"IT'S FOR THE GOOD OF THE SCHOOL"
"IT'S FOR THE GOOD OF THE SCHOOL"
"IT'S FOR THE GOOD OF THE SCHOOL"
"Well, I'm in your hands," said the guard, with a rather weak smile.
"I say, Mr. Steele!"—Owen Lawrence was speaking—"may I speak to you a moment?"
"Certainly, Lawrence. Go ahead."
"I don't want to appear in the light of a sorehead, Mr. Steele; but it seems to me—and a good many here will back up my opinion—that it's a mistake to leave Roycroft off the team."
"What has Earl to say about this?" asked the coach, quietly.
"I told these chaps I was ready to abide by your decision," answered Roycroft. "I'm not kicking."
"That's all very well," said "Crackers," "but we happen to know the kind of a game he can play; and the prize the school is going after——"
"I have considered all that, Brown."
The coach, scarcely more than a schoolboy in appearance, spoke so unassumingly that "Crackers" was emboldened to continue.
He began talking earnestly and emphatically, pointing out the various reasons why both Roycroft and Lawrence should be added to the squad.
The coach, however, shook his head.
"I don't think I can make any change, Brown," he announced, firmly. "There are so many promising players in this school that it means no reflection whatever on those who were left off."
"Just the way I take it," said Roycroft.
"Then you're a big dunderhead!" exclaimed Owen Lawrence. "Three of the Ramblers on that team; two others officers of the athletic association! How can you swallow a proposition like that?"
"Oh, go away and eat some pie!" scoffed Tom Clifton. "Steady your nerves with a doughnut. Better wait and see us play before you get so hot about it."
"I'm afraid some one will be roasted if this thing keeps up," murmured Benny.
"We're going to do our level best for the school, fellows," spoke up Bob Somers, earnestly. "A team is twice as strong when there's no opposition or unpleasant feeling. All we ask is: give us a fair show. Then, if things don't break right, it will be time enough to talk."
"Let that idea soak in, Owen Lawrence," spoke up "Jack Frost," who had won his place on the pitching staff.
"All right. We'll give you all the chance you want." Owen, apparently regretting his hasty outbreak, even smiled as he added: "Wherever I study I'm always red-hot for the school."
"Lawrence's thought arrangement unloosens his tongue before he thinks," came from Benny. "I made a note of that the first day he was here."
"Oh ho," yawned Dave Brandon. "I've got a lot of work to do on the next number of the 'Reflector.' Guess I'll skip."
"Crackers," the most solemn-looking boy in school, and yet, some suspected, the most anxious to help along any row, realized that it would be impolitic to allow the opposition to show its hand too freely. He saw that it could only react upon themselves, and, perhaps, throw into the other camp those undecided students who were not quite sure which side to favor.
"The 'Pie-eaters' will act as nice as pie," he confided to Owen Lawrence, late that afternoon at Terry Guffin's.
"I heard Steele speak about getting up a second nine to play the regulars," said Benny Wilkins. "He told the fellows it was the best kind of practice. Now's your chance, Lawrence."
"Not for mine, son," answered Owen, emphatically. "Steele and Somers threw me down. Now they can't pick up yours truly just to make a convenience of him."
"I'm not sore about it," added Earl Roycroft, "but, after being considered a kind of star on the football eleven, I don't feel like taking a back seat."
"I should say not," agreed Brown.
This seemed to be the general feeling among those who failed to get a position on the team. Many thought "Crackers" had a great deal to do with this state of mind.
At any rate, the various teams which soon sprang into being did not include any "big names" among their players. The regulars, for the most part, had an easy time disposing of them, only occasionally being obliged to extend themselves in order to win.
"Wait till they play a real, live club," laughed Owen Lawrence. "Then I guess the score-card will tell another story."
The interest aroused in the coming contest with the Kingswood Stars increased as the day approached.
"An awful lot depends upon the first game," said Bob Somers to Coach Steele, as the crowd left the gymnasium for practice on the following day. "Tony Tippen is certainly a dandy pitcher, and for an all-around player Nat Wingate is one of the best for his age I've ever seen."
"There is plenty of go and courage to that lad," remarked Steele, "though he needs discipline."
"Oh, they're not such a bunch of wonders," laughed Tom—"even if they did beat the Goose Hillers. I guess we can wade right through 'em without half trying."
"Overconfidence has lost many a game," admonished the coach.
"Well, I reckon it won't lose any for us."
"Boys, I think you have all the signals down pretty fine. Now be careful not to cut loose too much. Keep your best in reserve, and when Saturday comes don't let a lot of howling rooters get your nerve."
"Not much," sniffed Tom.
"Well, here we are on the field. Let's get busy. Hello, Joe! Glad to see you. Guess you'll be on hand to see the game, eh?"
An expansive smile rested on Joe Rodgers' freckled face. He looked very different from the lad whom Dave Brandon had found as an employee of Spudger's Great Combined Peerless Circus and Menagerie.
"Won't I though, Mr. Steele?" he answered. "How are you, Dave! Howdy, Bob! Maybe I wouldn't like to be on the team."
"You'll get there some day," chuckled Dave. "Ready, 'Jack Frost'? I want to get my batting eye in shape."
Among the great crowd of boys who surged on the field not a word of opposition was heard. The fast and snappy play brought forth ripples of applause. Bounders, grass-cutters, line drives and high flies were fielded or caught with admirable precision. There were few false movements made in whipping the ball from one to another.
It was an inspiring sight to the Somers partisans. They cheered and yelled themselves hoarse. Joe Rodgers was in ecstasy.
"They can't be beaten!" he cried.
"Three forty-fiveP. M.Decision reached that the Ramblers can't be beaten," chuckled Benny Wilkins, who happened to be near. "Too bad we can't get some major leaguers out here and show 'em just where they stand."
"Saturday will be a great day for the school team," predicted Harry Spearman. "Everybody is brimming over with confidence."
"I never bank too much on parlor practice," put in Ted Pollock. "Hush! Don't say a word. Here comes Tom Clifton. Strikes me he's up in the air in more'n one way," he added, in a lower tone. "Gee, hasn't he changed! 'Member when he was a little timid sort of a kid, Wilkins?"
"It hasn't been lately," growled Benny. "Of all the hot-air artists that ever strutted around a ball field he carries off the bakery, pie counter and all. If they get trounced on Saturday I won't shed any tears for Tommy."
"What's this—a conspiracy?" chuckled Tom. "Cut out the whispering. Did you see Bob stop Hazel's grounder? Peach—wasn't it? Scooped the ball on a fast run."
"Too bad Mr. Barry didn't witness that performance," said Benny. "He might have taken down the first of those no-trespassing signs. Wasn't it queer of the old chap to make such an offer, anyway?"
"Most staggers me even now," admitted Ted Pollock. "Say, Tom, tried on your uniform yet?"
"Certainly have. Guess it won't look so spick and span after I steal a few bases."
"Better be careful how you try it on Nat's crowd," warned Ted. "His backstop, you know, has a big rep' for nippin' those sly dodges."
"Oh, yes. But he'll have to eat some more pie before he can do the nipping act on me. Look out—let me get it!"
Tom made a frantic rush in and out among the crowd in an effort to reach a high foul which had slipped from Dave Brandon's bat. Two juniors were bowled over in the attempt; but Tom caught the ball, and, flushed with triumph, snapped it over to "Jack Frost."
"Nearly knocks a fellow's head off, an' never even says excuse me," muttered one disconsolate junior, rubbing his forehead. "I like his nerve."
"So don't I," growled the other. "The silly chump rushed right between us before we had a chance to move. Gee! Look at him now, chasing that grounder. Guess he thinks he's the whole show. Listen! What's that?"
A loud, discordant yell had blared through a megaphone.
Turning in the direction from whence the sound had come the two saw a small procession of boys headed by Nat Wingate and tall John Hackett approaching. The majority had megaphones, and the din which they produced indicated that all knew how to use them to the best advantage.
On they came, singing a lusty chorus.
"We are ready for the fray!" shouted Nat, at the end of a stanza.
"Rah, rah, rah!" yelled Hackett.
"Bing, bang, boom!" screeched Kirk Talbot. "We're the best bunch in the amateur ranks."
"And we're going to show just how rank you are!" howled Tom.
An approving roar came from the purple and white.
"That's like Nat Wingate—always butting in with a megaphone," exclaimed one of the juniors. "But say, Freddy Sparker, he's just doing it 'cause he thinks he can rattle Somers' crowd; an', take it from me, some of 'em he can."
"Who?" asked Sparker.
"Charlie Blake, for one; Clifton for another."
"Add Alfred Boggs for a third. Oh, yes; Nat and Hackett'll know how to get some of 'em going."
"I shouldn't mind being knocked down again if it were only time for that game to be played," sighed the first junior. "Wouldn't surprise me a bit if Nat gave our crowd an awful lacing."
"I declare, Bob Somers, I feel a bit nervous about this thing."
Charlie Blake, the most studious boy in the Kingswood High, often referred to as the "grind," paced a corner of the gymnasium floor.
"Oh, forget it!" laughed Bob. "Pull yourself together, Charlie."
"Oh, I think I can play the game all right—even if I didn't make good while Nat was captain. But there's going to be an awful big crowd on that field, Bob; the whole town seems to be talking about it. And Mr. Barry will have his eagle eye on every move we make."
"So much the better."
"Maybe you're right," assented Charlie. "Wish I had Dave Brandon's nerve. Bet he could take a nap right before the game."
There was an undercurrent of excitement in the gymnasium. Each of the players, in a new and spotless uniform, resplendent purple shirt and striped stockings, found himself the center of a little group of eager enthusiasts.
"For the good of the school, boys, do your best!" bawled "Crackers" Brown. "Nat Wingate is a dandy fellow; but I hope you'll beat his crowd so badly they'll never wind off any of their megaphone stunts here again."
"Oh, what an awful bluff, 'Crackers'!" chirped Benny Wilkins. "You know you want him to win."
"There's a big mob on the field already, fellows." This announcement, coming from Tom Clifton, added to the pleasurable excitement.
"Well, it's most time to be getting over," said Bob. "Everybody ready?"
A rousing chorus of assenting voices answered.
"Oh, I say—I say—who's going to report this game for the 'Reflector'?" cried Benny. "Mr. Editor, may I?"
"Write it up and submit your stuff," laughed Dave. "If it's good I'll slip it in."
"Bully! That's a go. Now don't try to back out, Dave Brandon. You heard him say it, fellows."
The team, headed by Coach Roger Steele, was already making for the door, followed by as enthusiastic and hopeful a band of rooters as ever backed up a school nine.
Freshmen struggled for the honor of carrying bats, masks and other paraphernalia.
It was an ideal day, cool and crisp, but not chilly enough to stiffen the players' muscles.
A big crowd greeted the boys on the scene of the impending battle. Almost every student of the school seemed to be there, while numbers of the townspeople mingled with the groups.
"Somers, Somers!" yelled the mob. The cry rose and fell in waves of sound, causing a flush to mantle the captain's cheek. "Rah, rah, rah! Boom!"
Purple and white pennants flashed brightly in the sunlight. It certainly looked like a great day for the Kingswood High.
By the fence behind home plate the players gathered around Coach Steele.
"Don't get rattled," he cautioned. "Remember, quick thinking at a crucial point has won many a game. Feel 'em out in the early innings, and don't let a single chance for stealing a base slip by."
"You bet we won't," laughed Tom. "When that crowd finds out what we have to show in the running line they'll open their eyes."
"Get to work, boys," ordered the coach. "Hello, Lou Mercer!" He extended his hand toward a good-looking boy, manager of the club. "I hear Professor Hopkins is going to see the game."
"That's so," said Mercer, gleefully; "and Mr. Rupert Barry'll be with him. And say, what do you think? Professor Ivins actually said he'd come, too."
"What?" cried Tom.
"Fact. Surprised me, I can tell you. Heard him say once he never could see anything in the game."
"He'll see something in this game." Tom selected a bat from several which an exuberant freshman was lugging about. "Get out a bit further, Dave!" he yelled. "I'm going to knock some cloud swipers."
"Hey! Who's seen the Stars practicin'?" asked one boy of another.
"Not I. Struck me they did all of their practicing over at Guffin's."
"That's where you're wrong, son. Leslie Glinn—he's one of their crowd—unloosened his tongue long enough to say they went through their little turns in a field about two miles out the pike. Oh, Nat's cute, all right; knows every trick of the game."
"So does Bob Somers," growled the other. "Say, if we win this game won't the crowd give him a big hand to-night!"
"Well, ra-ther!"
Twenty minutes later a sound from a megaphone in the distance brought forth a wild cheer from the supporters of the Stars. All eyes seemed to be turned in the direction of the valiant team which, as usual, was headed by Nat Wingate and John Hackett.
Following the players came a great crowd, the members of which were singing in half a dozen different keys a song that "Jack Frost" declared Nat had written himself.
"Sounds like it," chuckled Benny. "Guess it's a first offense, though."
The rooters of the visiting team did their best. But the fans who swore allegiance to Bob Somers drowned their efforts in a turbulent roar.
The Stars didn't present the neat appearance of the Kingswood team, their uniforms, no two of which were alike, bearing unmistakable evidence of hard usage.
The eyes of many were centered upon Tony Tippen, the crack pitcher of whom so much had been heard. Tony was a farmer's son, tall, gaunt, and angular of frame. His face, burnt to almost a coppery hue, indicated that much of his time was spent out in the open. Tony had the reputation of being a cool, imperturbable chap whom nature seemed to have forgotten to supply with nerves.
"Have you fellows done practicing?" sang out Nat. "Good! Our boys'll wade right in."
"We'll need only ten minutes," yelled John Hackett.
"That's right. Let's get the ball rolling in earnest," said Tony Tippen, in a deep bass voice.
Quiet settled over the crowd. The boys were too much interested in getting a line on the opponents of the "High" to make any noise. They presently had to confess that the visitors had a dash and vim about their practice which promised an exciting contest.
"Play ball!"
These two words, uttered in a loud, authoritative tone, sent a sort of electric thrill through the impatient audience, which was only waiting for the first opportunity to expend its superfluous energy in a hair-raising yell.
The Stars having won the toss, Tony Tippen went to his place on the mound, while Dave Brandon, smiling in his usual good-natured fashion, walked briskly to the plate.
"He'll have to show the best in the shop to faze old Dave," chuckled Tom Clifton to Catcher Phil Brentall. "'Jack Frost' couldn't do it, could you, Jack? Ah! Tippen is going to let 'er fly. Watch him."
The boys were already watching with wide, staring eyes. They saw the pitcher "winding up." Then almost instantly the ball seemed to smack into the catcher's mit.
"Strike one!" called the umpire.
"Suffering doughnuts!" gasped Tom. "Why didn't he swing on it?"
"I've heard it is hard to lam the ball when Tippen is on deck," said "Jack Frost." "Cheer up, Tom. The game isn't lost yet."
Once more the pitcher sent in the ball.
"Strike two!"
"Great Scott!" breathed Tom. "Gee! I hope Dave takes a chance on the next."
Dave Brandon had no intention of being caught napping a third time. He had been stunned into momentary inaction by Tippen's terrific speed and the quickness with which he delivered the ball. Doggedly determined, he faced the pitcher, realizing that the eyes of hundreds were upon him, and that he was there for the good of the school. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Professors Hopkins and Ivins and Mr. Rupert Barry. Warily, he watched the cool, grinning face of Tippen.
But the inshoot which Dave half expected did not come. Instead Tony Tippen slipped over a tantalizing slow ball, and Dave's vicious lunge came a fraction of a second too late.
"Three strikes and out!" bawled the umpire, amid shouts of approval from the Star crowd.
The rest of the inning passed quickly, not a player reaching first.
The members of the school team looked glum but resolute as they sallied out into the field. They had not started off with the dash and brilliancy many expected.
"But never mind," said First Baseman Tom Clifton, fiercely. "We've eight more innings coming to us."
"Batter up!" commanded the umpire.
John Hackett, looking very important indeed, strode to the plate. "Jack Frost" rubbed a little dust on the ball. He raised his arm in the air, brought it down again, and a snappy drop was speeding toward the batter.
John Hackett made a mighty swing—and missed.
"Rah, rah, rah for 'Jack Frost'!" came from the field.
Jack was a little nervous. He had not yet gained his usual control of the ball. The next two went wide of the plate.
Hackett, however, landed on the fourth. But the pitcher scooped up the bounder which resulted and retired the batter at first.
Kirk Talbot was the next to face the pitcher.
At the very first ball delivered he sent a hot line drive whipping straight toward Charlie Blake. Charlie, though still struggling against a feeling of nervousness, easily made the catch.
Jeff Wilber, right fielder of the Stars, reached first on balls; but Nat Wingate's effort to advance him was nipped by Dave Brandon's clever catch of a high fly in left field.
"Ha, ha!" chuckled Tom Clifton. "It will take more'n Tony Tippen's pitching to win this game. You can bet we'll get on to his curves before long. Who's up—you, Blake? Don't let Nat rattle you. He's beginning his holler already."
Charlie selected his favorite bat. He reflected that when Nat Wingate tried to rattle a fellow he generally made a pretty good job of it. He tried to deaden his ears to the sarcastic quips which the captain of the Stars was now hurling toward him.
"It's easy, Tippen!" bawled Nat. "He couldn't hit a stuffed pillow. You've got him going."
"I'll bet he'll be going to first the next minute," muttered Tom, hotly. "My, I hope we do soak it to this crowd."
"Shoot 'em over—shoot 'em over!" howled John Hackett.
And the imperturbable Tippen did shoot 'em over with a maddening skill and persistency which made the high school rooters fairly gasp.
It seemed but a moment before the players found themselves trooping out upon the field again with a dull and deadly feeling that Tony Tippen was more than living up to his reputation. The crowd, ready to voice its approval or disapproval, yelled earnestly at every opportunity.
It was not until the ending of the fourth inning, however, that the Kingswood rooters had a chance to strain their lungs to the breaking point. Tony Tippen, one of the hardest hitters on the Stars, had reached first in safety.
At the instant "Jack Frost" got into action he was off on a wild break for second.
A yell rose on the air as Big Bill Steever smashed the oncoming sphere, sending it directly toward Third Baseman Fred Benson. Benson's practiced eye told him it would be impossible to catch the runner at second—Tippen's long legs were taking him over the ground at too great a speed.
His gloved hand pulled in the bounding ball. Instantly he whipped it over to Tom, at first, then sprang back to his place on the sack.
"Send it here, Tom; send it here!" he yelled.
Charlie Blake, shortstop, was keenly alive to the possibilities of the situation. Day after day, Coach Steele had drilled into his men the importance of backing up players. "Even if it proves unnecessary nine times out of ten, on the next occasion it may prevent the scorer from chalking down a run," he said.
"When Tom gets excited he's apt to throw wild," reflected Blake.
Before Tony Tippen had touched second and was tearing on toward third Blake was off to back up the baseman.
A hundred throats poured forth volleys of encouragement to Tippen; and above the shrieks and yells the voices of Nat Wingate and John Hackett could be heard.
"Go it, Tippen; go it!" howled the former.
"Hi, hi, hi! Come all the way around!" screeched Hackett.
Kirk Talbot was dancing up and down in an excess of joy.
"Here's where we bring in the first run!" he yelled. "Ha, ha! I thought so!"
The ball had beaten Bill Steever to first, while Benson had judged his throw so nicely that Tom Clifton was able to return it without moving an inch from his position.
But the horse-hide had no sooner left Tom's hand than he realized, with a sinking feeling, that it would sail over the third baseman's head.
The purple and white pennants were not waving now. The Kingswood boys looked on in gloomy silence. The shouts of their opponents soared higher as Benson leaped off the ground in a vain effort to stop the speeding ball.
He saw Tony Tippen slipping past and making a break for home.
"Gee whiz!" he groaned.
The swelling din from the field struck harshly on his ears. But with a frantic dash, Shortstop Blake got into the path of the ball, leaped for it and caught it and, although partly off his balance, sent it whirling toward home plate.
Phil Brentall watched the runner and the ball racing toward him. The hot volley of sarcasm and the wild blasts sent up through megaphones in the Wingate camp could not shake his nerves.
"Slide for it, Tony; slide for it!" roared Nat.
"Slide for it!" echoed Hackett, desperately.
For an instant the tumult was stilled.
Tony Tippen obeyed instructions, literally hurling himself with outstretched arms toward the plate. From amidst a cloud of yellow dust his hand shot forward. Then, just as victory seemed certain, a hard thump jarred his shoulder. The ball had won the race.
"Runner out!" called the umpire.
The Star adherents left off shouting as the high school lads began. Caps were thrown recklessly in the air; purple and white pennants waved frantically; and as Blake, flushed with pride, walked in from the field he heard his name rolling out on waves of sound.
"Not so badly done, sir," remarked Mr. Rupert Barry, who sat on a bench between the president of the Kingswood High and solemn-looking Professor Ivins.
"Dear me," said the latter. "I can't understand why the boys get so dreadfully excited."
"It is one of the very annoying features of the sport," returned Mr. Barry. "They distract everybody's attention."
"If they would only enter into their studies with the same enthusiasm we might have a race of intellectual giants," said Professor Ivins, gravely.
"Young Blake is one of those rare combinations who seem to be able to do both," remarked President Hopkins, smilingly.
"The catcher who tagged that boy out is now going to bat," said Mr. Barry, looking up from his score-card. "I don't understand how it is, President Hopkins—your boys don't seem able to hit. I know Anthony Tippen has quite a reputation; but surely, with all their practice, sir, they ought to do better than this. By George—a most ridiculous spectacle! That chap has actually missed another."
"Strikes me it's a most dangerous game," said Professor Ivins. "I declare, I should like to get a little further away, where those balls—what do they call them?—yes, yes: foul tips—a most ridiculous appellation, by the way—would not be so likely to hit us. I read of a case——"
"Strike two!" came from the umpire.
"Disgusting—disgusting!" snorted Mr. Barry. "An exhibition well worth missing. Sir?"
Professor Hopkins seemed quite pained.
"I was saying that Tippen looks bigger and stronger than any of our players."
His manner was almost apologetic.
"There are plenty of boys in the high school quite as big," snapped Mr. Barry. "If the coach knows his business, why didn't he select some of them?"
"Three strikes! Batter out!"
Mr. Barry thumped the bench vigorously with his knotted cane.
"I'm not sure that I shall wait to see the finish of the game," he announced, stiffly.
"I quite agree with you," added Professor Ivins, rising. "If it is your pleasure, gentlemen——"
"Not yet," answered Mr. Barry. He consulted his score-card. "Alfred Boggs," he said. "I hope he does better than his predecessor."
But "Alf," as the right fielder was generally called, didn't. He simply fanned the air vigorously and was retired.
"Now 'Jack Frost,'" exclaimed Bob Somers, "see if you can't be the first to solve Tippen's delivery."
"Get those glum looks off your faces, fellows," admonished Coach Steele. "I'll admit Tippen is a mighty good lad; but, remember, they haven't put a run across the plate yet."
"And won't, either!" cried Tom.
The team eagerly watched "Jack Frost," as he faced his rival. The Star crowd still kept up their yells and quips. Frost, however, scarcely heard them. He had a burning ambition to send a "grass-cutter" safely out of reach of the shortstop.
"Gee, if I only get half a chance!" he murmured.
With every nerve at high tension he waited.
Striking vigorously at the first pitched ball, an electrifying crack filled his heart with glee.
But the sphere, instead of taking the course he had hoped, launched itself fiercely upward and in the direction of the three gentlemen on the bench. The catcher, dashing his mask to the ground, sprinted hard.
"Foul ball! Batter out!" told the story.
As Jack threw his bat spitefully aside he observed a small body of freshmen dragging the bench into safer territory, with three dignified gentlemen following close behind.
"If he only drives them away it would be worth losing the game," chuckled Benny Wilkins.
"I hope it gave 'em a jolly good scare," observed "Crackers" Brown, sourly. "They haven't any business to be watching a game like this."
"Ha, ha! That's so," laughed Benny. "When is a game not a game?"
"When the Kingswood Stars play the Ramblers?"
"Oh, you rude thing. No; when it's punk. Isn't the way our chaps play ball enough to make Barry plant corn on his lot?"
"Get out, you croakers!" snapped Harry Spearman.
"The game isn't over yet," put in little Joe Rodgers, whose generally smiling face looked grave. "Just wait till Dave Brandon gets another chance at bat."
"We've been doing nothing else but wait," growled "Crackers." "So far, it's been a sad, sad spectacle."
"Oh, cheer up," said Benny. "Who grabs the stick now?"
"Con Fuller."
The Stars were swooping in from the field.
"Hurry up, fellows; crack out a few runs, and finish the game!" sang out Nat. "Tippen can't win it all alone."
"I need just one more chance," said John Hackett. "When it's my turn to bat if I don't knock down one of those out-fielders I won't eat any more pie until to-night."
Con Fuller, a big, aggressive-looking boy, smiled grimly.
"Just watch me, Hackett!" he called. "Here's where the cover gets knocked off the ball."
"Oh, my, a good dollar and a quarter ball gone to waste," grinned Benny. "Don't do that, Con. Just dent it. Say, have you noticed how fierce Roycroft and Lawrence look? I wonder if it's Guffin's or——"
"Rah, rah, rah! Boom!"
A furious blast rising from hundreds of throats made it evident that Con Fuller's boast had almost come true. The cover was still on the ball, and it probably wasn't even dented, but those who had been looking in the right direction saw the sphere sailing far over the left fielder's head and stout Dave Brandon making a wild effort to overtake it.
"A three-bagger, sure," groaned Phelps.
But, as the shouting crowd calmed down, they saw that Dave Brandon's rapid recovery and accurate throw had held the runner at second.
"Well, that's going some, anyway!" cried Nat, hilariously.
"Bet if I was at bat now I could bring him in," said Hackett. "If you don't do some good stick work, Sam Manning, there'll be trouble."
Manning, vigorously chewing gum, had a determined glint in his eye.
"Frost is melting; Frost is melting; the pace is too warm for Frost!" shouted Kirk Talbot. "He's getting weak; his nerve is gone! Hi, hi, hi!"
"One ball!"
"I told you so!" snickered Kirk.
"One strike!"
"Take it easy, Sam. That was only an accident," advised John Hackett.
"Two strikes!"
"Lam it, you pirate; lam it!" howled Nat.
Manning smiled curiously. Then, as the ball again shot toward him, he bunted just inside the third base line.
Baseman and pitcher dashed simultaneously toward it. Benson, however, stopped the ball, which he tossed to "Jack Frost" with the laconic remark:
"Too late."
Fuller and Manning played off the bases as far as they dared, worrying the pitcher to the best of their ability.
"Two men on the circuit and none down!" yelled John Hackett. "Don't be afraid to take a chance, fellows. Go it, Fuller; get right off to third!"
The number of gloomy faces among the high school contingent increased.
"I've a dreadful fear that the Ramblers are going to pieces," muttered Benny, disconsolately. "Dave Brandon will never, never print the article I'm going to write. Hello—I reckon this settles it!"
George Marlow, left fielder of the Stars, had connected with the ball so successfully that next instant all three bases were occupied.
The Stars found their voices once more. A vociferous din, in which megaphones and tin horns added to the volume, came from all parts of the field.
"Ah, here's where I do it!" cried John Hackett. "Watch me, Nat. If I don't everlastingly smack the pill I'll work an hour overtime at the store."
"I can stand Hackett's blow because it only makes you grin," mumbled "Crackers." "He knows enough not to mean what he says."
"Say, John looks as dangerous as a regular league player, doesn't he?"
The Stars' coacher near first was bawling out his orders with monotonous regularity.
It was an anxious moment for the High. With none out, the situation looked mighty serious, especially as one of Nat's strongest batters stood at the plate. Two balls and a strike were called before John Hackett got into action. The tall player then swung with all his force.
A terrific bounder shot off in the direction of first base.
At the crack of the bat Conway Fuller, with lowered head, started for home. The rousing cheers of the Stars rose to frantic heights; the purple and white rooters stood glum and silent. Tom Clifton sprang off his base to intercept the ball. The yells—the sight of the wildly-excited boys—made only an indistinct impression on his mind. For the moment, to him, nothing existed but the ball lashing viciously over the ground.
It smacked resoundingly into his gloved hand. Without straightening up, Tom drove it unerringly home and sprang back to the sack.
There was a different sound to the cheers which now reached his ears. They had a volume which made the preceding shouts fade into insignificance. Fuller was out at the plate, and Brentall had whipped the ball back to him.
John Hackett was straining every muscle to reach the bag in safety. But, as an object whizzed past his head and a dull thud sounded, he realized that his effort had been in vain.
In spite of a feeling of intense disappointment, he slapped Tom Clifton on the shoulder.
"Good work, old boy; good work—a corking double play!"
Tom's eyes sparkled. Volleys of cheers for Clifton rang pleasantly in his ears.
"Thanks, Hackett," he replied. "I guess we can play a little when we try."
Sam Manning on third, not discouraged by Fuller's failure to score, launched forward as Kirk Talbot singled. The followers of Nat Wingate went wild with glee. The first run for the Stars was marked down on the score-board, and there were two on bases.
"Jack Frost" seemed to lose some of his control, while the high tension was evidently affecting several of the other players. Right Fielder Alf Boggs fumbled Jeff Wilber's hot liner. Once again the score-keeper made an entry.
"And still two on bases," groaned Joe Rodgers.
"The school team is going to be defeated, sir," Mr. Rupert Barry was saying to President Hopkins. "I've no doubt they will be white-washed."
"Dear me—white-washed!" exclaimed Professor Ivins, somewhat startled. He looked around, as though half expecting to see colored men with pails and brushes. "White-washed!" he repeated. "Do you mean the fence?"
"No!" snorted Mr. Barry. "The baseball nine."
"Dear me—extraordinary!" murmured the elderly professor, in puzzled tones. "Doubtless it is another of those preposterous expressions connected with baseball parlance. Is it, I might ask, a—a general custom to refer——"
"I fear it will be whenever these boys play the Stars," said Mr. Barry, grimly.
It was a disastrous inning for the school team. Before big Bill Steevers' pop fly fell into the hands of "Jack Frost" the Stars had three runs to their credit.
"Never mind, fellows," said Bob Somers, cheerily. "It's a part of the game."
"Of course," laughed Dave. "If it weren't for Tony Tippen we'd probably have twice that many runs ourselves."
"A game's never lost until it's over," said Coach Steele. "You're playing against a pitcher of unusual ability. But don't let that discourage you for a moment."
The end of the eighth inning found the score four to nothing in favor of the Stars.
"We'll simply have to do something now," growled Tom Clifton. "Just listen to Nat Wingate howling. If we don't, maybe he and Hackett won't go strutting around town proud as peacocks."
"Roycroft, if you'd been in this game there might be a different story to tell," grumbled "Crackers"—"eh, Earl?"
"I'm not saying anything," answered the former football guard.
"But I am," put in Owen Lawrence. "These chaps seem to be weak on the stick work."
"You never faced Tony Tippen," sniffed Benny Wilkins.
"Well, if I couldn't do any more than sideswipe the air I'd be sorry. Who's up?"
"Charlie Blake."
"Then we might as well go home."
Charlie, fully determined to do his share toward staving off a disastrous defeat, stilled a nervous flutter at his heart.
"Better to make a try than stand still and hear the umpire yell, 'Three strikes and out!'" he reflected.
He aimed at the second ball, and perhaps no one on the lot was more surprised than he to hear a sharp crack and to see the horse-hide whirling off into space.
Spurred on by a furious din from the purple and white, he sped down the first base line long before the ball was returned to the infield.
The players who had looked so gloomy a few moments before brightened up amazingly. After all, Tony Tippen could be hit. It was a pleasant surprise to many.
"Oh, ginger! If we'd only started this thing in the earlier innings!" groaned Tom Clifton, as he picked up a bat. "If Blake could do it, so can I."
With all his judgment, he aimed at the first ball which cut the plate.
It was the hardest swing of which Tom Clifton was capable. The ball, struck squarely, flew to the left of second base. Nat Wingate, leaping in the air with upraised hand, stopped its onward progress. The sphere rolled to the ground.
With a swift dive, Nat recovered it, stepped on the base and shot the ball to first.
It was the nearest the high school team came to scoring that day, Bob Somers, the next batter, going out on a foul.
The Kingswood Stars and their friends were warm and happy. Tony Tippen became the hero of the hour. He accepted his honors modestly.
But Nat Wingate and John Hackett, who came in for their share of lionization, did not take the victory so quietly.
"Now let somebody call us 'Pie-eaters'!" jeered Nat. "I say, Clifton, do we need some dieting? Won't you join us at a doughnut party to-night?"
"Get out!" retorted Tom, angrily. "One more inning, and we'd have had you going."
"Oh, yes; you'd have had us going around the bases one after another."
Over by the bench Mr. Barry was punctuating some remarks with emphatic motions of his knotty cane.
"Extraordinary—extraordinary! Not even one of them got as far as second base!"
"I suppose you will not come again, sir?" ventured Professor Ivins.
"I most certainly shall," answered Mr. Barry. "But I hope to goodness I'll see a more cheering sight on the next occasion."
The boys who happened to hear these remarks told their companions. As fast as though the air had wafted the words from one point to another the school had them on the tip of its tongue. And they grew in importance in the process of traveling about.
"Never mind, fellows," remarked Bob Somers, as they gathered in the gymnasium. "There are two more games with the Stars before the inter-scholastic championship begins."
A boy rushing wildly into the doorway attracted his attention.
"Hello, Benny! What's up?" drawled Dave Brandon.
"An awful lot!" cried Wilkins, breathlessly. "What do you think? Luke Phelps just told me he heard that Mr. Barry said he was so disgusted he thought of withdrawing his offer—honest fact. Say, Brandon, does that article of mine have to be typewritten?"
"I'm not so sure the 'Reflector' will touch very heavily on recent sporting matters," answered Dave, smiling.
"Is Phelps in the room?"
Tom Clifton's gruff voice rose clearly.
"Sure! Just came in. What's the row?" answered a voice.
"Who told you what Mr. Barry said?"
Phelps pushed his way between the groups toward the players.
"Everybody. No one caught his exact words, but they must have been something pretty hot. There are enough rumors floating around to hurt your eyes if they could be seen. It's been a fierce day, hasn't it?"
When Tom Clifton walked home that evening he passed the field for the use of which the club was fighting.
It had never looked more alluring. He stopped to gaze over its broad green expanse with wistful eyes. His glances wandered from one no-trespassing sign to another. They looked much more formidable now than they ever had before.
"Great Scott!" murmured Tom. "What a beginning—four to nothing!"
The sting of defeat lasted for some time with the students of the Kingswood High. The friends of the Stars crowed loudly over their victory; and Tom Clifton, whose boasting previous to the game had annoyed so many, received a generous share of sarcastic flings.
The disquieting rumors which resulted from Mr. Barry's remarks hovered over the school with unpleasant persistency.
"Honest, Bob, it wasn't fair of him to pitch into the crowd at the very first crack of the bat," exclaimed Tom, morosely, in the gym a few days later.
"Nobody seems to know just what he did say," chuckled Bob.
"Don't worry, Tom, old boy," said Dave. "Athletes should keep their minds free from care."
"Wonder if I hadn't better go and see him?" mused Tom.
"Goodness, no!"
"Well, here's the latest."
"Wait till I get my note-book," cried Benny. "Three forty-fiveP. M.'The latest—as told by Mr. Clifton.' Go ahead, Tom."
Tom scowled fiercely.
"It isn't any laughing matter, son," he exclaimed, grimly. "You all know what an eccentric old man Mr. Barry is——"
"But not so much as to make him unreasonable," suggested Coach Steele.
"Oh, I don't know. Listen."
The squad "listened," as did many lads who crowded the big room.
"He's an eccentric old creature," repeated Tom. He glanced sternly into Benny's grinning face. "What do you think? I heard that one of the fellows—one of our fellows, mind you—said the way we played ball was enough to make Mr. Barry plant corn on his lot."
"Oh—oh!" gasped Benny Wilkins, faintly.
"Yes, it's so. I'd just like to find him and punch his head."
"That isn't enough to get excited about," laughed Bob Somers.
"You haven't heard the worst. Some chap with more tongue than brains thought it was such a good joke he'd have to tell somebody else, and Mr. Barry happened to hear what he said. And——"
"What happened?" demanded Benny, even more faintly than before.
"Mr. Barry got angry—told Professor Hopkins he hadn't thought of it before, but if that was the way the school was talking he thought the idea might be a good one. If I knew who said it in the first place I'd punch him right here."
"Maybe some one could point him out," suggested "Crackers" Brown, pleasantly. "How about it, Spearman?"
Benny Wilkins made a determined effort to look innocent and unconcerned. It was a most distressing moment until he realized that Spearman, although he guffawed loudly, had nothing to say.
A solemn grin played about the corners of Brown's mouth.
"I'll bet it was you, 'Crackers'!" cried Tom.
"Couldn't have been I," mumbled Brown, "because I have more brains than tongue. I didn't do it. But if you want to scrap I'll accommodate you right now."
"Never mind," said Benny, joining in a roar of mirth. "Wait until they lose the next game."
"I'll get him yet," announced Tom, fiercely. "See here, manager"—he turned toward Lou Mercer—"we play the Goose Hill fellows next Saturday?"
"Correct!"
"If any more boys in the school think Mr. Barry's lot ought to be turned into a corn field they'll change their opinion after that game."
"We'll see," said Owen Lawrence, shaking his head very knowingly.
"What we shall see," supplemented "Crackers."
"I think," mused Benny, "that I'll finish my article on the baseball game. Goodness! Wouldn't it be awful if somebody should tell Mr. Barry what Tom called him—an eccentric old creature?"
Study and practice kept the boys busy for the rest of the week.
The Goose Hill crowd had considerable reputation, although the Stars had won a spirited contest from them by the score of five to three.
Goose Hill was situated on the outskirts of Kingswood, not far from Wolf River. The inhabitants of the Hill, for the most part, worked in the big mills which skirted the river for some distance. They were rough but honest people, living in neat little houses which generally stood in the midst of spacious yards. Many cultivated the ground, or directed their attention to the raising of poultry. The Hill owed its name to the fact that a majority of the bird fanciers chose geese as a means of adding to their incomes.
There were some odd and picturesque corners on the Hill decidedly pleasing to those artistically inclined. Dave Brandon had often wandered about, sketch-book in hand, and, in this way, met Mr. Stephen Kimbole, proprietor of the general store which crowned the elevation.
No one within the confines of the Hill was ever heard to call him Mr. Kimbole, however. To every man, woman and child he was "Uncle" Steve. "Uncle" Steve, though a little, dried-up man of uncertain age, still possessed plenty of life and energy.
From his porch one could look down upon the river and the busy mills sending up clouds of smoke and steam. Not far from the base of the hill, and some distance in from the river, a large stretch of turf was given over to the mill workers for their sports. They had crack football and baseball teams, and had won notable victories.
"Uncle" Steve seldom failed to attend the baseball games. He was regarded as a crank on the subject. Few knew more about the fine points of the game than the old storekeeper.
The thought of the Goose Hillers having a series of games with the Kingswood High filled him with delight.
"I'll be there," he exclaimed to Dave Brandon the day before the game. "I'd sooner lose a quarter's sales than miss it."
So, on the next afternoon, "Uncle" Steve was a prominent figure among the great crowd which gathered to witness the contest. Most of the Nat Wingate contingent seemed to be on hand.
On this occasion Nat's loyalty to the school made him a partisan of the "Ramblers," as many still persisted in calling them. When the players appeared on the scene a tremendous volley of shouts and blasts from megaphones assailed their ears.
"Just listen to the mean bunch!" growled Tom Clifton. "You'd think they were all on our side. I guess Nat is going to try and rattle us."
"Don't let him," counseled Benny Wilkins. "Oh, say, there's Mr. Rupert Barry already."
"If I hear of any of our fellows saying mean things about the club this afternoon they'll find me down on 'em like a ton of red-hot bricks." Tom glared around sternly. "Think I know, now, who got off that silly jabber about the corn field."
"Who?" asked Benny.
"Owen Lawrence."
"I—I don't think so," stammered Benny.
"What do you know about it?"
"I—I—that is—I just thought—er—er—that——"
"Oh, of course, nobody said it was Lawrence. But he looks mighty funny every time I mention it."
Benny changed the subject.
"The Hillers look like a likely bunch," he exclaimed. "Who's that funny little man over there with a white beard? Shouldn't think he'd trot out to see a game of ball."
"You couldn't drive him away with one of Nat's megaphones," said Tom. "It's 'Uncle' Steve Kimbole. Reckon he knows who stitched the first ball and who broke the last bat."
The school nine, in their natty uniforms, were given a cordial greeting as they marched toward home plate.
The big crowd witnessed a highly interesting game.
But two costly errors and a great batting rally of the Goose Hillers in the eighth were the two principal reasons for the home team winning by the score of seven to three.
On several occasions, under fire, both "Jack Frost" and Charlie Blake showed signs of going to pieces. It was a mighty disgusted lot of boys that finally boarded the Kingswood trolley.
Several scouts, who had been eager to pick up whatever crumbs of information fell from the lips of Mr. Barry, were on the same car, as anxious to supply the news as the others were to hear it.
"He was downright mad," announced Luke Phelps, who had the honor of carrying three bats and three pairs of gloves.
Phelps waited so that this news could have all the bad effect possible.
"Anybody could see that," added a junior.
Not all the boys had been able to find seats, but Phelps, nowise bashful in company, spoke loud enough for all to hear, as he continued:
"Yes—he said it certainly looked as if the corn would win the field. He kicked about lack of judgment on several plays, and——"
"Said Somers needs stronger and heavier players," broke in another junior, eagerly—"heard that with my own ears."
"You couldn't have heard it with anybody else's," growled Art Bowers.
"Say anything more?" came a query from the front end of the car.
"A whole lot of things," answered Phelps, with importance, "but I can't think of any just now."
"Another sad, sad day," remarked "Crackers" Brown, solemnly.
"You chaps are talking like a bunch of quitters," howled Tom.
"I'm just stating facts."
"We're not discouraged, Brown," said Bob Somers. "The team hasn't shown its true form yet."
"Of course it hasn't," asserted Roger Steele. "Just give us a chance, boys. There was a little lack of team work in to-day's game, and"—he smiled rather grimly—"some of the boys were a bit rattled by the noise and excitement. They couldn't do themselves justice."
"I guess he means me."
Charlie Blake's foot touched the heel of his neighbor's shoe.
"Oh, I don't know," returned the other, encouragingly. He lowered his voice. "When the fellows were most yelling their heads off, didn't 'Jack Frost' send three men to base on balls in succession?"
"Just as soon as the game is over I feel how much better I could have played," sighed Charlie. "Honest fact—all that rooting does get on my nerves."
"Just because you're not used to it."
"Nat Wingate's crowd certainly acted handsomely by you chaps," remarked "Crackers." "Nat is just as solid for the good of the school as we are."
Suddenly the high, piping voice of the youngest junior rose clearly above the clatter of tongues and the steady rumble and grind of wheels:
"Yes; it was the funniest sight I ever saw. He acted just like a kid; yelled as loud as a pirate! And the queerest part of all was that he seemed kind of chummy with Mr. Barry."
"I guess 'Uncle' Steve was figuring on selling him a bag of peanuts after the game," said a sandy-haired sophomore.
"Heard him say he was coming over to see the next game between the Stars and Ramblers," announced the first.
"Sure he didn't say slaughter?" asked "Crackers," gazing innocently over the rim of his glasses.
The crowd was in a tumult.
"Put him off, conductor!" bawled Benny Wilkins. "He's been rude to the nine."
"If things don't go better I'll be ruder yet," said "Crackers."
When the car swung into the depot the crowd seemed to melt away on the instant, leaving the rather gloomy-looking members of the nine to make their way to the gymnasium alone. Even Phelps seemed to consider it no longer an honor to burden himself with bats, balls and other articles.
"I can't understand it," growled Tom Clifton. "Just think, Dave—seven to three!"
"Oh ho! We can't win every time, Tom," returned Dave, dryly.
"Cut out any gloomy talk, fellows," advised Coach Steele, earnestly. "Be good losers. Let each defeat make you only grit your teeth and plunge in all the harder."
"That's the talk!" cried Blake, brightening up. "We'll do it."
As the days followed each other, Steele's earnest efforts served to put new life and vigor into the team. The Somersites stuck manfully to the nine. Any set of boys who could inaugurate a new era in the athletic affairs of the High were not going to be deserted simply because they had begun the season by losing a couple of games.
Even their ardor and enthusiasm, however, received a rude jolt when the school nine and the Stars again clashed. The score, six to one, told the story of an event which helped to make history for the High. Only those who didn't favor Bob Somers and his crowd cared to talk about it.
They were willing to admit the nine had made some brilliant plays, but pointed out the fact that these same brilliant plays were always on the defensive. They said, too, that when Blake got rattled he was badly rattled; and, according to the way "Crackers" summed up the situation, when the bases were full "Jack Frost" was likely to fall down harder than a chimney in a gale of wind.
"Sit tight and don't say a thing," advised Owen Lawrence. "The school'll wake up in time."
Benny Wilkins' articles on the ball games did not find a place in the "Reflector," but, possibly, they were read by nearly as many students as though they had. Some glanced over their contents with roars of laughter, while others waxed so highly wroth as to cause Benny to steer a careful course in another direction when they approached.
Quickly following the game with the Stars came another against Goose Hill, this time on the home grounds.
Another disheartening page was written in the history of the school's athletics. The official score-card bore this entry:
"Goose Hill 8: Kingswood High 2."
On the day following Coach Roger Steele received a laconic letter which read: