In front of the post office stood a boy with a faded pea-green cap, hung rakishly over one ear. He had a crooked nose, which looked as if some one had given it a violent twist to one side, and, perceiving Hooker approaching, he smiled a crooked smile, that gave his features the odd appearance of struggling desperately to pull his proboscis back into place.
"Hello!" muttered Roy in surprise. "As I live, there's Len Roberts, of Barville! What's he doing here?"
"Hi, there, Hooky!" called Roberts from the right-hand corner of his mouth. "How they coming? Ain't seen you since the last time. Any fun 'round this metropolitan burg?"
"Howdy, Len," answered Roy. "What brought you over here, anyhow?"
"The old man's nag and buggy. He came over to buy a horse from Abe Tuttle, and I asked him to fetch me along to lead or ride the critter back. He'n Tuttle are dickering now. Thought perhaps I might see somebody I knew if I hung 'round here."
"My friend, Herbert Rackliff, from Boston," said Hooker, introducing his companion. "That hub of the universe and seat of knowledge became too slow for him, so he migrated down here to Oakdale to acquire learning at our academic institution."
"Glad to meet you," said Roberts, still speaking out of one side of his mouth, in a way that somehow gave the impression that he did not wish the other side of his face to know what he was saying. "From Boston—and come to attend school in Oakdale. Jingoes!"
Rackliff smiled wryly, as his hand was given a squeeze by the wearer of the green cap. "Don't wonder you're surprised," he murmured. "Awful, isn't it? But then, I'm not to blame. Just been explaining to Roy, that my governor is responsible for the fearful crime."
"Sent you down here, did he? Well, what did you do to lead him to perpetrate such an outrage?"
"Got caught having a little fun, that's all. Expelled."
"Some fathers never can seem to understand that boys must have amusement. How's baseball coming, Hooky?"
"Oh, after the same old style," growled Hooker. "Roger Eliot is running the whole shooting match."
"He seems to be the high mogul in this town," chuckled Roberts.
"He makes me sick!" snapped Roy. "I don't care whether I play baseball or not, but I'd like to see Oakdale have a captain who'd give every fellow a square and fair show."
"Hasn't Eliot given you a square deal?"
"Not by a long shot. The bunch is practicing on the field now. He wanted to pack me away into right garden, but I never was built to be a nonentity in the outfield."
"I thought likely perhaps you'd do part of the pitching this year. Seems to me they must need you."
"Oh, they'll need somebody, all right; but Springer's trying to coach up our cattle puncher, Grant, to do part of the twirling. You don't know Grant. He's a new man; came in last fall. He's from Texas."
"Can he pitch?"
"Pitch! Just about as much as an old woman."
"Well, I don't mind telling you that Oakdale is certainly going to need a good man on the slab when she runs up against Barville this year. Needn't think you'll have the same sort of a snap you had last season. Lucky for you Lee Sanger hadn't developed when you played us. Gee! but he did come toward the end of the season. Look how he held Wyndham down; and he'd won that game, too, with proper support. He'll be better this year."
"I hope Barville beats the everlasting stuffing out of Oakdale."
"Do you really?" chuckled Roberts. "How's your friend feel about it? Does he play?"
"Nit," said Rackliff. "Draw poker is about the only kind of a game I ever take a hand in."
"Oh, Herbert knows they've given me a rotten deal," said Hooker quickly. "He's got his opinion about it. Honestly and truly, we'd both like to see Barville win."
"If that is the case," whispered Roberts, with a secretively friendly and confidential air, "you're just about dead sure to have your desire gratified. We'll have the finest high school battery ever seen in these parts. Got a new catcher, you know."
"No. I didn't know."
"Yep. He's a corker. Knows the game from A to Z, and he's coaching Sanger. You should see them work together. By the way, he comes from a town near Boston. Part of the city, isn't it—Roxbury? He knows more baseball than any fellow in these parts."
"What's his name?" asked Rackliff, lighting a fresh cigarette.
"Copley."
"What?" exclaimed Herbert, nearly dropping his cigarette. "Not Newt Copley?"
"That's him."
"Great scott! Say, he is a catcher. He's the trickiest man who ever went behind a bat. I know, for I've seen him play. He knows me, too. Say, isn't it odd that I should have a chum pitching for Wyndham this year and an acquaintance catching for Barville?"
The face of Len Roberts wore a look of satisfaction.
"Of course, we haven't seen Cop in a real game yet, but he brought his credentials with him, and they were sufficient to satisfy everybody that he was the real thing. Glad to meet somebody who knows about him. With Sanger handing 'em up, and Cop doing the receiving, you can bet Barville is going to take a fall out of Oakdale."
"I'd like to bet on it," said Herbert, with a touch of eagerness; "but I don't suppose I could find anybody down around here with sporting blood enough to risk any real money on the game. Say, do me a favor; tell Newt Copley that Herbert Rackliff is here in this town. He'll remember the fellow they called 'the plunger,' and 'the dead-game sport.' Even if I don't play baseball, I've sometimes made a few easy dollars betting on the games."
"And you'd bet against Oakdale?"
"Sure thing, if I felt certain she would lose."
"I'm afraid," grinned Roberts, "that neither you nor Hooker is very loyal to his school."
"Loyal!" snarled Roy. "Why should we be?"
"When it comes to wagering money," observed Rackliff wisely, "the fellow who bets on sympathy or loyalty is a chump. I always back my judgment and try to use some common sense about it. I hope you don't think for a fleeting moment that I contemplate finishing my preparatory school education in this stagnant hole. Not for little Herbert. I'd get paresis here in less than a year. I'm pretty sure the governor simply chucked me down here for a term, as sort of a warning. I'll go back for good when the term's over."
"Well, now if you fellows really want to see Oakdale surprised, and enjoy the pleasure of witnessing Barville hand 'em a good trimming, perhaps you won't say anything about our new catcher."
"Not a word," promised Hooker.
"Not a whisper," assured Rackliff. "And perhaps I'll catch a sucker or two if I fish around for them. Really, the prospect is inviting, for it seems to promise a break in the deadly monotony."
"Here come some of the fellows now," said Hooker, as two or three boys were seen coming down Lake Street. "Practice is over. Let's sift along, Rack. I don't care to see them. So long, Len. Good luck to you."
"So long, fellows," said the boy from Barville, as they turned up Main Street. "You'll have a chance to be happy Saturday. Bet all you can on it, Rackliff, old fel."
Thus began the friendship between Roy Hooker and Herbert Rackliff. Henceforth they were seen together a great deal. They came out to watch the nine practice, but Hooker no longer wore his baseball suit, and he sat on the bleachers with Herbert, the two talking together in guarded tones. No one paid much attention to them, for most of the boys held very decided opinions, which were far from favorable, of a chap who would show the disposition Hooker had so plainly betrayed; and Rackliff had never revealed an inclination to seek popularity among his schoolmates.
Roy was the owner of a second-hand motorcycle, which his father had given him at Christmas time, a present that had filled him with keen delight and intense satisfaction, in the knowledge that it would cause him to be envied by less fortunate lads. It was necessary, however, to tinker a great deal over the machine to keep it in running order, and the joshing flung at him by the Oakdale lads whenever he had a breakdown had been anything but balm to his irritable nature.
"Confound the thing!" he cried, after fussing with it a long time one night, while Rackliff, his creased trousers carefully pulled up to prevent bagging at the knees, sat on a box near by, in the open door of the carriage house, smoking cigarettes. "I don't believe it's any good. The old man got soaked."
"It seems harder work to keep the thing going than to pump an ordinary bike," said Herbert, "and that's too strenuous for me—though I learned to ride one once."
"Oh, regular bicycles are back numbers now. I could have a ripping lot of fun if I could make this machine go. Never saw anything so contrary. Sometimes it starts off and behaves fine for a little while, and I think it's all right. Just when I get to thinking that, it kicks up and leaves me a mile or two away from home, and I have to push or pedal it back. That's what makes me sore. If I try to sneak in by some back way somebody is sure to see me and give me the ha-ha."
"Like automobiles," observed Herbert, after letting a little smoke drift through his nose, "they're all right when they go, and a perfect nuisance when they don't. Now look at yourself, Roy, old fellow. Your hands are covered with grease, and you've got a black streak across your nose, and you're all fretted up."
"Drat the old thing!" snarled Hooker, giving the rear tire a kick. "It's just simply contrary, that's all. There's only one person in town who knows anything about gas engines, and he's Urian Eliot's chauffeur. I suppose I could get him to tinker this contraption up if I only was chummy with Roger."
"Anyway," said Herbert, "I should think it would shake one up fearfully riding over these rough country roads. We have some roads around Boston."
"Oh, a fellow can pick his way along pretty well after our roads get settled. Of course, they're no macadamized boulevards. It's lots of sport, and one can get around almost anywhere he wants to go. As long as I'm not going to be on the baseball team, I might use it to run over to Barville or Wyndham or Clearport to see the games."
"So you're going to chase the games up, are you?" laughed Rackliff. "I thought perhaps you'd be so sore you'd keep away from them."
"What, and lose the chance of seeing Oakdale beaten? Why, I wouldn't miss that first game with Barville for anything."
"But you don't have to go out of this town to see that game. Give it to me straight, Roy, is that fellow Sanger really much of a pitcher? Of course, I know Roberts would blow about him, but what do you think?"
"He was green the first of last season, and with a poor catcher to hold him he didn't show up very strong; but it's a fact that Wyndham, the fastest team in these parts, only got three clean hits off him the last game he pitched."
"Well, he'll have a catcher that can hold him this year," declared the city lad. "Newt Copley is a bird. He can throw to bases, too; it's rank suicide for runners to try to steal on him. Then you should see him work a batter. Gets right under the man's club and talks to him in a low tone, telling him how rotten he is and all that, until he has the fellow swinging like a gate at every old thing that comes over. And the way he can touch a bat with his mitt and deflect it on the third strike without being detected by the umpire is wonderful. He's great for kicking up a rumpus in a game; but he enjoys it, for he'd rather fight than eat."
"He hadn't better try anything like that on Rod Grant."
"Oh, I don't know," murmured Rackliff. "Copley's a scrapper, and he can handle his dukes. He has science, and it's my opinion he'd eat your cowboy alive."
Hooker shook his head. "You never saw Grant when his blood was up. I have, and he's a perfect fury. They say his old man was a great fighter, and that he's been all shot and cut to pieces.Iwouldn't buck up against the Texan for anything."
With which confession Hooker resumed his tinkering on the motorcycle. After a while, with the switch on, he bestrode the thing and started to pump it down the slight in-line toward the street.
Suddenly, to Roy's delight, the motor began to fire, and, with a shout of satisfaction, he turned up the street and disappeared from view.
In something like five minutes Rackliff, smoking his tenth cigarette since seating himself on the box, heard the repeated explosions of the motorcycle, and Roy, his face beaming with satisfaction, reappeared, came triumphantly up the rise and leaped off.
"She goes like a bird," he cried.
"What did you do to it?" asked Herbert.
"I wish I knew. I just tinkered with the wires a bit. That was the last thing I did, but I'd been at everything else I could think of, so I don't know what it was that sent her off. If she'll only keep going, I don't care, either. Never knew the thing to run better. Say, Herbert, it's fine. Don't you want to try it?"
"Oh, I don't believe I do. I'd break my neck."
"Paugh! 'Tain't no trick at all. I can show you how to start her and stop her, and, if you can ride an ordinary bicycle, you'll find it a cinch to ride this. Come on. Afraid?"
"Oh, no," said Rackliff, rising and snapping aside the butt of his cigarette, "but I should hate to get very far away and have it stop on me."
"You don't have to go very far; just try her through Middle Street, up Main, back along High, and down Willow, and here you are."
Herbert looked dubious, but finally, after his companion had chaffed him a while, he agreed to make the venture. Roy gave full and complete directions about the manipulation of the motorcycle, and Rackliff, a trifle pale, finally mounted it and started down the incline.
"Turn the handles from you," shouted Roy. "Give her a little gas. There she goes. Now you're off."
"Now I'm on," muttered Herbert, as the engine began popping away beneath him; "but I may be off directly."
Turning into the street, he barely escaped the gutter at the far side, and away he went, watched by Hooker, who had run out to the sidewalk. Remembering instructions, and following them faithfully, Rackliff speeded up the engine or slowed it down, as he desired, and soon his confidence rose. One of the street crossings gave him a bump that nearly threw him off, but he was prepared for the next, and took it easily. In a brief time he had covered the course laid out for him by his friend, and found himself back at Hooker's home, where he promptly shut off the gas, switched the spark, and, a little flushed, swung himself to the ground ere the machine fully stopped.
"Say, it is rather nifty," he beamed. "It's got ordinary hiking beaten to death. Don't know but I'd like to have one of the things myself. Never supposed I could ride one, but it isn't such a trick, after all."
"Of course, it isn't," agreed Hooker, "and I suppose after I get onto the knack of it I won't have any trouble keeping her running."
"If you don't mind, I think I'll practice on it a little now and then. Perhaps I might induce the governor to give me one, by way of atonement for his heartless treatment in sending me down here to school."
"Why, yes, you can practice up on mine," consented Roy slowly, a sudden troubled look coming to his face; "but I suppose if you got one it would be new and up to date, and make me feel ashamed of mine."
"Oh, come off," smiled Herbert soothingly. "If I had one we could pike around to the baseball games together, and we might be able to pick up a little easy money by betting on them—if we ever found anybody who had the nerve to bet with us. I kept myself supplied with pocket money in that fashion last year. Occasionally made a little something playing poker, but the games were always so small a fellow couldn't do much at them."
"Didn't you ever lose?"
"Well, not very often. I didn't bet to lose."
"I know, but how could you be sure of winning?"
Rackliff winked languidly and wisely. "As I told that chap from Barville, the fellow who bets on sympathy or loyalty is a chump. I always investigate matters pretty thoroughly, and then pick the side I believe has every prospect of winning. Sometimes it's possible to help one team or another along on the quiet. I'd like to know what Newt Copley thinks of the Barville nine. I'd depend on his judgment. I've got a tenner I'd like to set to work to double itself."
"You always have plenty of money," said Roy enviously. "I never had ten whole dollars at one time in my life."
"My poor, poverty-stricken comrade!" murmured Herbert, preparing to light a fresh cigarette. "I sympathize with you. Follow my lead, and you'll wear diamonds."
Thereafter Rackliff took great interest in Hooker's motorcycle—more interest than the languid, indifferent fellow had seemed to show over anything else except his cigarettes. Even one rather severe fall from the machine, which sadly soiled his elegant and immaculate clothes, did not deter him from continuing to practice upon it whenever it was not being used by its owner and he could find the opportunity. To the satisfaction of both lads, the machine behaved very well indeed, and Roy decided that, without knowing how he did it, he had fortunately succeeded in curing its "balkiness."
It was Roy, taking an early morning spin on the machine, who saw Phil Springer wearing the big catching mitt and coaching Rodney Grant to pitch in Springer's dooryard.
"You poor lobster!" muttered Hooker contemptuously, as he chugged past. "If Grant really should pan out to be the better man, you'd feel like kicking yourself. I'd like to tell you what I think of you."
That night after supper, as usual, Rackliff strolled over to Hooker's home, but he strolled with steps somewhat quickened by the prospect of taking a turn on his friend's motorcycle.
At first Roy was not to be found, and his mother said she did not know where he had gone. The motorcycle was standing in the carriage house, causing Rackliff to wonder a little.
"Queer," muttered Herbert, rubbing his chin with his cigarette-stained fingers. "When the old lady said he wasn't around I thought sure he must be off with this machine."
To his ears came the sound of a dull thump, repeated at quite regular intervals. At first he thought it must be the horse stamping in the near-by stable, but the regular repetition of that thumping sound convinced him that such could not be the case and led him to investigate. Within the stable he was surprised to hear the sound coming like a blow upon the back of the building, round which he finally sauntered.
There was Hooker, coat and cap off, sleeves rolled up, face flushed a little, throwing a baseball at the rear wall of the building, recovering it when it rebounded, taking his place at a fixed distance, and throwing again.
Unperceived, so intent was Hooker, Herbert stood and watched for several minutes. Finally he spoke up interrogatingly:
"What are you trying to do, anyhow, old man? What in the name of mystery do you mean by sneaking out here and trying to wallop your arm off all by your lonesome?"
At the sound of the city boy's voice Roy had given a start and turned, ball in hand. He frowned a bit, then followed it with a rather shame-faced grin, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand.
"Just amusing myself a little," he answered.
"Queer sort of amusement. Might satisfy a kid who couldn't find anything else to do. I thought likely you'd be using your motorcycle; and, everything considered, I didn't suppose you'd care a rap about fingering a baseball."
"If you could catch me," returned Roy, "I'd have you put on my glove and see if I couldn't get 'em over a piece of plank the size of the home plate; but you can't catch, and so I'm trying to see how often I can hit that white shingle yonder. I actually hit it twice in succession a few minutes ago."
"Huh!" grunted Herbert. "What's the good of that?"
"I'm trying to get control, you know. They say that's what I lack. Even Eliot has acknowledged that I might pitch some if I wasn't so wild."
Herbert burst into soft, half-mocking laughter. "'Hope springs eternal in the human breast'," he quoted. "Nevertheless, good, plain, common sense should teach you that you're wasting your time. You're not wanted as a pitcher, and so you won't get a chance to do any twirling."
"You never can tell what may happen," returned Roy. "I never thought Springer was so much, and I haven't any great confidence in Grant. What if they should both get theirs? Eliot might be forced to give me a show, and if that happens I'll deliver the goods——"
Rackliff snapped his yellow fingers. "You've got the baseball bug bad," he said. "It's a disease. I suppose it has to have its run with the fellows who become infected. All right, waste your time; but while you're doing it, if you don't mind, I'd like to take a spin on your motorcycle. There is some fun in that, I own up."
"Well, don't be gone long," said Roy. "I guess I'll get enough of this in ten or fifteen minutes more, and I want to ride some myself to-night."
Trundling out the machine, Rackliff heard the ball thudding again against the back of the stable.
Friday afternoon Herbert did not appear at school. Hooker looked for him in vain and wondered why he had remained away. Alone he watched the boys practice a while when school was over, Grant doing his full share of pitching to the batters. Despite prejudice and envy, Roy could see that Springer's pupil was gaining confidence and beginning to carry himself with the air of a real pitcher.
"But he hasn't had any experience," muttered the jealous and unfortunate lad. "Wait till he gets into a game and they begin to bump him. That temper of his will make him lose his head." Which was evidence enough that Roy little understood Rodney Grant, who invariably became all the more resolute and determined by opposition, and stood in no danger of giving way to his fiery temper, except when met by buffets of physical force in the form of personal violence.
Reaching home, Hooker went out behind the stable and plugged away at the white shingle until supper time, fancying he was gaining some skill in accuracy, although it seemed almost impossible to score a hit or come near it when he used a curve.
Supper over, he looked for Rackliff to appear. "He'll be around pretty soon, so I'll just take a short ride and come back."
In the carriage house he stopped, his undershot jaw drooping; for the motorcycle was missing from the stand on which it was always kept, when not in use. "What the dickens——" he cried, and stopped short.
After looking all around to make sure the machine was not there, he rushed into the house and questioned his mother.
"Itmustbe there, Roy," she said. "I'm sure nobody has touched it. I would have heard them."
"But it isn't there," he shouted. "Somebody has stolen it." Then he caught his breath, struck by a sudden thought. "Has Herbert Rackliff been around here to-day?" he asked.
"I haven't seen him, but I hope you don't think your friend would take your motorcycle without——"
He did not wait to hear any more. Rushing out of the house, he had reached the sidewalk when, to his unspeakable relief, round the corner from Willow Street came Rackliff, somewhat dust-covered and perspiring, trundling the motorcycle. Hooker glared at him.
"What do you mean by taking my machine without asking?" he rasped. "Where have you been with it?"
"My dear old pal," said Herbert soothingly, "do give me time to get my breath, and then I'll seek to conciliate you with a full explanation. I've had to push this confounded thing for at least five miles, and I'm pretty near pegged out. It stopped on me on my way home."
"Five miles?" snapped Roy, taking the machine from the limp and weary city boy. "Where in blazes have you been with it?"
But not until he had seated himself to rest in the carriage house, and lighted a cigarette, did Rackliff offer any further explanation. Finally, with a little cough and a tired sigh, he smiled on the still frowning and outraged owner of the machine.
"You didn't see me around school this afternoon, did you?" he asked.
"No. I wondered where you were."
"I was out laying my pipes."
"Doing what?"
"Making sure that you and I could form a little pool and seek a few wagers on the game to-morrow, with the dead certainty of winning. I've been over to Barville to see Newt Copley."
"Oh!" muttered Hooker. "And you put my machine on the blink!"
"It simply quit on me, that's all. I didn't do a thing to it—on my word, I didn't. There's nothing broken, old man. I'm certain you'll be able to tinker it up again all right. You can bet your life I'd never made that trip if I'd dreamed it would be necessary for me to push the old thing so far. Still, I'm mighty glad I went. Say, Roy, Copley is dead sure Barville will have more than an even show with Oakdale to-morrow, and you know what I think of his judgment. Now, if you've got any money, or can raise any, just bet it on Barville and make a killing."
"But I wouldn't want to be seen betting against my own school team."
"Ho! ho!" laughed Herbert derisively. "Then let me have your cash, and I'll place it for you. I haven't any scruples."
"But you may be mistaken. Even Copley may be, for he hasn't seen Oakdale play."
"He says Sanger is a wiz. Look here, Roy, do you know Eliot's finger signals to the pitcher?"
"Why, yes."
"Uses the old finger system, doesn't he?"
"Yes."
"One finger held straight, a straight ball. Two fingers close together, an outcurve; spread apart, one on the inside corner. One finger crooked like a fish-hook, a drop."
"You've got 'em correct, but what's that got to do with——"
"Oh, I just wanted to know," chuckled Rackliff. "Get your loose change together and let me handle it. If I don't double it for you to-morrow I'll agree to stand any loss you may sustain. You won't be even taking a chance. What do you say?"
"Well, if you're as confident as that," answered Roy, "I'm certainly going to raise a little money somehow to bet on that game."
Saturday came, warm and balmy with springtime odors. Roy Hooker, standing at the street corner near his home, seemed to be listening to a robin calling joyously from the topmost branches of the elm that rose above his head; but, truth to tell, the boy's ears were deaf to the notes of the bird, and his eyes were being turned alternately along Middle Street or down Willow. He was waiting for some one, and presently that person appeared, leisurely approaching, with now and then a thin wisp of smoke drifting over his shoulder. It was Rackliff, dressed with his usual care, but looking, if possible, a little paler and more languid than ever.
"I thought it was about time for you to show up," said Roy a trifle fretfully. "You said you'd be around by nine; it's twenty minutes after by the clock in the Methodist steeple."
"It is said," returned Herbert, "that the early bird catches the worm; and, as we're all worms of the earth, I don't believe in taking any chances with the bird. Didn't sleep very well last night. Fancy that jaunt to Barville was too much for me; though, to tell the truth, I'm a rotten poor sleeper anyhow. I wake up at the slightest noise in the night, and, having some nerves of my own, usually get a case of heart palpitation, which is deucedly unpleasant. Then perhaps I won't go to sleep again for two hours or more. I envy any fellow who snoozes like a log." He concluded with a short, hollow laugh.
"The trouble with you is," said Roy, "that you smoke too much."
"Tell it to Johnson," scoffed Herbert. "I've always been that way; smoking doesn't have anything to do with it. Besides, if it did I couldn't leave off. I've got the habit for fair."
"I wouldn't like to say that; I'd hate to own up to it."
"Oh, it's nothing. Cigarettes never killed any one yet, old women and moralizers to the contrary, notwithstanding. Well, chum, how are you fixed? Did you make a raise so that you can bet a little cold cash on the great contest to-day? You said you thought you'd have some money this——"
"'Sh!" hissed Roy, glancing around apprehensively toward the house. "Don't talk about that here."
"Eh? Why not?"
"I don't want my folks to find out anything about it," whispered Hooker. "Come on, let's walk up the street."
At the corner above they turned into High Street, coming finally to the white Methodist church.
"Let's stroll around behind the church, where no one will see us," proposed Hooker.
"Like a pair of plotters on foul intentions bent," laughed Herbert. "To watch you manoeuvre, one might get the fancy that you were involved in some desperate and terrible piece of work."
"Now, look here, Herb," said Roy, facing his companion behind the church, "you're situated differently from me, and you can't seem to understand my position. You don't belong in Oakdale, and you don't care a rap what the fellows around here think of you or say about you."
"Not a rap," nodded Rackliff.
"That's just it. Now this is my home, and I've got to be careful about some things. I don't want to get everybody down on me."
"I haven't observed," said Rackliff unfeelingly, "that you're particularly popular with the fellows of this benighted burg."
"I'll make myself a blame sight more unpopular if they ever get onto it that I bet against my own school team. You can do it, for you say you don't expect to stay here more than one term, anyhow. Then if my folks should know, they'd raise the merry dickens."
"And that would break the monotony of a severely humdrum existence. I've had more than one stormy session with the head of my family. How much money did you scrape together?"
"I haven't counted it yet," answered Roy, thrusting his hand into his pocket and looking around, as if apprehensive that they were being watched. "I say, Herb, are you really dead sure that Barville will win this afternoon?"
Rackliff sighed. "As sure as one can be of anything in this old world. Hook, you've got cold feet."
"Well, I wouldn't want to lose this money. I can't afford to lose it. I can't lose it."
"You won't, old chap—you won't. I'm getting you in on this out of pure friendliness, nothing else; and you must remember what I agreed to do yesterday—if you lose, I'll stand for the loss."
"That's generous; that's all right. Perhaps you can't get any bets, anyhow. The fellows around here aren't given to betting real money on baseball." Roy produced a closely folded little wad of bills and some loose change. "Here's all I have," he went on. "I'm going to let you take it and bet it on Barville, if you can." There was a two dollar bill, two ones, and eighty-five cents in change.
"Fifteen cents more would make an even five," said Herbert. "Can't you dig that much up?"
"This is all I have," repeated Hooker, "every last red cent. I'll have to pay admission to the game, too, as long as I'm not on the nine. I must keep a quarter for that."
"And that leaves it forty cents shy of a fiver. Well, if necessary, I'll make that up. I'm going to risk ten of my own money."
"Risk it?" muttered Hooker, again troubled by qualms.
"Oh, you know what I mean. There's no risk; that's simply a sporting term. A fellow with sporting blood likes to pretend he's taking a chance, whether he is or not. Where did you get——" He stopped short, suddenly fancying it best not to inquire into the source of his companion's money, and in the momentary silence that followed a slow flush mounted to Roy's temples.
"The team practices a little at ten o'clock," said Rackliff, glancing at his handsome watch. "It's getting near that time. Come on over to the field and watch me throw out a bait for suckers."
"I don't think I will," said Hooker. "I believe I'd better keep away, and there won't be any talk made."
"Suit yourself," coughed Herbert, lighting another cigarette. "I've got to get busy if I'm going to hook anything."
Half an hour later Rackliff strolled onto the field and took up a position near one of the players' benches, where he watched the Oakdale nine at practice. At times he smiled with a supercilious air of amusement, and especially was this noticeable when Eliot complimented the players or some one made some sort of a fumble or fluke.
Practice was brought to a close with each member of the team taking a turn at the bat, base running being cut out, however. Grant did the pitching, for Springer was "saving his arm."
Chipper Cooper hit the ball handsomely three times in succession, and relinquished the bat with a whoop of satisfaction.
"Got my eye with me to-day," he cried. "We've all got 'em peeled; everybody has. Sanger'll have his troubles. We'll win like a breeze, fellows."
"How very confident you are," said Rackliff, moving slowly forward. "You all seem to think this game is going to be a cinch for Oakdale, but I've got an idea that you'll sing a different tune to-night."
"Oh, you have!" cried Chipper, turning on him. "Listen to Solomon, the wise man, fellers."
"I have a fancy that Barville is going to win," stated Herbert, not a whit abashed. "In fact, I believe it so much that I'm willing to make a little bet on it."
"Bet you a pint of peanuts," gurgled Chub Tuttle.
"Don't ruin yourself by such recklessness. I've got some real money."
"Dinged if he ain't a sport!" sneered Site Crane. "He wants to bet real money on the game."
"How does it happen you have the impression that Barville will beat us, Rackliff?" inquired Roger Eliot mildly.
"Well, now, I don't mind answering that," beamed Herbert. "Barville has got a surprise for you. I'm not supposed to mention it, but I can't keep it any longer. They've got a new catcher, a friend of mine, and——"
"I suppose you think he can play the whole game," scoffed Phil Springer. "A friend of yours, eh? Well, if he knows as much about baseball as you do, he'll be of great assistance to Barville!"
"I'm backing my knowledge with cash, if I can find anybody who has sand enough to bet with me," said Herbert.
"I'll bet you a dollar," shouted Phil.
"Only a dollar? Dear me! Can't you do any better than that? I've got fifteen long green chromos that I'd like to wager on Barville."
For a few moments this seemed to stagger the group that had gathered about him. Fifteen dollars was a lot of money, and it seemed doubtful if any other individual in the crowd, with the possible exception of Eliot, could raise as much—and Eliot would not bet.
"Wish I had fifteen dollars," muttered Crane. "I'd go him. It would be jest like findin' money."
Two or three of the boys drew aside and whispered together. Springer was one of these, and in a moment he called some others from the gathering near Herbert. There was more whispering and not a little nodding of heads, and then of a sudden Phil turned and walked back toward the city youth.
"Rackliff," he said, "if you really mean business, if you've got fifteen dollars you want to bet on Barville, meet me at the post office at noon, and I'll have the money to go you."
"Excellent," murmured Herbert, breathing forth a little thin blue smoke. "I'll be there with my money. Don't forget the appointment, Springer."
Never before had the Barville baseball team brought such a crowd of supporters into Oakdale. They came, boys and girls, wearing their school colors, bearing banners, and bringing tin horns and cowbells. The manner in which they swept into Oakdale and hurried, eager and laughing, toward the athletic field, plainly betokened their high confidence in the outcome of the contest. Even a few older persons came over from Barville on one pretext or another, and found it convenient to spend a portion of the afternoon watching the baseball game.
"Jinks!" chuckled Chipper Cooper, as he watched the visitors pour in and fill up the generous section of bleachers reserved for them. "They certainly act as if they thought they were going to have a snap to-day. Barville must be depopulated. Never fancied so many people lived over there."
"Beyond question," said Roger Eliot quietly, "they believe their team has at least an even chance for the game; otherwise, not half so many would have made the journey to watch it."
"It must be on account of their new ketcher," muttered Sile Crane. "I cal'late they think he's the whole cheese; but mebbe they'll find aout he ain't only a small slice of the rind. What's he look like, anyhaow?"
"There he is," said Roger, as the visiting team came trotting onto the field, led by Lee Sanger, its pitcher and captain, "that stocky, red-headed chap. See him?"
"My!" grinned Cooper. "He's a bird. Looks like he could eat hardware without getting indigestion."
The Barville crowd gave their players a rousing cheer, although they did not yet venture to blow the horns or jangle the cowbells. Those noise-producing implements were held in reserve, with apparent perfect assurance that an especially effective occasion for their use must arise during the game.
Captain Eliot shook hands cordially with Sanger, and suggested that he should at once take the field for practice.
"Hello, Roger!" called Bob Larkins, the Barville first baseman. "Great day for the game. We're going to make you fellows go some. You won't have the same sort of a cinch you had last year."
"I hope not," answered Eliot pleasantly. "There's a big crowd out to-day, and I'd like to see you fellows make the game interesting."
"Oh, don't you worry, it will be interesting enough," prophesied Larkins, getting his mitt and turning to jog down toward first.
At Eliot's elbow Phil Springer remarked, with a short laugh, in which there seemed to be a trace of nervousness: "They certainly have got their pucker up. They're boiling over with confidence."
"And it's a mistake to boil over with anything—confidence, doubt or fear," said Roger. "When the kettle boils aver, the soup gets scorched. Come, Phil, shake the kinks out of your arm with me, while they're taking their turn on the field."
His calm, unruffled manner seemed instantly to dissipate the nervousness which Phil had felt a touch of.
The practice of the visiting team was closely watched by nearly all the spectators, and it became apparent that the Barville boys had profited by the coaching of some one who had found it possible to train them with good effect. They were swift, sure and snappy in their work, displaying little of the hesitation and uncertainty usually revealed by an ordinary country school team, even in practice. Copley, the stocky, red-headed catcher from Roxbury, received the balls when they were returned from the infield and the out, catching the most of them one-handedly with the big mitt, although he seemed to do this without flourish or any attempt at grand-standing. Now and then he grinned and nodded over some especially fine catch in the outfield or clever stop of a grounder or liner by an infielder; nevertheless, he let Sanger, who was batting, do all the talking to the players.
Roy Hooker, wearing the crimson colors of his school, sat on the bleachers at the edge of the group of Oakdale Academy students, endeavoring to mask his feelings behind a pretext of loyal interest in the home nine; but, nevertheless, in spite of his inwardly reiterated assertion that he had been used "rotten," he was annoyed by a constantly recurring sense of treachery to his own team. The skill displayed in practice by the visitors in a measure set at rest the doubts he had continued to entertain concerning Rackliff's wisdom in backing Barville.
"I'll win some money to-day, all right," he thought; "but, really, I'd rather be wearing an Oakdale suit, even if we lose."
As the Barville nine came in from the field and Oakdale went out, Roy saw Herbert Rackliff saunter forth and speak to Newt Copley, who shook hands with him. Then Herbert drew Copley aside and began talking to him in very low tones, and with unusual animation. Still watching, Hooker beheld Copley nodding his head, and even at that distance Roy could see that he was grinning.
"Hey, old Rack!" Chipper Cooper shouted from the field. "Brace him up—that's right. Tell him he's got to win or you're financially ruined."
Herbert pretended that he did not hear, and, after a final word with Copley, slowly sauntered back into the crowd. He was not wearing the Oakdale colors.
"I'm glad nobody knows that part of the money he put up was furnished by me," thought Hooker. "He's got an awful crust. I couldn't do a thing like that, and be so cheeky and unconcerned. Gee! but he'll get the fellows down on him."
And now, as the time for the game to begin was at hand, the umpire, supplied with two new balls in their boxes, called the captains of both teams and consulted with them for a moment or two. Directly Eliot sought the body protector and mask, and Bert Dingley, standing at the end of the bench on which the visitors had seated themselves, began swinging two bats. There was a rustling stir among the spectators as they settled themselves down to watch the opening of the contest. The Oakdale players took their positions on the field, Rodney Grant going into right, while Chub Tuttle remained on the bench as spare man. Phil Springer had peeled off his sweater and was pulling on his light left-hand glove as he walked toward the pitcher's position.
"Ladies and gentlemen," called the youthful umpire, facing the crowd, "this is the opening game of the high school league, Barville against Oakdale. Battery for Oakdale, Springer and Eliot. Play ball!"
With that command, he tossed a clean, new baseball to Phil, who caught it with his gloved hand, glanced at it perfunctorily, gave it an unnecessary wipe against his hip, made sure his teammates were ready, and placed his left foot on the slab.