"Dear Sir:"Kindly call and see me this evening. Bring Robert Somers with you."Yours truly,"Rupert Barry."
"Dear Sir:
"Kindly call and see me this evening. Bring Robert Somers with you.
"Yours truly,"Rupert Barry."
If there had been any guide-book of the prosperous town of Kingswood undoubtedly Mr. Rupert Barry's mansion would have received a prominent mention in its pages. Stone steps zigzagged between stone walls to the top of the hill. The mansion of the eccentric millionaire, in the midst of spacious grounds, could scarcely be seen from the road. It seemed as though the architect and builder had found a positive pleasure in concealing from view as much as possible of the rich and ornate structure.
It was already dark when Bob Somers and Coach Roger Steele began mounting the steps. The glare from electric lamps on the street flooded some of the flights; others were left in almost abysmal blackness.
As the two neared the bronze gate at the top the sound of wildly scurrying feet caused both to stop. A series of savage snarls and barks echoed weirdly, as the yellow dog, dark and formless in the gloom, hurled its body against the gate.
"I don't wonder Mr. Barry hasn't many visitors," murmured Steele, softly.
"Hope we don't get as hot a reception inside the house," chuckled Bob, in equally low tones.
"Unless some one can persuade the menagerie department to leave I shall leave," said Steele. "Ah! The situation is saved."
"Come here, Canis; come right here!"
The two recognized the harsh voice of Mr. Barry, and, an instant later, heard the sound of his footsteps on the gravel path.
"Who is there?" The words were flung at them with a sort of challenging querulousness. "Confound that dog! Who is there, I say?"
The tall, gaunt form of the millionaire presently loomed above the ornamental curves and twists of the gate.
"Roger Steele and Bob Somers," answered the coach.
"Then why didn't you say so before?"
The gate swung silently back on its well-oiled hinges. Several sharp commands promptly reduced Canis to a state of docility.
"Come in."
Neither Bob Somers nor Steele had ever visited the Barry mansion, so, as they followed the elderly gentleman along the path, they looked about them with the greatest interest.
It was a beautiful, starlit night with enough illumination to show a profusion of shrubbery and flower beds. Here and there great pines, dark and forbidding, rose like grim sentinels against the sky. Above the stone coping of the wall which surrounded the grounds, masses of buildings and scattered lights faintly indicated the town.
The stately mansion looked dull and gloomy, six heavy columns at the entrance alone showing in a lighter tone. All the windows but one were staring patches of dark, while from the exception rays of greenish light poured out, to streak across the veranda with weird effect.
Mr. Barry immediately led the two boys into his study, brightly illuminated by an electric lamp with a green shade. In the center of the large room stood a table piled high with books. Everything indicated that the millionaire had been busy writing when disturbed by the barking of Canis.
He motioned his visitors to seats near by, taking his own in the revolving chair before his writing materials.
The green light brought out his angular features with uncompromising frankness, giving him the appearance of some inquisitor of old about to interrogate an unwilling subject.
"Mr. Steele," he jerked out sharply, after his stern gaze had rested on their features for a moment, "what is the matter with the ball nine?"
"WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH THE BALL NINE?"
"WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH THE BALL NINE?"
"WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH THE BALL NINE?"
"It has not shown its true worth yet," answered Steele, calmly.
"Why so? You have played four games, and each time met defeat." His eyes shifted to Bob Somers. "It is not what I expected. You understand, of course, that in order to gain the field the nine must make a good showing—a very good showing?"
"Yes, sir; we understand," said Steele.
"I had hoped by the enthusiasm displayed in putting the athletic affairs of the school on a sound basis that the baseball team would have a corresponding strength. I'm disappointed."
Roger Steele was not flustered by the manner or tone of his questioner.
"You must remember this, Mr. Barry," he answered, quietly: "the nine has met two of the strongest amateur clubs in the vicinity. I'm not offering excuses—only explaining the facts."
Mr. Barry's silver knife rattled vigorously on the table.
"What kind of teams did you expect to play?" he demanded.
Coach Steele ignored the thrust.
"Tony Tippen is a pitcher of exceptional ability," he said, "and has good support. Without Tippen in the box I believe we could even now defeat the Stars. The Goose Hill lads are big, husky chaps whose players are much older and far more seasoned than ours."
"Why didn't you select bigger boys—Earl Roycroft, for instance? As guard on the football eleven he played exceptionally well."
The coach flushed slightly.
"I have played on a champion university team," he said, "and when engaged by the athletic association of the Kingswood High I was given a free hand to choose whichever candidates seemed to be the most promising. I believe in the end my selections will prove to be wise ones."
"Am I to understand, then, that you consulted no one in the matter?"
"No; I can hardly say that, Mr. Barry."
"Have you any objections to letting me know from whom you received suggestions?"
"Not the slightest. Bob Somers, for one; also Sam Randall, Harry Spearman and several others."
There was an awkward pause while the two waited for Mr. Barry to speak. The rattle of the silver knife alone broke the silence of the big room.
"Your reply has the merit of frankness," said the millionaire, at length. He leaned forward, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. "Remember—there must be no sentiment in this matter. Throw off any player who does not come up to requirements. To be honest with yourself and the school you cannot do otherwise."
Coach Steele quieted a feeling of indignation which suddenly flared up within him. After all, he reflected, a man who had made such a magnificent offer to the school, and who felt such a deep interest in the welfare of its ball nine, must be pardoned if he spoke a little brutally.
"I don't believe there's a single member of the team who would not cheerfully step out if he thought it best for the school," he said.
"I'm sure of it, too," spoke up Bob Somers, earnestly. "You see, Mr. Barry, several of us traveled around a good bit, and, as Roger said, haven't had as much opportunity to play in regular games."
"That doesn't affect the matter," returned Mr. Barry, bluntly. "If you can't play, why are you on the team?"
"Oh, we don't admit we can't play," laughed Bob. "I think, before very long, your opinion of the club will change."
"I hope so," said Mr. Barry. "My object in sending for you was to enforce upon you—I am going to speak plainly—this principle: there must be no favoritism. Meanwhile I suspend judgment."
The two rose to their feet and bowed.
"You may be sure there'll be no favoritism while I am coach," said Steele, a trifle stiffly. "I hope, Mr. Barry, we shall see you at the next game."
"Very probably." Mr. Barry pressed a button. "Cassius will accompany you to the gate."
Coach Steele and Bob Somers, bidding the millionaire good-evening, were presently joined in the hallway by the servant, already provided with a lantern.
"A little light on a dark night ain't such a bad thing," said Cassius, cheerily, as he led the way outside. "A header down them steep steps wouldn't be calc'lated to do a feller any good."
"No; not even a ball player could stand it," chuckled Bob.
Cassius laughed softly.
"All who play ball ain't ball players," he remarked. "Great sport, though. Nobody 'ud ever think it, but Mr. Barry's one o' the greatest fans out—yes, sir. Never goes to any of the big cities without taking in a game or two. Latin an' ball playin's his hobbies."
The latch clicked sharply as Cassius pulled open the big bronze gate.
"Good luck, boys. I sure hope you'll win the grounds," he said, as his swinging lantern began to cut a pathway of yellow light down the zigzag stone steps.
Once on the street, Coach Steele and Bob Somers watched his form slowly remounting, to disappear behind the first turn, leaving only erratic spots of light flitting from place to place on coping or shrubbery.
"Some visit, that!" laughed Roger. "Still there's a rugged honesty about the man I like."
"Eight forty-fiveP. M.'Coach Steele discovers there's a rugged honesty about the man he likes.' I'll make a note of that."
A slight boy suddenly emerged from the deep shadow of a tree-box a few paces distant, and, as he advanced into the cold glare of an electric light, its rays revealed the grinning face of Benny Wilkins.
"Well I declare! What in thunder are you doing here, Benny Wilkins?" cried Bob Somers, somewhat startled, and not altogether pleased at his unexpected appearance.
"Spying," answered Benny, candidly.
"There's a rugged honesty about that answer that I like," laughed Steele. "Still, you ought to be at home studying, instead of cavorting around the street at this hour."
"Never cavorted in my life," grinned Benny.
"What were you doing here?" asked Bob.
"Until about sixty seconds ago, hiding behind that tree-box."
"Oh, come now, Benny!"
"Sure! Which way?" Then Wilkins' manner abruptly changed; a serious expression flitted into his brown eyes. "Say, Bob, what was it all about? Why'd you go to Mr. Barry's?" His hand fell on the captain's wrist. "Tell me. I can hardly wait. Did he sit on you hard?"
"Not so hard as to make us feel soft," grinned Bob. "Now, Benny, before I say another word——"
"All right! I know what you mean. This is the way it happened. I live close by here, you know, and I was standing at the front gate, chinning to a couple of fellows, when I saw you and Roger walk by on the opposite side of the street. When they left, a few moments later, I chased after you, and was just about catching up, when—Gee Whitaker! Astonishment still fills me—you turned into Mr. Rupert Barry's. 'Something's in the wind to make those chaps climb such a flight of steps,' I said to myself. So it was me for the lying-in-wait act until you trotted out, ready to give explanations. Ha, ha! Say—you fellows looked awful glad to see me. Now fire away, Bob."
"I must refer you to Mr. Rupert Barry," returned Bob, smilingly.
"Oh, come, that's mean. What! Aeroplane up those steps to have an interview with a big yellow dog at the top? Well, I should rather say nix! Go on—tell me about it."
"Nothing doing," said Bob.
"Not a word for the note-book," chuckled Steele.
"Well, I'll make an entry, just the same," snapped Benny, highly aggrieved. "It'll read like this: 'Mysterious visit of Coach Steele and Bob Somers to Mr. Rupert Barry's. Principals refuse to be interviewed. Were they called down for the punk showing of the team?'"
With a loud, "Good-night!" the tone of which indicated a decidedly ruffled state of feeling, Benny was off.
"A sarcastic little chap," declared Roger Steele. "I'm rather sorry this happened. He's a regular chatterbox, you know."
"Benny is good hearted enough, but thoughtless," mused Bob. "If the fellows hear about our calling upon Mr. Barry they may put too serious a construction on it."
"And 'Crackers' Brown and his crowd haven't been silenced by any means."
"They can't knock my confidence in the team. What kind of stuff would a captain be made of to become discouraged at the very outset?"
"That's the talk," said Steele, approvingly. "Let the croakers croak. Perhaps we know our own business best."
As Steele had feared, the news leaked out. Benny Wilkins told a friend, in confidence; this friend unbosomed himself to a chum, in confidence, and so on, until the "leak" could only be compared to the bursting of a great water main that sends up streams far above the housetops.
Naturally enough, it created a mild sensation. Boys discussed it animatedly on the campus, as they walked home, and at Terry Guffin's. In some remarkable manner vague suggestions of what Mr. Barry may have said became changed, by a steady process of evolution, into definite phrases.
Bob expressed the situation correctly when he said:
"Those 'They say' chaps have the floor."
But the Somers party treated all insinuations and rumors with a hot breath of scorn that almost, but not quite, extinguished the tiny fire which was kindled.
A few days later three lads strolling along the bank of Wolf River were considerably surprised and interested to discover a large motor yacht approaching.
Some of the richer residents of Kingswood owned gasoline launches or yachts; but none could be compared to the magnificent boat which now cut swiftly through the placid water of the river.
"Well, that's certainly a corker," remarked Luke Phelps, who had been busily engaged in throwing stones at a half-submerged barrel.
"Never saw a finer," said Jim Wilton, a junior at the High. "Wonder what she's doing here? Slowing up, by Jingo!"
"All boats slow up before they stop," grinned Phelps. "Say, fellows, it's got a real saucy name, hasn't it?"
"The 'Fearless,'" read Jim. "Makes me think of the high school ball nine. They're fearless before defeat."
"Or fearless afterward—in this case, the same thing," came from Aleck Parks.
"If Roycroft had any sand he'd be on the team. He seems to be as soft as his muscles are hard. Well, I declare, that yacht is coming inshore. Wonder who the lucky owner can be?"
"They must have spilled a few barrelsful of white paint on it. Hello! There's somebody getting ready to heave the anchor. Let's loaf around here, fellows, and see what happens."
The strange yacht was moored a bit further up-stream; and a few moments afterward the trio saw a small boat being lowered and three people take their places in it.
Luke Phelps' curiosity was stirred. He began scrambling down the steep bank to a stretch of flat shore which bordered the stream.
The yacht's dory had already pushed off, and, under the strokes of a muscular oarsman, was making steady progress toward a rude wharf. Long rippling lines spreading out from its bow caught brilliant gleams from golden and purplish clouds floating lazily above.
The boys walked fast, reaching the rickety pile of boards just as two occupants of the boat clambered upon them.
Phelps was immediately impressed with a strange dissimilarity in their appearance. One was a big burly man with a brown beard dressed in a yachting suit of blue; the other a slight lad attired in clothes of the finest texture, wearing a large checkered cap and a decidedly saucy grin.
"Looks as if he'd melt away in a rain storm," remarked Phelps, confidentially, to Aleck. "Got a peach of a complexion, hasn't he? Just the kind of a chap you have to talk gently to for fear o' hurting his feelings."
"Soak him a good one on the ribs and he'd most likely blubber," whispered Aleck. "Speak to me, sir?"
"I did," answered the man in the yachting costume. The strength of his voice was in full accord with the size of his frame. "Do any of you boys know Bob Somers?"
"Bob Somers!" cried Phelps, arching his eyebrows in surprise. "Well, ra-ther!"
"And a tall, gawky chap named Tom Clifton?" came from the boy in the checkered cap.
"I should say so."
"And Joe Rodgers?" asked the big man.
"Yes, sir!"
"Then I suppose you know Dave Brandon and Charlie Blake?"
"No mistake about that, cap'n," answered Phelps, whose curiosity was receiving additional impetus from the visitors' questions.
"Will you kindly direct me how to reach Bob Somers' residence?"
"I'll do more'n that; I'll lead you right to it," responded Luke Phelps, eagerly.
He reflected that this would be the best way to find out all about the strangers in the shortest possible time.
It was this same sort of feeling, no doubt, which prompted the others to second his proposition.
"It's mighty easy to get all twisted up in the woods around here," explained Jim. "Oh, no; you won't be putting us to any trouble. We've attended to our most pressing business engagements for the day."
"You are a very accommodating lot," laughed the big man. "Lead on."
In his new capacity as guide Luke Phelps made the best use of the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. This, he found, did not require a great deal of diplomacy. The boys soon learned that they were talking to Captain Ralph Bunderley, of Kenosha, and Victor Collins, his nephew, son of a widely-known Chicago lawyer.
They also became aware of the fact that the captain, who owned the motor yacht "Fearless," and his young relative had met several of the Ramblers, Charlie Blake and Joe Rodgers, during the preceding fall, when the boys were making a motor car trip from Chicago to Kingswood.
"As fine a crowd of youngsters as I ever met, too," declared Captain Bunderley. "They said something about getting up a ball nine, and wanted us to run over and see 'em. So here we are!"
"Say, how is Tom Clifton getting on?" asked Victor Collins, abruptly. "Has he pulled off any mighty stunts on the diamond yet?"
Phelps exchanged significant glances with his companions.
"Don't mention it. We're trying to forget baseball," he answered, wearily.
"What's the matter? Wouldn't Bob Somers take you on his team?"
Victor Collins' voice was delicate and refined; but there was something in his manner which impressed the boys with the idea that perhaps he wasn't quite so easy as they had supposed.
"I never tried to get on," grumbled Phelps. "I had better sense."
"I thought those chaps were all corking good players," said Victor. "From the way Clifton talked last fall you might have expected by this time to see accounts of Bob Somers' ball nine in the Chicago papers."
"Is that what he called it?" asked Jim.
"Sure! Why?"
"You mustn't even whisper such a thing before 'em now," snapped Aleck Parks. "It's the Kingswood High baseball team. But the club is run by the Ramblers, just the same."
"I fear there are mutterings of discontent here," said Captain Bunderley. He looked sharply at the trio. "I thought I'd find all the boys red-hot for Bob Somers and his friends. I won't hear a word against them from anybody—understand that. They're all good square fellows with level heads."
Captain Bunderley's bluff style of talking effectually squelched Aleck Parks; and, having learned all he cared to know, the latter soon found a convenient excuse for leaving the party.
Luke Phelps, though not so easily affected, was wise enough to take a hint.
"Going to stay long in Kingswood, cap'n?" he inquired, at length.
"That depends." The skipper shrugged his broad shoulders. "My time is my own. At any rate I'd like to stay until the Rambler Club's ball nine is carrying everything before it."
"In that case I'm afraid you'll never get away," murmured Luke, softly.
After passing through several patches of woods, then across broad undulating fields, the four came to a wide highway. Captain Bunderley's swinging gait before long carried them to the outskirts of Kingswood. Finally the high school was passed, and a short time later Pembroke Hall, the home of Bob Somers' father, loomed into view.
"Boys, I thank you sincerely," said the burly skipper, as he at length placed his hand on the iron gate at the entrance to the grounds. "I hope we shall become better acquainted."
Bob Somers was delighted to see Captain Bunderley and his nephew. The two visitors were entertained at the Somers home on several occasions, and soon became familiar figures in Kingswood.
The captain, putting up at the largest hotel in town, often visited the high school and athletic field, where his bluff, hearty manner gained immediate favor. Of course there were exceptions. "Crackers" Brown, Owen Lawrence, Aleck Parks and some of their followers didn't seem so favorably impressed.
"He's got too much to say, and I don't like the way he says it," growled Parks. "Makes you think of a steam roller flattening everything before it."
"He's as thick as paste with the Somers crowd," said Owen.
"And when the captain drops in to Terry Guffin's he roars his opinions out so loud that my delicate ear-drums rebel," remarked "Crackers," in his usual grave tone. "Now, to change the subject. As Mr. Barry said to Bob Somers and Steele the other night, 'There ought to be a change mighty soon.'"
"I guess there's no doubt about his saying it," grumbled Owen, "though both of 'em are as mum as oysters."
"They don't deny it," said "Crackers."
"If the nine doesn't take a brace on the next game," observed Aleck Parks, "I'll begin to believe our athletic field has joined the castle in Spain class."
There could be no doubt that the school was taking an intense interest in the third contest with the Stars, scheduled for the following Saturday. Coach Steele had his men out practicing every afternoon, devoting his attention to strengthening the weak points.
"Jack Frost" was developing more confidence in himself, and Willie Singleton, another pitcher, whom Steele had not yet used, was rapidly acquiring the knack of speeding shoots and curves over the plate.
"Charlie Blake and Tom Clifton bother me a bit," confided Coach Steele to Bob Somers. "Charlie's a mighty good player until something happens to shake his nerves. Then he's apt to hit the toboggan. And Tom's a little too excitable, especially when it comes to close plays. At their best, however, I don't think any of the candidates could beat them."
"Neither do I, though many of the fellows are kicking because Charlie was chosen instead of Roycroft."
"We shall have a distinguished audience on hand Saturday," said Steele—"your friend, Captain Bunderley, and 'Uncle' Steve, of Goose Hill fame, will join the president and Professor Ivins on the anxious bench."
"Yes; they'll have the bench, and we the anxious part," grinned Bob. "How about it, Dave?"
"I've got so much work to do on the next number of the 'Reflector' that I haven't time to be anxious," said Dave.
"Guess Benny Wilkins keeps you busy firing stuff," chuckled Tom, sauntering up in time to hear his remark. "Say, Bob, Victor Collins has bought a bugle. It'll help some to swell the noise of our rooters."
"I hope the greatest part of the din will come right after the ninth inning," remarked Steele.
None of the boys looked forward more eagerly to Saturday afternoon's contest than Victor Collins. Captain Bunderley, too, was expectant, and made several emphatic observations in the "Retreat," which rather jolted the susceptible feelings of the "Pie-eaters."
On the day set for the game the weather turned out to be balmy and springlike. During the past few days the color of the landscape had changed surprisingly. The dull, yellowish grass had given place to areas of cool, refreshing green; trees here and there were beginning to hide their branches under myriads of leaves and blossoms.
No wide-awake boy could have been discouraged or gloomy on a day like this. The players romped through their practice like young colts.
By the time the Stars appeared a happy, excited crowd thronged the field.
Professor Ivins had no desire to see the game, but, being a very amiable man, did not like to refuse President Hopkins' request.
"Our presence may help to encourage the boys," said the head of the school. "What a superb day! I have an idea that we shall win this time."
"If there was only some way by which those abominable foul tips could be prevented I should feel safer," murmured Professor Ivins. "Ah! Here is Captain Bunderley."
"Very glad to see you, gentlemen!" exclaimed the skipper. "Magnificent day, isn't it? Almost makes me feel like playing ball myself."
The three men were seated on the bench reserved for them when Mr. Rupert Barry appeared, with a little man trotting at his side.
Captain Bunderley was thereupon introduced to the millionaire and "Uncle" Steve.
"Very glad to meet you, I'm sure," said Mr. Kimbole, rubbing his hands nervously together. "Grand baseball weather, isn't it?"
"Superb!" said Professor Hopkins.
"Magnificent," added the captain.
"Unexceptionable!" chimed in Professor Ivins.
"Now that the status of the weather has been decided," remarked Mr. Barry, dryly, "we can compose ourselves to witness—a—well, I hope, a better game than it was our misfortune to see on the last occasion."
The high school crowd seemed to be in a state of unusual tension when the game began, and, as it progressed from inning to inning, they relieved their pent-up feelings by uproarious yells. Victor Collins' newly-purchased bugle ably assisted in producing noise.
Tony Tippen, as before, was the stumbling-block in the path of success. No matter how desperately the batters tried to land on his varied assortment of curves the result was the same. At the end of the fifth inning the score stood three to nothing in favor of the Stars.
"Great Scott, Bob, this is awful," murmured Tom Clifton, wiping his perspiring face, as they flocked out into the field. "The jinx certainly has us again. Honest, Bob, Tony sent in a slow ball that I thought, sure as shootin', I could knock a mile, and it didn't reach me until after I'd swung the stick."
"A fraction of a second counts," said Bob. "Don't get worried, Tom."
"Oh, I guess I'm no more worried than anybody else," grumbled Tom. "Just listen to Nat Wingate and Hackett bawling! The way those 'Pie-eaters' try to crow over our crowd certainly makes me weary."
"Batter up!" called the umpire.
"Enter Willie Singleton; exit 'Jack Frost,'" said Bob, his eyes on the new pitcher stepping into the box. "Hope to thunder he can keep down the hits."
Singleton, a businesslike lad whom nothing seemed to rattle, put all his energy and skill into the task.
Tony Tippen, however, found him for a two-base hit; Nat singled, and both made the circuit of the bases before the third out was recorded.
"The same old—old story," remarked "Crackers," disgustedly.
"A serial story," supplemented Benny Wilkins. "To be continued in our next, I s'pose?"
"You're a nice pair!" exclaimed Dick Travers, secretary of the athletic association. "Haven't the boys put up a mighty good defensive fight?"
"Of course!" broke in Harry Spearman. "If it hadn't been for good fielding and some mighty fast throws to bases the score would now be about ten to nothing."
"It's only delayed; it's only delayed," said "Crackers." "You don't need a spy-glass to see how Mr. Barry is looking."
"Gee! What's up to make you chaps look so sour?"
Victor Collins had appeared upon the scene.
"Everything, Checkered-Cap," answered Aleck Parks. "Tell your uncle to be at Guffin's to-night. We'd like to hear his opinion of the game."
"Strikes me that you're kind of fresh," responded Victor, calmly. "But I've noticed that you're mighty quiet when the captain's around."
"Here, Checkered-Cap, don't throw any saucy remarks in this direction," warned Aleck, bristling up.
"I chuck 'em out whenever I please, and whoever gets in the way catches 'em."
At the same moment Owen Lawrence was saying:
"A mighty poor game, Roycroft. They're just as weak as ever on the stick work."
"I think it's partly because Tippen's in a class by himself," said Earl.
"All the same, I'll bet if you had a chance at bat you'd rip the stitches out of that ball."
"Oh, I don't know. I'd like to try it, though."
"If you'd only put up a stiff kick in the gym that day you might be doing it now," exclaimed Luke Phelps.
"Maybe," admitted the big football guard.
"I call this a mighty good game, Owen Lawrence," piped Victor Collins. "What's the dif if your side is losing?"
"Only a big field with a diamond all laid out, and a grand stand besides," sniffed Lawrence.
"Get out! This is only the fifth game. Aren't there about ten more?"
"To lose—most likely," growled Parks.
"I reckon it'll do Clifton a lot of good. He used to be a regular caution. I was going to nickname him 'Vanitas' a dozen times."
"Just suited to him, too, Checkers," said Aleck Parks. "You've got a wee bit of sense, after all."
"Thanks! I can't return the compliment until I know you a bit better."
"Some awful fresh remarks are being let loose," exclaimed Ted Pollock. "'Vanitas'! That seems to hit Tom's case about right. What inning is this—the eighth?"
"Yes! And it's another case of whitewash," grumbled Parks. "There's our grand editor of the 'Reflector' at bat. Watch him. He's going to swing. Ah——"
"Strike one!" came over the air.
Harry Spearman dug his heel viciously into the yielding turf. The sarcastic looks on the faces of "Crackers" Brown and Owen Lawrence stung his sensitive nature.
"Come on, Dick," he said, in a low tone. "I want to speak to Bob a moment."
They found the captain and Coach Steele coming away from the bench on which Mr. Rupert Barry and the others were seated.
Steele shook his head and laughed dryly.
"Things are not breaking just the way we hoped, Harry," he said. "If we could only put a man on base once in a while I'll wager they'd manage to get around some way or other."
"What does Mr. Barry think about it?"
"He can't figure how it is that the boys aren't able to crack out a few base hits."
"The fellows who face Tony Tippen understand it," said Bob. "Side out—back to the field for us!"
The gentlemen on the "grand stand," as Victor Collins had dubbed the bench, rose to their feet a short time later, when yells, hoots, cat-calls and furious blasts from dozens of megaphones announced that something had happened.
That something was Big Bill Steever dashing frantically across home plate, a feat which required the official scorer to jot down the seventh tally for the Stars.
The high school team made a desperate attempt to change the monotonous list of ciphers which filled their run column.
Tippen, however, held them safe.
"Seven to nothing," growled Mr. Rupert Barry.
"It has been a great game," chirped "Uncle" Steve. "Considering everything, I think the schoolboys put up a pretty good fight."
"So do I," exclaimed Captain Bunderley, in his deep bass voice.
"Our ideas differ, sir," said Mr. Barry, gripping his knotted cane as though he intended to knock some one on the head. "I'm disgusted—so completely disgusted that I hardly know how to find words to express my feelings."
"Don't try, sir; don't try!" advised Mr. Kimbole, smiling benignly. "What a grand sport baseball is! I trust, sir"—he turned toward Professor Ivins—"that you have enjoyed the afternoon as much as I."
"Ahem—ahem!" The professor polished his eye-glasses industriously. "To be sure. After one has been cooped up indoors all week this sunshine is really delightful," he admitted.
"No matter who may be discouraged by the showing of the school, I am not," declared Captain Bunderley, emphatically.
"I believe, if we could get the consensus of opinion, you'd have few supporters," snapped Mr. Rupert Barry. "Five straight defeats seem to forecast a dismal failure."
A few days later, Bob Somers, hard at work studying in his "den," was summoned down-stairs to the 'phone.
"Now I wonder what's up?" he murmured, somewhat impatiently. "Haven't much time to prepare for the next exercise in logarithms."
As soon as he placed the receiver to his ear the gruff voice of Tom Clifton began coming over the wire. And there was a note of pent-up excitement in it which instantly caught the captain's attention.
"I say, Bob, what do you think? Do you know what 'Crackers' Brown has done? Never heard of such nerve in my life."
"Tell me quick!" laughed Bob.
"He's posted up a big notice on the gymnasium door calling for candidates for another team. How does that strike you?"
"I suppose there is nothing to prevent him, Tom."
"You haven't heard all. The notice says that as the regular nine has been tried and found wanting the interests of the school demand that his players be given an equal show with the others."
"I had an idea something like this was coming. Who told you?"
"Benny Wilkins. Had the thing copied word for word in his note-book. May be a joke, you say? No; nothing of the sort! It's an actual fact. Gee! Maybe I don't feel mad enough to punch 'Crackers' Brown!"
Bob Somers' face remained unruffled.
"I don't think we want to indulge in any real warfare, Tom," he sent through the transmitter. "'Crackers' plan may fizzle out. Besides, I think we can count upon having the majority of the fellows on our side."
"But Benny Wilkins says a whole lot are beginning to waver. He thinks there'll be a sizzling hot time before many weeks. Aleck Parks and Owen Lawrence are buttonholing every fellow in sight, telling 'em how the grounds'll be lost unless Bob listens to reason."
"What does 'Crackers' want us to do?"
"Put Roycroft, Lawrence and a few others on the team, and discharge Charlie Blake, Alf Boggs, and—and"—the tone of Tom's voice seemed hot enough to scorch the wire—"myself. Honest fact, Bob—I don't know whether I can keep from punching him or not. What are you going to do about it?"
"No Central American disturbance at the Kingswood High," said Bob, dryly. "What am I going to do? Get right back up-stairs and finish my work."
"But we can't let a thing like this go on. Show the first sign of weakening, Bob, and the wavering'll become a stampede most as bad as any of the cattle rushes on the plains."
"We don't propose to show any signs of weakening. It's up to the coach to do what he thinks best. I'll stick by what he says."
"Oh, I can see you're taking it pretty cool, Bob. But I was never hotter in my life. Aleck Parks had the nerve to call me 'Vanitas' to-day. Wonder where he got that from? I'm ready to put up the stiffest kind of fight for the club."
"So are we all, Tom," exclaimed Bob. "Going around to tell Dave, are you? Good! Have to get to work now. So-long!"
The captain snapped the receiver back in place.
"Well, that's going some," he soliloquized. "A nice little scheme of 'Crackers' Brown to carry his point. But if he thinks he can force the issue in this way he may be a trifle surprised."
The bold move of Brown made a decided sensation. The big poster was eagerly read by all factions. Hot arguments waxed to such extremes that bosom friends soon passed each other without speaking. Some of the freshmen seemed on the point of backing up their opinions with fistic arguments. The original feeling that the Ramblers had too much power broke out afresh; and through all the noise, excitement and confusion Brown went serenely along, doing far more execution with his calm methods than any loud, boisterous talking could have accomplished.
"For the good of the school," was his slogan.
Purple and white pennants with this motto began to appear. The opposition to the Ramblers, though still in the minority, was undoubtedly gaining strength. Cries for "Roycroft! Lawrence!" and several other candidates who had failed to pass Coach Steele's critical tests frequently rose on the campus.
Brown's call for volunteers met with a hearty response, and the self-appointed coach, determining that no time should be lost in putting his plans into execution, had his squad out within a couple of days. Brown's preference was evidently for big, husky chaps.
"Sometimes the size of a fellow has an effect on the opposing team," he said to Owen Lawrence. "A hundred and seventy-five pounds of bone and muscle tearing along the base lines often does more good than the skill of a hundred and thirty pound stripling.
"Then, chaps like that have bigger hands to grab the ball; and when they crack out a hit it has some steam behind it.
"And, honestly, whenever I see Blake making a dash for a hot liner it puts me in mind of an item like this: 'Baseball player seriously injured by a bounder.'"
"Ha, ha!" laughed Lawrence. "The idea of Steele putting him on instead of Roycroft!"
"Now the big fellow will have all the chance he wants," exclaimed Brown, decidedly. "I'll stimulate his bump of ambition by making him captain of the nine."
"Capital idea! I suppose the Somers crowd will entrench themselves behind the regularity racket. That set of iron-clad by-laws Tom Clifton got up doesn't recognize any little outlaw scheme like ours."
"Red tape versus common sense. I take it that the school has some say in things of this sort. If Steele will agree to take on the players we suggest—all right; if not"—"Crackers" spoke as mildly as though ordering a plate of pie—"the worst insurrection in the history of the school is about to begin."
"The fellows'll soon be coming over to our side so fast that it will make you think of an avalanche in the Alps," predicted Owen. "What's that?" He put his hand to his ear. Faint cries of "Rah, rah, rah for Somers!" were coming over the still air from somewhere in the distance. "That kind of thing only makes it more interesting," added the new student, with a grin.
"Let's get over on the field. There's a big bunch ready for practice," said Brown.
Every member of the regular club was present when the "Outlaws," as Benny Wilkins had dubbed the new set of players, got to work.
Tom Clifton surveyed the proceedings with a heavy scowl, treating with silent scorn, for the most part, the jibes which were occasionally flung toward him by members of the opposition.
"Honest, Bob, it makes me almost boil over," he confessed. "Listen to that buttermilk voice of Brown's!" He turned, as a hand was laid on his shoulder. "Oh! How are you, Steele! What do you think of this?"
"I'm sorry there's disaffection in the school," answered the coach; "otherwise I'm prepared to enjoy the afternoon."
Things on the lot were not as they had been when the other players alone occupied it. Sounds of heated arguments often rose above the hum of voices.
Fortunately there was enough room for the two clubs to practice without interference, and the regulars and "outlaws" seldom came within speaking distance.
On this occasion Coach Brown and his men proved to be the great attraction. A steady stream of schoolboys ebbed and flowed on the lot, eagerly watching every move of the candidates.
"Now we'll see some ball tossing that is ball tossing!" cried Aleck Parks.
"This does me good," said Luke Phelps. "There's Earl Roycroft over there. Looks big enough for a hold-out major league player, eh? No fanning the air for Earl."
"Who do the Willie-boys play next?" asked Parks.
"Oh, some club from Engleton. Don't know much about 'em; but Mercer says they are players, though the Stars waltzed over one day, and, even without Tippen in the box, put 'em in wrong to the tune of seven to three."
"Then Nat's team hasn't lost a game yet. Here, Checkered-Cap, you don't belong on this field. Skip out!"
"Oh, you saucy thing! Who's going to make me?" asked Victor Collins.
"I will—if your line of talk doesn't suit," threatened Aleck.
"Then you'll have to grow some. Gee! There's been an awful lot of near-scraps to-day. In about a week I guess you'll be fighting all over the field. Rah, rah, rah for Somers! How does that strike you, Sourface? If it isn't strong enough I'll blow a bugle call."
An irritatingly long blast immediately sounded.
"Ta, ta! I go! 'Crackers' has a buttermilk voice. Got that from Clifton. Ta, ta!"
"He's a nice specimen for you," growled Parks, as Victor's small form mingled with the crowd. "Wow—look at that hit! Who cracked out that one?"
"Bush. And he's a likely one for pitcher. If anything, he's stronger than Roycroft."
As the afternoon progressed the shouts constantly swelled out into a greater volume. Little processions of Somers adherents moved recklessly through the enemy's camp, yelling lustily for their favorites.
"If we only win from Engleton," remarked Sam Randall, as they gathered in the gym on the day of the game, "it may stop some of that foolish fussing."
"Whatever happens I suppose I'll get another eight-column article from Benny Wilkins," sighed the editor of the "Reflector." "Still, I've adopted one of his suggestions. The 'Note-Book' page will hereafter be a feature of the paper."
"Goodness gracious!" murmured Tom. "Now maybe he won't do some strutting around."
"Say, Bob," put in Charlie Blake, "I've been thinking pretty hard over matters—can't help hearing a lot of things the fellows say, you know"—he glanced toward Roger Steele—"and this affair has been getting on my nerves. Now, I'm willing to step out for Roycroft, Lawrence, or anybody else who——"
"What! And be labeled a quitter?" howled Tom. "I didn't expect it of you, Charlie—not this time."
The emphasis laid on the last words brought a flush to Blake's face.
"If there weren't so much at stake maybe I shouldn't be talking of such a thing," he retorted. "But when a chap has it dinned into his ears every day that he isn't doing the right thing by the school, why——"
"Oh, you make me tired!" scoffed Tom. "Who wants you to get off the team? No one but a lot of soreheads."
Blake gloomily picked his favorite bat from the rack.
"I don't know, Tom," he sighed. "Some of the boys who used to be pretty good shouters for our crowd have flopped over to the other side."
"A lot of weaklings!" jeered Tom.
"Just go about your work as though nothing had happened," advised Steele. "Now's the time to show what you're made of. I know a good player when I see one. Don't let this noisy Brown crowd get your nerve—that's all."
Charlie Blake cast a grateful look at the coach.
"I'm glad to hear you speak that way," he said. "But—but—somehow——"
Steele slapped him heartily on the shoulder.
"A little self-consciousness, Blake, is your only trouble," he interrupted. "Get in the way of paying no attention to any one. And if you do happen to make an error just remember that the highest salaried player in the big leagues is occasionally bound to do the same."
"The chap who doesn't take things too seriously is generally the one who gets there," said Dave. "It's the easiest way to prevent your nerves from getting all in a tension."
"By George, that's right!" cried Charlie.
"I knew you'd come around to our way of thinking," said Tom, delightedly.
The squad felt that a great deal depended upon the outcome of the game with Engleton. And each member was chuck full of courage and determination as he sallied out upon the field.
They found the Engleton lads rather older and heavier than themselves. One of the principal characteristics of their coach, a boisterous young man named Finn, was the habit of making humorous remarks, and, as his voice was of a caliber suitable for an auctioneer, his jokes sent ripples of mirth all over the field.
The game, as summed up tersely by Alf Boggs, was:
"A nothing to three fizzle, with the high school holding the doughnut."
His disconsolate audience was gathered before the fence near home plate, their sad eyes showing no signs of brightening. Even several exceptionally humorous remarks by Mr. Finn passed unnoticed.
Suddenly they became aware of the fact that something not down on the bill was taking place. Dan Brown, Owen Lawrence and Earl Roycroft, followed by all the "outlaw" candidates, were winding in a serpentine fashion—this movement being occasioned by the constantly shifting crowds—toward home plate.
"Mr. Finn," began "Crackers," "I'd like to have a word with you."
"Nobody who ever did got stung," said the coach, pleasantly.
"We"—"Crackers" waved his arm to include the grinning group behind him—"wish to ask a small favor."
"It can't be too small to suit me," laughed Mr. Finn.
"I am forming a baseball nine——"
"What! Is there a baseball nine at this school?" cried the coach, in well-feigned astonishment.
"We wish to state most emphatically that there is—just one; no more," returned "Crackers," "and our great desire is to prove it."
The members of the Engleton team crowded around.
"How are you going to do it, Jack?" asked one, familiarly.
"Well, Bill, it's this way." Brown beamed benignly over the steel frame of his spectacles. "If you have any open dates for next week, and are willing to play us, the thing is as good as done."
"How about it, Finn?" asked the captain of the Engletons.
The eyes of the visiting coach roamed over the forms of the "outlaws."
"Suits me all right, Beebe," he answered.
"We can't thank you too much, Mr. Finn," said "Crackers," mildly. "Here's a chap"—his hand indicated Roycroft—"who is warranted to bat anything hittable over the out-fielders' heads. We have some birds in this bunch. Bush, our pitcher, requires only nine balls to put out a side; he nearly always does it. We've an infield that a ball wouldn't go by if it had a chance. Baseball as we play it can only be seen at the big league games. I shall ask our esteemed friend, Mr. Bill, to remember what I say."
"What's the name of your nine?" asked Mr. "Bill."
"The High School 'Hopes.'"
"We'll promise to dash 'em," grinned the other.
"Commiseration for your feelings after the game prevents me from making a tart reply," said Brown. "What day shall we come over?"
Finn consulted a memorandum book.
"Next Thursday. Our lot is close to the largest ash heap in the county. I may add, too, that some of the fiercest goats at liberty often chase players off the bases. Bring all your nerve along. You'll need it."
"Good!" cried "Crackers," in high spirits. "Why are we doing this, fellows?"
"For the good of the school!" bawled Lawrence.
"A large slice of history made for the Kingswood High."
This is the entry Benny Wilkins jotted down in his note-book at the close of the "Hopes'" game with Engleton. Four boys had actually seen him writing it, and perhaps a hundred others had had it flaunted in their faces.
The score, five to three in favor of the "Hopes," sent through the ranks of Brown's followers a wave of enthusiasm that found vent in the noisiest demonstration the quiet town of Engleton had ever known.
Critical observers of the High's new team noted that the fire and dash with which the big lads played seemed to impress their opponents greatly.
"Brown's bunch is the most unruly lot in the school," growled Tom Clifton, who had ardently wished to see the "Hopes" sustain a crushing defeat. "There won't be any discipline on that team very long."
"They played a mighty good game, though," ventured Charlie Blake.
Tom steered his companion out of the way of a procession of joyous rooters, led by Aleck Parks and Luke Phelps.
"How about the 'Pie-eaters and doughnut crowd' now?" yelled Parks, waving his cap in the air.
"If you want to win games go to Guffin's!" screeched Luke. "Ha, ha! Five to three! Don't look so down in the mouth, 'Vanitas'!"
"If it wasn't for this big crowd I'd punch him right now!" cried Tom.
"I'm afraid the effects of Brown's victory will be rather bad," mused Charlie Blake. He paused to watch the throngs hurrying for the Kingswood car. "I wonder if Steele and Bob Somers haven't been a bit stubborn."
"Of course not," returned Tom. "Do you know what I heard this morning? Some of the fellows Brown left off his team are putting up a kick already."
"Dear me! Then, I suppose, before long there'll be a half dozen nines, all playing for the good of the school."
Next day, in the gymnasium, Benny Wilkins had an opportunity to write several very interesting items in his famous note-book. Immediately after classes were over the regular nine assembled in the big room as though nothing had happened. They had hardly donned their uniforms, preparatory to practicing, when the door opened, and Dan Brown, heading his entire aggregation of players, stepped inside.
An eager crowd of freshmen, juniors, sophomores and seniors flocked at their heels, their faces showing a degree of expectancy which indicated that something was up.
"Mr. Steele," began "Crackers," in deliberate tones, "the event of yesterday must still be fresh in your mind. You saw us play the Engletons, I believe?"
The coach nodded.
"Crackers" calmly paused to wipe his glasses.
"Before I go any further I want it understood that we're not wishing to make any trouble in the school."
"Like fun you're not!" burst out Tom Clifton. "From the very first——"
"Quit it, Tom!" commanded Dave Brandon. "Let's hear what Brown has to say."
"Put a doughnut in his mouth!" cried Benny Wilkins.
"Stop your noise, fellows," insisted Brown. "We came here on serious business. Mr. Steele, the school has been patient; it has given you every chance to make good. What has been the result? Six straight defeats, and a mysterious hurry call from Mr. Barry. We all know how dissatisfied he is."
"He talks like a senator," snickered Victor Collins. "Most of 'em never reach the point."
"Be patient, my young friend in the checkered cap," went on Brown. "Mr. Steele, the school couldn't stand by and see a grand chance for getting a ball field and stand slip away."
"And it doesn't propose to!" cried Owen Lawrence.
"We have a proposition—a fair proposition: play us a series of games, and let whichever club wins represent the school. This is no time for stubbornness. Personal ambition has no place at such an important epoch in the history of the Kingswood High."
As the leader of the "outlaws" paused a lively rattle of tongues began. Excited students cheered, or voiced their protests until the room echoed with a noisy din.
"Don't do it, Steele; don't do it!" cried one.
"The whole bunch ought to be thrown out of the school!" shouted a second.
"You're away off. Brown's the best friend the Kingswood High ever had!" exclaimed another, hotly.
"Crackers" looked at the excited groups about him with as much unconcern as though reciting in the class room.
"Order—order!" yelled Lawrence. "What do you say, Steele?"
The coach was visibly annoyed—even angry. He shot a swift, questioning glance at Bob Somers, then turned to face Dan Brown.
"Your request should have been made in proper form to the athletic association, Brown," he said, coolly. "If you choose, you can carry the matter to them. Personally, I must emphatically decline to comply with your wishes. What do you say, fellows?" He addressed the members of the nine.
A unanimous "No!" cut crisply above the buzz of conversation.
"I thought so!" exclaimed Owen Lawrence, fiercely. "Afraid, eh? Have to crawl? We want the whole school to know it."
"Not so fast, Lawrence," protested Brown. "I'm sure Mr. Steele is open to reason. What's the use of all this red tape about athletic associations? Rules may be all right in their way; but there are times when they had better be thrown on the scrap heap."
"Our policy is not determined by rules or red tape, Brown."
"What reason can you give for not playing us?"
"Now you've got him!" came in a loud tone from Lawrence.
"We're working on a definite plan," explained Roger Steele, in a conciliatory manner. "Every one of us has the interest of the school at heart; and if there are no internal dissensions the task will be easy. Our team is going to do much better than you think; it's going to improve steadily."
"An answer that is no answer," remarked Brown. "You'll be saying the same thing after the tenth consecutive defeat."
"We can't be jollied," added Lawrence.
"Come now, Mr. Steele, why not play the 'Hopes'?" said Earl Roycroft, mildly. "I don't think there ought to be any row or ill-feeling. Two or three games couldn't do any harm, and——"
"I should like to oblige you, Roycroft, but I can't encourage the idea."
"Well, I should rather say not!" howled Tom, whose pent-up wrath had once more gotten the better of him. "I never heard of such nerve in my life. Get out, 'Crackers'! Go back to Terry Guffin's and hatch up some new plot!"
"'Vanitas' heard from again!" sneered Aleck Parks.
"Don't get too gay, Parks," warned Tom. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you're the chap who made that mean remark about the corn field."
"No such thing," answered Aleck, tartly.
"Cut out all quarreling on the side lines, boys," interposed Brown. "Now, Mr. Steele, I'll answer the question I asked you. Frankly, brutally, and to the point: you won't play us because you and every member of the nine is afraid. I dare you to come out on the field and cross bats with us this afternoon. If you don't, what will the school think?" He raised his voice. "The boys have no use for a team with a yellow streak."
"Brown, you're going a little too far," interposed Bob Somers. "Talk like that won't make us budge. If you really are for the good of the school you'll stop all this rumpus."
"Really are for the good of the school!" echoed "Crackers." His mild tone suddenly departed. "Do you mean to insinuate, Bob Somers, that I'm doing this just for the sake of a row?"
"I didn't insinuate anything."
"Well, you'd better not." "Crackers" turned to face his "outlaws." "Fellows, our perfectly reasonable proposition has been turned down. It's up to us to break the red tape into a thousand pieces. Mr. Steele"—his voice resumed its former mildness—"I shall put my request in writing and send it to the athletic association."
The room was in an uproar. The Somers party attempted, by sheer force of noise, to drown the angry remarks of Brown's disappointed followers. Benny Wilkins was thoroughly charmed. He noted, too, with satisfaction, that the "outlaws" seemed to be in no hurry to leave.
As the commotion was at its highest the door suddenly flew wide open, and the form of a big, burly man was sharply outlined against the bright outdoor light.
He listened a moment in seeming astonishment, then strode heavily across the floor, making for the point of loudest noise.
"What does all this mean, boys?" bellowed Captain Ralph Bunderley. "Do you want to take the roof off, or crack the window-panes? I've been looking for my nephew, Victor Collins; and I've found him, and something else I didn't bargain for."
The unexpected appearance of the burly seaman in their midst had the effect of quelling all but the most turbulent spirits.
"I'd like to know what's going on!"
"Uncle, let me introduce you to the biggest bunch of fire-eaters in Wisconsin," called Victor. "It's a revolution—that's what it is, isn't it, Brownie?"
From a dozen points in the room came the explanation that Captain Bunderley was seeking.
The skipper was astonished and angry. "I should think you boys would have better sense than to act this way," he stormed. "What do you expect to gain by such conduct?"
"A ball field and grand stand," answered Brown.
"All ridiculous nonsense!" The captain struck the palm of his hand an emphatic blow. "The boys have done right to refuse to play such an organization."
"Have you recently entered the High as a student?" asked Brown.
A fierce glare sprang into the captain's eyes.
"I would suggest, sir," continued Brown, smoothly, "that the students are not asking advice from outsiders."
"I beg pardon," said the captain, "but I thought a little friendly counsel might not come amiss."
"It's the way you offer your suggestions that hurts our feelings," said Brown, quite candidly. "Really, I expected to find myself flying through space."
"'Crackers' felt as if he'd been banged on the head," added Benny Wilkins. "Who's got a note-book? My new one's full already."
"My esteemed young friend," said "Crackers," turning toward him, "I saw a bargain sale on Central Avenue. Let me advise you to get a dozen at once. Even then, I fear, it won't be enough to hold an account of what our team—the 'Hopes'—are going to do."