you had a coach at that fresh-water kindergarten. Thought you were the whole cheese there."
"Oh, no," laughed Kingdon, apparently not at all ruffled. "There are other cheeses at Walcott Hall."
He turned away and called his crew together, while Pence went back to his friends and sat down in the shade.
"Say!" exploded Ben Comas. "You're thicker'n hasty-puddin' with that blond fellow. What's the idea?"
"Why didn't you knock his head off?" growled the glowering Kirby. "He's too fresh!"
"He wasn't fresh with me," Horace Pence returned cheerfully. "Knock his head off yourself, Harry—if you think you can do it."
"Huh!" grunted Ben. "You said you was going to fix him if he came to Storm Island. Didn't he, Pudge?"
"That's what you did, Horrors," agreed the fat chap.
"Wait till he gives me an opening, will you?" snapped Horace with some fretfulness.
"What sort of an opening do you want?" demanded Ben. "Look what he did to us last night."
"Old stuff," responded Horace, cool again. "We've made a bargain, haven't we, that wipes that out?"
"Bargain!" sneered Ben.
"He stole our canoes," said Kirby.
"And he did it to make the bargain," laughed Pence. "Smart chap, that Rex King. You got to hand it to him."
"Wait till Joe Bootleg gets a chance at him," said Ben. "He'll hand him something he won't forget. Joe's eye is in mourning, and he's as lame and bruised as though he'd been through a threshing machine."
Horace remained silent.
Kingdon sent out his men to bat and practice base running, and Hicks gave an exhibition of his ability to steal sacks, being highly successful. Horace Pence was really interested in this practice. Such snappy work he had never seen before. Kirby and Ben Comas lighted cigarettes.
"You fellows better cut out the coffin-nails if you want to keep your wind," Kingdon advised them.
"You better smoke a few yourself, Blondy," growled Kirby, "if they'll really reduce your supply of hot air."
"He's right," drawled Horace. "I guess I won't smoke now." But his real reason for not smoking was that he had discovered he was not wearing his own coat.
The sun was getting low when Kingdon called it a day's work. Horace and his party scrambled to their feet, too, when the Walcott Hall boys collected their possessions and prepared to go down to their camp. Horace tossed the borrowed jacket to Kingdon, saying:
"Much obliged."
"Same to you," Kingdon returned, "for the use of your lay-out here."
"You're welcome whenever we're not playing," Horace said lazily and walked off with his crowd.
"What d'ye think of that bunch?" Cloudman said as the Walcott Hall boys approached camp.
"That Horrors has some speed," little Hicks stated wisely.
"He's an ugly brute," was Red's opinion.
"So are you," laughed Kingdon. "There are no medals on you, Bricktop, for politeness. And as for Mid—he's got a grouch that won't rub off."
"Well," said Midkiff, decidedly, "I don't like one little thing about that gang."
"And here is this blue-eyed beauty," said Red, "wants to inveigle Horrors into——"
He broke off suddenly; but it wasn't a warning from Kingdon that hushed Phillips. They had come in sight of the camp. Moored to the bank below it was a motorboat. A fellow with a straw-colored chin whisker and a plentiful sprinkling of freckles on his red face, sat on a rock before their tent.
"Hullo! Who's the guest?" drawled Kingdon.
"Look!" whispered Hicks. "It's a constable! See his badge, fellows?"
The freckle-faced officer was none other than Enos Quibb, of Blackport.