"You can put your request in writing, Brown; but, honestly, I don't think it will do a bit of good."
Sam Randall, president of the athletic association and member of the Rambler Club, seated at his desk in a room which adjoined the gymnasium, gazed squarely into his visitor's face.
It was late on the same afternoon, for Brown had determined to force the issue at once.
Within the last year Sam Randall had grown to be quite a young man in appearance. All the lines about his clean-cut face tending to firmness had become accentuated, and he had a quiet, decisive manner which even had its effect on the imperturbable Brown.
"I'm to understand, then, that my challenge has been thrown down flat?"
Sam Randall toyed with a paper-weight on his desk.
"No, I can't say that, Brown. I'm only one of the officers of the association. The others must speak for themselves."
"But you, as president, ought to have a great deal of influence," suggested "Crackers," slowly pacing the floor. "I tell you plainly, the fellows are getting worked up; they won't stand for any dictatorial methods. Aren't you going to use your influence to prevent the explosion that one more defeat would certainly bring? It might blow nearly every member of the organization out of his job."
"Ah!" said Sam.
His keen eyes showed no sign of wavering.
"You know how to take a hot proposition very coolly," said "Crackers," in soft tones. "Is there any use of arguing the matter?"
"I don't think so."
"Neither do I. But, to make sure, I'll hunt up the rest of the officers, and see what they think about having the match shoved so close to the gunpowder."
"Remember this," retorted Randall: "Some one has just said that the fellows won't stand for any dictatorial methods. You must include yourself as well as the rest. So-long."
"Crackers" immediately reported to his lieutenants outside the gymnasium.
"Well?" queried Lawrence, eagerly.
"He won't listen to reason," said Brown, shaking his head gravely. "His abruptness almost pained me."
"Why not call all this thing off?" asked Earl Roycroft, with a disturbed expression. "Suppose we give 'em another week?"
Owen Lawrence eyed him scornfully.
"That's a fine way to talk," he growled. "If you're going to back down at the very start we'd better know it now."
The big captain of the "Hopes" flushed.
"Of course I'm not," he answered, hastily. "All I want is to see everybody get a square deal."
"That stout gentleman who poked his delicate frame into the gym this afternoon about typifies the actions of the Ramblers," remarked Brown. "He has an idea that every one must bend to his will. So do they. Why, in that room back there, I began to think I was talking to the head of some big corporation doing business in a dozen states."
"There's no use chirping all day. Let's get busy," broke in Lawrence, impatiently. "What's the first move, Brown?"
"A poster announcing our intentions would be about the proper caper," answered Brown, reflectively. "I'll consult my special artist, Mr. Benny Wilkins."
"What! Can he draw?"
"He may not have Dave Brandon's a-mazing talent, but, at any rate, his sketches don't need explanations to go with 'em. I'll jolly him into making one—that is, unless the other High Moguls of the association overrule the iron hand back there."
Before supper time Dan Brown had managed to interview Harry Spearman, Dick Travers and the others.
As Sam Randall had predicted, he got no encouragement.
"That settles it," murmured "Crackers." "The next thing is to see Benny Wilkins."
Benny was decidedly surprised when the coach of the "Hopes" called upon him that evening. He was also much pleased.
"Gee whiz, Brown, this is going to boost me into a person of national importance. Of course I can make the poster; I can draw even with my eyes shut."
"And color, too?" asked Brown.
"Sure; coloring is easy for me. I know all about it. Here, pull up a chair, Mr. Brown, and I'll make the sketch right now."
After a great deal of thought and much hard work, Benny evolved an idea which met with the chief "outlaw's" approval. On one side the design represented an armor-clad knight with his heel on the neck of a prostrate boy who was apparently yelling with all his might.
"The chap on the ground represents the school," explained Benny.
"Great idea!" exclaimed Brown. "What's the knight?"
"A figure representing tyranny and oppression," answered Benny, glibly. "I haven't studied history for nothing, have I, Brown?"
"I'm agreeably surprised," murmured "Crackers." "I really didn't expect it of you, Benny. The Ramblers are shown in their true light at last. What's that mass of lines on the right—a house on fire?"
"Goodness gracious, no! That's going to be the Goddess of Reason, enthroned, bowing to the will of the school. I'll stick your phiz on the front row, Brown, and the lady'll be giving you the glad hand."
"Stunning idea!" said Brown. "I guess if the government ever catches sight of this poster they'll have you design all their new postage stamps. When will it be done?"
"I'll bring it around to the school to-morrow morning."
"Good! And I'll put on the lettering."
Benny aided the gas company considerably that night, never stopping work until a piece of heavy wrapping-paper two by three feet had been liberally flooded with color.
To be sure, it looked a little odd in the morning; for the surfaces which seemed so delicately yellow at night proved to be of a startling brilliancy.
But the poster, mounted on a board, attached to a stout stick, and planted in a prominent position on the campus, made the sensation for which Brown had hoped.
Pushing, jostling crowds quickly gathered before it. Every one seemed to be asking questions or answering them. All through the school an inquiry found its way:
"Say, have you seen that poster?"
Those who hadn't quickly joined the army of those who had.
Only the calm counsel of Bob Somers and Dave Brandon prevented some of their hot-headed supporters from hurling the offending object to the ground and trampling it to pieces.
"The drawing is very good indeed," said Dave. "Benny's an artist. He ought to be encouraged."
"How can you talk about the mean little duffer that way, Dave?" exclaimed Tom, wrathfully.
"Don't take it too seriously, Tom. We haven't lost our jobs yet."
"All the same, I'm afraid I'll have to get out if the rumpus keeps up much longer," reflected Charlie Blake.
Brown's announcement called for a meeting that afternoon under an enormous elm on the campus. His object was to explain to the students the "Hopes'" contention that they had the better team and by gaining recruits compel the regulars to yield to their demands.
When class exercises were over "Crackers," Roycroft and Owen Lawrence, followed by every member of the "outlaws," in uniform, made directly for the tree.
A dense, excited crowd of students awaited them. A rousing cheer went up.
"Rah, rah, rah for Roycroft! Hurrah for Brown and Lawrence!" was carried off on a surging sea of sound.
The Somers crowd, glum but determined-looking, seldom voiced a protest.
Dan Brown promptly mounted a box placed under the wide-spreading branches of the tree. The excitement and tumult found no reflection on his face.
"Fellows," he began, in a calm, even voice, "the school is going to get those grounds!"
A burst of wild cheering came from his followers.
"In order to do this great work for the High we've been obliged to match extraordinary conditions with extraordinary methods. Fellows, we must determine which shall rule: red tape and regularity, or common sense."
"Common sense, common sense!" roared an admiring contingent.
"So say we all! There's material enough here to form a nine which could trim any team in the section."
Another salvo of cheers rang out.
"Some fellows seem to have the silly idea that we're doing all this to stir up trouble. I was impolitely told yesterday to meander over to Guffin's and hatch up another plot."
Jeers, and shouts of "Vanitas!" from Lawrence.
"Really, it quite pained me. Why are we doing this thing, boys?"
"For the good of the school!" bellowed his team in chorus.
"Exactly! Our proposition for the Ramblers to play us has been turned down. Why?"
"Because they know that you'd lick 'em worse than the Stars have done!" yelled Aleck Parks.
An emphatic roar of approval, mingled with hand-clapping and shrill whistling, brought a gleam of pleasure into Brown's gray eyes.
"That's it! Fellows, I have three propositions to offer. Alone, we count as nothing; but with the school behind us our force would be as irresistible as the—as the——"
"He's stuck!" cried Victor Collins. "He's floundering!"
"As the tides," completed Brown.
"I told you! He's floundering in the tides," giggled Victor.
"The first proposition is this: simply force the regulars to play us, and prove they have the better team—if they can. If the crowd continues to refuse, the second proposition is to demand a thorough reorganization. I have players who ought to be on the school team."
"Roycroft, Roycroft, Roycroft!" shouted the students.
"And until the other day I never knew what star players we had in Platt and Bush—both of 'em nearly six feet of bone and muscle—plenty of skill and speed, besides."
The noise and confusion became so great that "Crackers'" oration only reached those on the outside of the mass as disconnected sentences.
"The 'Hopes' will have such a string of victories——"
"Hurrah, hurrah!" shouted the crowd.
"Order, order!" bawled Lawrence.
The tumult subsided.
"Proposition number three is this: in case the Ramblers refuse all overtures, the students shall recognize our team—the hard-working, victorious 'Hopes'—as the official representative of the school!"
The storm of approval which immediately followed grew to such uproarious proportions as to make the combined efforts of the "outlaws" to restore order futile. Their voices were drowned in a roar of sound which carried a conviction to the hearts of Bob's friends that the Kingswood High was about to be plunged into the stormiest period of its history.
Earl Roycroft looked hot and uncomfortable as he heard his name called from every point of the campus.
"Roycroft, Roycroft! Speech—speech!"
This cry was caught up and repeated until the big fellow was literally forced to take his place beside Dan Brown.
Only husky throats and tired lungs brought the quiet for which Dan Brown was pleading.
"Look out—there'll be a perfectly good box busted under that ton weight!" piped Victor Collins.
"Fellows, I appreciate your kindness," said the big captain of the "Hopes." "I only want to do the right thing for the school. We all know that every effort should be made to win Mr. Barry's field; and I'm afraid the regular team is not equal to the job. I am one of those who believe the majority counts. If you agree with Brown—and it looks very much as if you do—all I have to say is: give us your support."
"We will—we will!"
"Our team is going to develop rapidly. We ask you to watch its progress."
As Earl stepped down, to be slapped enthusiastically upon the shoulder by Owen Lawrence, Brown spoke up:
"If any of the officers of the athletic association or the Ramblers are present I invite them to state their side of the case. That's fair enough, isn't it?"
There was an instant of tense silence.
"They're over on the lot practicing, coachy," cried Victor Collins. "Those chaps are right on the job, while you're putting up the biggest blow I ever listened to."
"Crackers" gazed toward him mildly, but made no reply.
"Fellows"—he abruptly raised his voice to a pitch of harshness—"I ask you to pledge your support. Those who are with us raise their hands."
Arms shot up from every quarter, and the roar of voices which accompanied the movement caused the boys practicing on the distant field to stop and look around.
"I hope you understand, Somers, that I have nothing against you fellows. Nobody ever heard me squeal. But if the school wants me to play what can I do?"
Earl Roycroft, with an expression of embarrassment on his good-natured face, was speaking to Bob Somers, not more than an hour after the meeting on the campus.
"I don't blame you, Roycroft," answered Bob, as the two walked along Central Avenue. "I'm sure the rest won't, either."
"Not even Tom?" queried the captain of the "Hopes," with a faint smile.
"On reflection, I'm not so sure about that," grinned Bob.
"We're old friends, Somers; and I hope this"—Earl paused. A troubled look shone in his eyes—"this unfortunate muddle won't cause any trouble between us."
"It isn't going to."
"Well, it must go against the grain to see one of your old chums on the opposition line-up. Honestly, Somers, don't you think"—Earl hesitated again—"that you'd better—well—reconsider this matter? It's a fact, Somers: you're losing supporters every day. The thought of saying good-bye to that field has put such a scrapping spirit into the boys that they're ready to fight to a finish."
Bob reflected a moment before answering.
"Then you mean that we should yield to popular clamor?"
"No, that isn't it. I hope—I hope you won't be offended if I speak plainly." A smile from Bob encouraged the rival captain to continue. "You chaps have been traveling about so much you haven't had a chance to keep in the game like some of the others. I don't say you can't play good ball—mind. When your crowd was practicing, as candidates for the team, you looked good to all of us. But, somehow"—Earl became considerably embarrassed again; his eyes shifted from the frank gaze of his companion—"I suppose I'll have to finish it," he sighed—"you don't seem to be of a quite strong enough caliber to truly represent the school. Now, Bob, it's out; and I guess you feel mighty hot about it?"
"Not a bit, Earl. I admire your honesty and candor. I'll agree that things look rather discouraging. Still,"—the captain seemed to weigh his words—"don't you think your very contention that we've not had as much practice as the others is an argument in our favor?"
"How?"
"Because, in a little time, we'll round into shape. The nine is improving steadily, though some of the fellows are so excited and hasty they can't see it."
Roycroft shook his head.
"I don't doubt you are sincere in feeling that way, Somers," he said, slowly, "but the boys couldn't be made to think so. Then, again, you've lost your batting eye. Mr. Rupert Barry has kicked enough about that, I'm sure."
"I've heard about it," laughed Bob, dryly.
"And some of the fellows feel sure—I don't like to say it, Somers—that you're not playing as well as you did a couple of years ago. Tom Clifton, too, though he's done some pretty good work, doesn't seem to have the necessary physical strength."
Earl looked searchingly at his companion, expecting each instant to see a gleam of anger in his eye. Bob, however, gave no indication that his feelings were disturbed.
"One thing, Roycroft," he said: "you spoke about our traveling around so much we couldn't keep in good trim. This applies only to Dave, Tom and myself. There are six others in every game."
"Sometimes one man is enough to lose a contest," answered Roycroft, dryly.
"You're right there," grinned Bob.
"Aren't you going to listen to my advice, Somers?"
"Why, I'm not running things, Earl. I'm only captain of the team."
"Come now, Bob, don't try to put up any such ridiculous bluff as that. If you wanted the team reorganized it would probably be done."
"Who do you want fired?" asked Bob, bluntly.
"Blake, Clifton, Boggs and maybe a couple of others," answered Roycroft, with equal bluntness. "Think it over, Somers. I'll leave you here. Sure you don't feel sore about what I've said?"
"Not a bit of it," responded Bob, heartily. "It hasn't ruffled a hair. So-long, Earl. Yes; I'll think it over."
On the same evening all five members of the Rambler Club met in Bob Somers' study to discuss the situation. The languid air which usually characterized Dave Brandon was entirely absent.
"We must take a firm hand, Bob," he said, emphatically. "The only question to consider is this: are we merely stubborn and mistaken, or is our confidence in the team so justified that we can feel sure of final success?"
"If our nine isn't quite up to the 'Hopes' now I am certain that later on it will be a great deal better," said Bob.
"How did they manage to get such a good team?"
"That's easy to figure out," replied Dick Travers. "Wherever he could, 'Crackers' selected the biggest men. Most of the chaps belong to the roughest bunch in school—an unruly lot. They have plenty of brute strength, and are sort of carrying things by rough-house methods."
"But the club can play and is likely to go right on winning," said Dave, emphatically.
"Oh, I'm not saying anything against their ability," admitted Dick. "But outside of Roycroft and several others, it is chiefly confined to hitting."
"They can line out the ball—and that's about all they can do," supplemented Tom.
"If it wins games it's enough," returned Dave. "Now suppose we could beat the 'Hopes' to smithereens. Would you play 'em?"
Dave broke into a broad grin, but the others looked very solemn indeed.
"It's awful to feel that lots of fellows think we're crawling," said Bob, "but, in that case, perhaps—perhaps—we would."
After a short pause, Dave continued:
"Since the organization of the Rambler Club the crowd has run into some pretty stirring adventures, and has had quite a few thrills." He smiled quizzically. "I refer you to the history now appearing in the 'Reflector.'"
"Never read better writing in my life; it's stunning!" cried Tom.
"Thanks! Now let's get back to the issue. We've had things pretty much our own way. All of us graduate this year. We expected to leave school in a blaze of glory, with the winning of Mr. Rupert Barry's field as the final achievement of our student days. I agree with you, Bob: in a short time the regulars will be a stronger nine than the Brown aggregation."
"Why not just call his bluff and play them?" exclaimed Tom, excitedly.
"Oh, no," said Dave, with a twinkle in his eye. "They might beat us. And if they did we'd find ourselves squelched and thrown on the scrap heap."
"And so fast that we'd never recover from it," added Sam Randall. "Our crowd would have the pleasure of standing around watching the 'Hopes' play in the inter-scholastic series."
"There are a lot of chaps in the school who would help 'Crackers' throw us out just for the sake of the excitement. Nothing to do, fellows, except to fight the thing right out to a finish."
"And we can hold our end up, too!" cried Tom. "Of all the mean chumps I ever ran across that Earl Roycroft is the biggest. What do you think? He had the nerve to speak to me this evening—honest, Bob, I came mighty near calling him down—said he wanted to explain things; and I told him he needn't mind."
"Oh, Earl's all right," laughed Bob.
"All wrong, you mean. Suppose Steele should put him and a few others on the team? Do you think it would stop 'Crackers' Brown's hollering? Not on your life! He'd groan like a wheezy old locomotive for something else."
"Just my idea," agreed Dick Travers.
"Then I gather that we're going to stick it out, eh, Bob?" said Dave Brandon.
"Yes!" answered the captain, with emphasis. "I have studied the playing of the 'Hopes' carefully. Roger Steele agrees with me that they won't get much further in the fine points of the game."
"And that's just the thing we're trying for," said Tom.
Bob beat a tattoo on the floor with his foot.
"We were a bit rusty, fellows," he confessed. "It's taken us longer to get into condition than I expected. I feel that we are nowhere near our true form yet."
"I never thought things would turn out like this," said Tom, disconsolately. "Nearly every time I pass one of the 'Pie-eaters and doughnut crowd' they say something mean. Good thing they can't get my nerve like they do Charlie Blake's once in a while."
"Well, then, it's settled," said Sam. "We'll just let the opposition howl itself hoarse."
"If they'd only stop their yelp and let us alone it would show a lot more sense," remarked Dick Travers. "How in thunder do they expect us to win while they're kicking up such a row and knocking us on every side? But never mind; they can't bluff us."
"You bet they can't!" cried Tom.
"Boys, I fear I have a big supply of the weaknesses of human nature," said Dave. "I'm actually stirred up about this thing; I'm in a fighting mood. Why are we acting this way?"
"For the good of the school!" laughed Bob.
"And for our own good, too!"
"This little meeting has put us straight on the affair," remarked Sam Randall. "Our only chance to win out is to stick together. The student body elected us to take charge of the athletic interests of the High; and, in doing so, they gave us rights which we must now force them to recognize. If they have common sense enough to do so, the rest ought to be easy."
The boys enjoyed the evening more than any had anticipated, and, on taking leave of one another, each firmly resolved to show the enemy a bold, determined front.
"The fourth straight," said Aleck Parks. "The 'Hopes' are mowing 'em down as easily as a scythe cuts grass. How's that for playing, Luke Phelps? Wasn't yesterday's game a peach? Nine to six against Willington. Roycroft cracked out a homer, a two-base hit and a single. Oh, yes; that's going some. I saw 'Vanitas' sneaking around in the crowd looking kind of pale."
"If the Ramblers lose the next game they'll be yanked from their jobs as fast as a vacuum cleaner sucks up dust," remarked Phelps, complacently. "They go over to play the Engletons again to-morrow."
"Another bucket of white stuff for the official record," growled Parks. "Let's get away. Here comes 'Checkered-Cap.'"
"Afraid of him?" laughed Luke.
"No! It's his own safety I'm thinking about. Ever since I met him I've had a hard time to keep from handing him something that might disturb his center of gravity."
"Simply awful!" grinned Phelps. "Let's do the next worse thing—go over and see the Ramblers practicing."
An ominous calm seemed to hover over the school. The "Hopes'" string of clean-cut victories was bringing more wavering Somers adherents into the "outlaw" camp. The quiet did not lull the fears of the staunch supporters of the regulars. It seemed to possess a deeper, more significant meaning than the noisy, wild demonstrations which had taken place on the campus.
On the following afternoon the Engleton trolley did a flourishing business. Eager students and townspeople packed the cars to their fullest capacity.
Engleton was a little town about five miles distant, nestling amidst an amphitheater of hills. The baseball field was situated in the northern part, hemmed in on three sides by steep, grass-covered slopes. At the extreme end of the open section an immense pile of ashes covered what was once a treacherous gully. Several ramshackle frame dwellings, surrounded by rickety or broken fences, with here and there great piles of rubbish, indicated that "Goatville" was not the most select part of the town.
By the time the regulars arrived the ball field and grassy hills were crowded.
"I hope you'll enjoy this game, Roycroft," said "Crackers" Brown. "I can't help feeling kind of sorry for Bob Somers. He's a pretty good sort. But I guess this is the last game the Ramblers will play as the school team."
"Here, Dan Brown, you cut out calling it the Ramblers' team, or there'll be a whole lot of trouble!" cried a gruff voice so near at hand that the captain of the "Hopes" was startled.
Tom Clifton, with flushed face, was striding forward.
"Trouble?" echoed Brown.
"Yes! And more than you can handle. I know your game, Brown. You've been sneaking around, trying to put it into everybody's head that the Rambler Club is running this team. Do you get me, Dan Brown?"
"I KNOW YOUR GAME"
"I KNOW YOUR GAME"
"I KNOW YOUR GAME"
"I shall pretty soon," returned "Crackers," solemnly.
"Oh, you think you're mighty smart!" cried Tom. "But if your specs weren't so blurred with conceit you'd see that you're going too far."
"I suppose this is a little prelude to the show," said the coach, pleasantly. "It's a bad thing for ball players to get overheated before the umpire begins his chirp. Please oblige me: run away and cool off."
"Two forty-fiveP. M.A ball player advised to run away and cool off," piped Benny Wilkins, suddenly. "What's the best way, Mr. Brown—shower bath or——?"
"You're the meanest little duffer in the whole school!" cried Tom, turning upon him wrathfully. "It's a wonder you have the nerve to show your face inside the door!"
"Well, I like that!" snorted Benny. "Now what's up?"
"Oh, you thought you could keep it quiet. But I found out, just the same."
"Found out what?"
"Why, it was you who said that mean thing about Mr. Barry planting corn on his field!" fairly exploded Tom. "You ought to be ashamed to look me in the face."
Benny was aghast.
"What—what?" he stammered.
"I don't wonder you can hardly speak," went on Tom, fiercely.
"Hardly speak?" interposed "Crackers." "Why, if you're not careful, he'll let off such a blast that we'll all get blown down flat."
"Well, suppose I did say it! It was all a joke!" admitted Benny.
"A fine joke!" jeered Tom. "Didn't it make Mr. Barry so mad that he almost felt like withdrawing his offer? Oh, I know all about it!"
The look of embarrassment faded from Benny's eyes, to be replaced by an expression of blazing anger.
"I don't care if you do," he roared. "And I know something about you, too, that ought to make you chuck off that uniform and beat it back to Kingswood."
"Get out!" snapped Tom. "You don't know anything, and never could know anything. That wooden head-piece of yours wouldn't hold it."
"You haven't got anything on me, 'Vanitas!'" Benny Wilkins stalked forward, planting himself directly before the tall first baseman. "I don't, eh?" he cried. "Just listen to this: one day in the gym you called Mr. Barry an eccentric old creature—you know you did."
Tom's face flushed a deeper crimson.
"Well—well?" he demanded.
"And Mr. Barry heard about that, too! I got it from a fellow who knows. And maybe he wasn't riled!—said he wished he'd never made the confounded offer."
"I—I don't believe it," gasped Tom.
"Ask Victor Collins, then. You will try to sit on me, 'Vanitas'—you will, eh?"
"If Mr. Barry heard about it, I'll bet you told him yourself!" howled Tom, thoroughly angry. "You're small in every way, Benny Wilkins. Bob Somers and Steele caught you spying."
"You mean that I caught 'em trying to sneak into Mr. Barry's without being seen," retorted Benny. "I never said a word to Mr. Barry. But if you get too fresh with me, 'Vanitas,' he's going to learn the name of the particular chap who made such an interesting remark; that's the only thing he doesn't know. Now—will that hold you for a minute?"
The altercation was attracting considerable attention. A grinning crowd, industriously calling upon the two principals to "mix it up a bit," presently brought the realization to Tom that his thoughtless remark uttered in the gymnasium was being scattered broadcast.
"Said Mr. Barry was an eccentric old creature!" jeered Benny, "and has the nerve to try and call me down for something not a quarter as bad!"
"You've got the tall one going!" cried an Engleton boy, encouragingly. "Don't be skeered. Wade right into him."
"I'll sic a goat on him; that's what I'll do!" exclaimed Benny.
"Hello, Tom Clifton! Hello, Tom!" coming over the air was the most pleasant sound the first baseman had heard for some time. "We're ready for practice," continued the voice—Roger Steele's. "Hello, Tom! Where are you?"
"Coming!" bawled Tom. Then darting an angry, flustered look at his little tormentor, he added: "I haven't done with you yet, Benny Wilkins."
"Is that so?" sneered Benny. "If you and Blake had sense enough to get off the team maybe all this row in the school would come to an end."
"Do you think I'll stand for being pushed off? Well, I rather guess not!" cried Tom.
"Have a wooden head-piece, have I? Well, it isn't a solid block like yours. Just remember: If the school doesn't get those grounds T. 'Vanitas' Clifton will be one of the chaps who's most responsible. Everybody's saying it."
Embarrassed and confused by the staring, noisy crowd, so full of emotion that his tongue seemed almost incapable of framing the words he wished to utter, the first baseman turned away.
"Everybody saying it, eh?"
Tom Clifton's thoughts sprang back to the beginning of the season, when, full of confidence and enthusiasm, he had expected the High's team to go from one victory to another. "Vanitas!" The word rang in his ears. He recalled now that his zeal and earnest efforts in behalf of the nine had called forth remarks of a somewhat similar nature before. But his armor of confidence was so great that the shafts dropped harmlessly aside.
"I never could have believed it," he murmured. "The fellows are twisting my words and manner into something wholly undeserved. They ought to see that it was only because I'm red-hot for the school and team."
The first baseman was so deep in thought that he scarcely heeded the voices of the fans, or the sharp cracks of the bats as the balls were sent flying over the field.
"So everybody's saying it: if we don't get the field I'll be one of the chaps who's most responsible, eh? By George! I wonder if it's true! I'll find out before night."
Tom's thoughts turned to the crowd—the fickle crowd—ever ready to yell itself hoarse when things were breaking right, but which, he reflected bitterly, was often equally ready to jeer and hoot a player off the field on small provocation.
"What's the matter, Tom? Aren't you going to practice to-day?" called Roger Steele, catching sight of him from his position near home plate.
"Sure!" responded Tom, making a strong effort to change the channel of his thoughts.
"Anything wrong, son?" Steele came forward. He lowered his voice. "You look kind of down in the mouth."
"Oh, it's nothing," said Tom.
"Well, get busy. I think we can turn the trick to-day."
Tom had been losing his self-consciousness. Now, however, it returned with added force. The first baseman could not shake off a feeling that the fans, friends and foes alike, had their eyes upon him, watching every move. The vigorous shouts, the blasts from megaphones and the strains from Victor Collins' bugle seemed to possess an importance which he had never noticed before. He felt in a far greater degree than the other players how much hinged on the contest.
With his nerves at a tension Tom was, naturally, unable to do himself justice. In his over-anxiety to play the best game of his life he made several errors which called forth derisive yells of "butterfingers!" from the familiar voice of Benny Wilkins.
"Take him out!" yelled some one else.
"How'd he get on the nine?" screeched Aleck Parks.
"Who told him he could play ball?" shouted Jim Wilton.
"It's enough to make any self-respecting trolley company refuse to carry him home," growled Luke Phelps. "I wonder if he's selling out the High?"
"I suppose that kind of talk is for the good of the school?" roared a tremendous voice.
Captain Bunderley glowered savagely upon the group, the members of which, a little startled at having their words overheard by so firm a friend of the Ramblers, returned his gaze without speaking.
"You remind me of a mutinous crew who deserts the captain of a ship in the hour of peril." The skipper's tones spoke volumes of disapproval and disgust. "How do you expect that lad to play when you're doing everything you can to rattle him?"
"Good! Soak it to 'em, Uncle Ralph," cried Victor Collins. "They certainly need it."
"You may have started out honestly enough," went on the captain, relentlessly, "but your idea now seems to be to have your own way at any cost."
The group was silent and sullen.
Then the heavy broadside of the captain seemed to waft them away like the blasts of a hurricane. That part of the field knew them no more.
"He's the noisiest old chap I ever saw," cried Aleck Parks, after a distance of two hundred feet separated them from the skipper. "I'd like to give him a piece of my mind."
"Why didn't you?" asked Benny Wilkins. "Maybe your intellect suffered a complete lapse."
"You're like a two-edged sword, Benny," growled Aleck. "You've got something mean to say to everybody. Fellows, the only thing I ask is this: if you see me getting anywhere near 'Checkered-Cap' to-day grab me at the front, back and sides. I'm afraid I might accidentally let fly, and pulverize him."
"By Jingo! There's Brown talking to the old salt water pirate, now," put in Benny. "Another fifty feet for me. I wonder if we'd better run? His voice gives me the staggers."
"I'm going back," announced Parks, firmly. "Roycroft and Lawrence are with Brown. Ha, ha! I think they'll protect us from violence."
Captain Bunderley's arm, directed straight toward them, however, caused Benny Wilkins' motion of fifty feet to be immediately seconded.
"Those were the chaps," the skipper said to the imperturbable Brown.
"But, captain, the boys are all worked up over this affair; you can't expect 'em to act like a lot of little French dancing masters," protested Brown.
"All nonsense! I say emphatically you're not giving the nine a fair show. I've noticed your carryings-on."
"Sorry you feel that way, captain. We look upon things differently. When a set of fellows chosen to represent the school doesn't make good it's up to the boys to find another set who will."
"And that's what we've done," put in Owen Lawrence.
"I'm sorry all this has happened," put in Earl Roycroft. "No one wanted to see Bob Somers succeed more than I."
A tremendous volley of cheering and the sight of boys waving their caps in the air put a stop to Captain Bunderley's reply.
Looking over the scene, he saw hilarious groups racing down the grass-covered slopes and the field being invaded by a stream of humanity on its way to the break in the hills beyond.
"Ah! The game must be ended," said Captain Bunderley. "I was so busy talking I forgot to look. What is the score, young fellow?"
He addressed a boy just passing.
"Five—two, favor Engleton."
"That clinches our argument, Captain Bunderley!" exclaimed Brown. "Compare the showing the 'Hopes' made against Engleton with that of the Rambler Club's ball nine." He paused an instant then added significantly: "This is probably the last game they'll play as the recognized team of the Kingswood High."
That night, Tom Clifton, a sadly-disturbed boy, paced the floor of his room. Mental pictures of the events of the afternoon constantly passed in a disordered array before his mind.
He knew that he had made a wretchedly poor showing in the game.
But whose fault was it?
In a heated discussion with Roycroft he had attempted to place the blame where he felt that it belonged, only to become convinced that his efforts were wasted. The big fellow told him all he cared to know about the general sentiment that existed among the students.
In the quiet of the room Tom Clifton attempted to study the situation from all sides. He owned to himself that he felt very unlike the boy who played in the opening game. But it was not until to-day that his confidence had received a blow in a vulnerable spot.
What should he do?
The thought of again facing the jeering, critical "fans" of the opposition and the sarcastic cries which were bound to come from Benny Wilkins and others on the smallest provocation made the hot blood mount to his face.
He paused before the window, to gaze out upon the starlit sky and the long lines of houses and lights which lost form and brilliancy in the distance. Mechanically, he watched the passers-by, envying their apparent freedom from care and trouble.
"I wonder if Bob has ever thought I should get off the team!"
Tom Clifton had never before been assailed with such conflicting emotions. Was Mr. Barry's field destined to become the monument to the folly of a few?
"I'll go right over and see Bob now," he decided, suddenly.
And then, just as Tom was about to open the door, the sarcastic, grinning face of Benny Wilkins seemed to flash before his eyes.
"Am I going to let that chap think I'm a quitter?" he exclaimed, aloud. "No, sir; not on your life! I'll play the game to the end."
A heavy load of anxiety seemed to instantly take wing. The grim, set expression about the first baseman's lips relaxed. He walked with a springy step to his study table and plumped himself down on a chair before it.
"No, Mr. Benny Wilkins, you'll never have a chance to say I have a yellow streak," he muttered. "I understand those chaps. Work to beat the band to scare a fellow off the team, and when he does call him a quitter."
Once more Tom plunged into his studies, thinking his doubts and perplexities were entirely cleared away. As he picked up a Latin grammar, however, the mocking cries of "Vanitas!—Vanitas!" which of late had become more frequent popped into his head.
"Van-i-tas!" he repeated, slowly. He raised his elbow on the table; his chin dropped into the palm of his hand. "And I heard that 'Crackers' Brown said I was a conceited specimen, if there ever was one. It's all a mistake. I never was either vain or conceited. Still——"
Tom paused. He was studying hard to view himself and his conduct from the disinterested standpoint of a spectator. He strove to reconstruct scenes and incidents about the ball field.
Yes; perhaps his remarks to the "Pie-eaters and doughnut crowd" had carried a note of egotism, which, at the time, he never suspected. He had talked in a "big" fashion, too, about what he expected the nine to do on the diamond. It was pretty hard to throw the cold light of analysis upon himself; yet, once started, he continued relentlessly.
At last Tom leaned back in his chair with a sigh. A smile played about his mouth. The flood of thoughts brought him to a better understanding of himself than he had ever before possessed. He realized now how easy it must have been for the boys to think him a shallow boaster.
"Maybe this hasn't been such a bad thing, after all," he reflected. "Even Dave, I remember, has looked at me in a queer way once in a while. I'll be a bit more careful what I say from now on. As for all those howling rooters, they'll never get me going again. And Benny can keep right on yelling his 'butterfingers' and 'bonehead' in that little piping voice of his until it goes on strike."
Tom Clifton turned to his books again, and this time was able to give his undivided attention to study.
When the members of the nine got together in the gym on the following day their faces looked grave but determined.
"That last defeat seems to have made some of the fellows pretty sore," remarked Bob Somers.
"The biggest kick of all is coming mighty soon," said Alf Boggs. "'Crackers' Brown and his crowd aren't saying much just now. But you can bet your uniforms they're getting ready."
"I have the pleasant sensation of a chap who is sitting on a keg of gunpowder with some one behind about to touch it off," put in Dave Brandon, dryly.
"Oh, I wish to goodness it was all over," sighed Charlie Blake.
"What! The touching off process?" laughed Dave. "I don't want to leave the diamond that way. There's no glory in it."
"Besides, it might hurt one's feelings," said Willie Singleton.
"Well, I haven't had to go to a nerve specialist yet," grinned Fred Benson. "How d'ye do, Joe Rodgers! Haven't seen you for two days. What's doing?"
"Seems to me an awful lot," answered Joe, with a grin. "Hello, Dave! Teacher says I'm going to make the High in great shape one of these days. What do you think? I'm playing on a baseball team."
"Which one?" asked Dave.
"The Stars. Nat Wingate said he'd give me a chance. Say, you don't think it's mean of me, do you?"
"Of course not," answered the editor of the "Reflector." "Good luck, Joe! And play for all you're worth."
Boys were flocking in and out of the big room, and above the general noise Benny Wilkins' voice soon made itself heard.
"I tell you it is so, Aleck Parks! Look out! Who's treading on my toes? Yes, I saw him myself, only a few minutes ago, walking along as if he owned the whole earth. And when he got to Mr. Rupert Barry's he turned and went up those steps. Quit leaning against me, Luke Phelps. Are you too lazy to support your own hundred and fifteen pounds? Oh—there's Joe Rodgers over there!"
"Finish your story!" cried Parks.
"It isn't any story; it's true. Captain Bunderley didn't come out for twenty-five and a half minutes."
"Wonder what in thunder he went there for?" inquired Luke Phelps.
"Crackers" Brown, standing near the doorway, moved leisurely toward the group.
"Straight goods, Benny?" he asked, pleasantly.
"Certainly is. I jotted down a note, too. Reads like this: 'The Crackerites probably get their first big jolt.' You know, Brown, what the Cap thinks of this 'For-the-good-of-the-school' business."
"He's an old meddler," said Brown, in a low tone. "The first thing you know he'll be stirring up trouble."
"I know something else, 'Crackers,' and it ought to put more ginger into your voice. When he left Mr. Barry the 'Ancient Mariner' came hiking right over to the school."
"He did?" exclaimed Brown.
"He did! He's in there now. Guess he's telling President Hopkins a few fine things about Parks, Phelps and Company. Their squeak yesterday didn't do your side a bit of good, Brown."
The coach of the "outlaws" looked thoughtful. There was a gleam behind the eye-glasses which made Aleck Parks hope that a first class row might add zest to the afternoon.
"S'pose we skip over by the big front door and see him come out," he suggested. "Phelps, you an' I'll stand together close there; an' if he gives us a steely glare it'll show, perhaps, that he's been up to some mischief."
"Not a bad idea," said "Crackers," approvingly. "But, mind now, I don't want you chaps to say anything."
Followed by a large group, the party walked outside, directing their steps toward the school entrance.
"Where are you leading that army, Brown?" called Owen Lawrence from a distance.
"Follow us, and see!"
Lawrence relayed the message to Roycroft, who, with several other "outlaws," was already on his way to the practice field, the result of this move being that when Brown and his contingent arrived at the steps a straggling army was headed in the same direction.
Questions and answers were hurled from one boy to another. Naturally, no one knew anything about the matter; but many thought they did. Rumors born of a chance utterance seemed to spread with the speed of a wireless message, until an excited and jostling crowd of students surrounded the stoop-shouldered form of the chief "outlaw."
"Hello, Brown! I say—what's the matter?" came from Owen Lawrence.
"Is the school on fire again?" asked Earl Roycroft, glancing upward at some smoke which emanated from a hidden chimney.
"Yes! It's burning up with indignation. But the blaze won't get far before the firemen are on the job and put it out."
"Hooray for Brown!" yelled Aleck Parks.
"Three rahs for the good of the school!" shouted Benny Wilkins.
"And a 'tiger' to get after the Ramblers!" added Luke Phelps.
"My only regret is that we haven't a moving picture machine to get some films of our friend with the heavy-weight voice when he trips down the steps and sees this crowd," remarked Brown.
"You're a mean thing to want him to trip," said Benny Wilkins. "I guess those specs hide a hard, cruel light in your eyes."
"Boys, I think we'd better skip," said Earl Roycroft. "Our business is ball playing; not gaping at visitors to the school. Don't you think this will look rather queer to President Hopkins?"
"The enemy must be fought with their own weapons," answered Brown. "We wish to show the aid-de-camp of the Ramblers that those who have the good of the school at heart see everything going on. They must be shown that they can't play this game of favoritism."
"All right," said Earl, resignedly.
Murmurs of indignation began to be heard. Rumors had become almost moulded into certainty.
What right had the captain to interfere?
Five minutes later a warning "Sh-h-h-h!" rippled from the various groups. The door of the school was seen to open, and the portly form of Captain Bunderley stood on the top step.
As he walked down his gaze was directed toward the gathering. Upon reaching the ground he paused. The lines on his good-natured face tightened when he saw the serenely smiling countenance of "Crackers" Brown.
Aleck Parks found it convenient to avert his eyes from the glare which, a second later, fell upon him. He momentarily expected to hear a thunderous outburst.
Captain Bunderley, however, showed no signs of recognition; and, without a word, resumed his walk. The students watched his big form swinging along the graveled path until it passed outside the ornamental gateposts.
"I feel sure he's tried to do us," growled Parks.
"Such an opinion is creditable to your power of discernment," said Brown. "Back to the field, boys. The show is over."
On their way the coach called Benny Wilkins to his side.
"Benny," he said, "thanks for telling us about this. Want a job?"
"Not if there is any work to it."
"I've too much sense to ask you if there was."
"You put me in mind of a cannon cracker that hasn't been exploded," grunted Benny. "Fire away!"
"Victor Collins has a pretty good line on what the captain says and does, hasn't he?"
"Certainly!"
"Well, if you find out just why the captain went to see Mr. Barry, and what brought him over to annoy President Hopkins and tell me I'll give you a new note-book."
"The idea of asking me to act as a spy!" said Benny. "Outrageous! But I'll do it. Understand, of course, I don't like the job. What are crocodile tears, Brown? That's the kind somebody said you dropped every time the Ramblers play a game and are made to eat nothing but doughnuts."
"I know there's a bunch of trouble-makers in this school, but that doesn't worry me," answered Brown. "If the regulars had been winning games I'd probably be half asleep now reading a book. Get busy, Ben. Report to me after practice."
"All right. Please remember, 'Crackers,' I don't want any book that you've fished out of some waste-basket."
Three-quarters of an hour later a slight boy wearing a large checkered cap, and who was intently watching the "Hopes," now hard at work, was approached by the grinning Wilkins.
"Say, Benny, I haven't seen any of your articles in the 'Reflector' yet," began Victor Collins. "I guess you can't write worth beans."
"My talents can't be measured by the bean standard," returned Benny. "They cost only six cents a quart. Look at Bush shooting 'em over home plate! Suppose your old Ramblers had to face pitching like that! Wouldn't they get bowled down in one, two, three order?"
"Go on, Know-it-all!" snapped Victor.
"I wonder what kind of a game Bush'll put up against Rockville Academy next Saturday. The inter-scholastic series begins then."
Victor Collins grinned.
"Funny little ideas seem to creep into that funny little noddle of yours," he remarked. "Neither Brown nor all the rest can bluff Bob Somers."
"Is that so? I know your Uncle Ralph is on the firing line, ready to use up all the ammunition he has in the shop to help 'em. Guess Mr. Barry told him the jig is up with the Ramblers."
"Humph! Spying again!" sniffed Victor. "I don't know what Mr. Barry said, and wouldn't tell you if I did."
"You don't even know what your uncle went to see him about, I s'pose?"
"Of course I do."
"I dare you to tell me."
"Who do you think I'm afraid of—you?"
"Yes! And if you have the nerve to say that Captain Bunderley has been saying anything against the 'Hopes' I'll attend to your case right now."
"You will!" howled Victor, beginning to pull off his coat. "You will! Well, wade right in and mix it up! That's just what Uncle Ralph did do."
"Thank you, Mr. Collins," said Benny, sweetly. "You've given me all the information I wanted. Don't you think I make a pretty good spy? Ta, ta!"
During recess on the following day Dan Brown knocked gently on the door of President Hopkins' private office.
"Come in!" called a mild but authoritative voice.
The president, a dignified figure, was seated at his desk near the window.
"Good-morning, Brown! What can I do for you?"
He motioned the originator of the "Hopes" crusade to a seat close by.
"I have been delegated by a committee to call upon you," answered "Crackers," articulating each word with great distinctness.
"Ah, indeed! Who is the committee?"
"Earl Roycroft, Owen Lawrence and Frank Bush, representing the new baseball club and almost the entire body of students."
Professor Hopkins looked surprised.
"What is the nature of your business?" he asked.
"We think the time has come when an unfortunate exhibition of obstinacy on the part of a few students should come to an end."
"Go ahead, Brown," said the president, as the big lad paused.
"We should be very glad indeed if you would allow us the use of the assembly room to hold a meeting."
"For what purpose?"
"As you know, professor, the inter-scholastic series begins next Saturday. Rockville Academy will send its team over here to play the first game of the season. If the regulars meet them it is bound to be a bad day for the High; the school team, so far, has failed to win a single victory, while the 'Hopes' have not met with a single defeat."
The professor gazed abstractedly out of the window. Brown, the earnestness of his manner increasing, kept on.
"When Mr. Barry made his generous offer he positively said that only a winning team would get the grounds."
"Quite true, Brown."
"Can you blame the boys for objecting strenuously when they see such a magnificent prospect fading with every game the regulars play?"
The president's revolving chair wheeled sharply around. He removed his eye-glasses, to stare searchingly into "Crackers'" impassive face.
"Brown," he said, slowly, "the boys composing the athletic association were elected to their respective positions by a great majority of the students. A coach was duly appointed and players selected. Do you think it is fair to them that, before the inter-scholastic season has actually started, they should be hampered and discouraged by their own comrades?"
"We are working for the good of the school," answered "Crackers," doggedly—"that's our motto."
"But your ideas and the actual facts may not agree. You haven't yet told me for what purpose you wish the assembly hall."
"We would like to vote, to-morrow, on the question as to which team shall play Rockville Academy. Our fellows are perfectly willing to abide by the decision of the school. That seems to all of us a perfectly fair proposition, professor?"
"Have you submitted the matter to the athletic association?"
"We asked them to reorganize the team, and met with a curt refusal. We tried to get them to play our club, the 'Hopes'—same thing again, although in the beginning they were quite ready to cross bats with any team."
"Perhaps so, Brown. But the circumstances in this case are entirely different. The regular coach usually attends to such matters. You have formed an organization which has no official standing; it is not subject to the rules or direction of the athletic association. In fact, it is directly antagonistic to them."
"The reason we ask for the hall is to give the club official standing," returned Brown, easily. "The students are clamoring to have this done."
President Hopkins shook his head.
"The faculty of the school never interferes with athletic affairs unless for very serious reasons. Those stated are not sufficient to justify me in acceding to your proposal." The president leaned forward. "My attention has been called to the fact that some of the boys have been shouting and carrying on in such a manner as to lead one to suppose that they desired above all things to see the regulars defeated. I heard this from a reliable authority."
"I'm afraid the person who told you is not disinterested," said Brown. "We know who he is. Besides, in every cause, there are nearly always some foolish hotheads whose actions can't be controlled." He rose to his feet. "Don't you think you could change your decision, professor? I'm sure the students would appreciate having the use of the room; and this troublesome matter ought to be ended at once."
"No, Brown, I cannot."
There was no expression of chagrin or disappointment on the chief "outlaw's" face, as he turned away, exclaiming cheerfully:
"I thank you very much for the interview, professor."
Of course, through the agency of Benny Wilkins and several others, "Crackers'" visit to the principal immediately became known throughout the school.
"And Brown got thrown down flat, Mr. Editor of the 'Reflector,'" remarked Benny, addressing Dave Brandon.
"Please don't send me a three-column article about it, Benny. What did Brown want with the assembly room?"
"Oh, that's telling! Spies have to keep mum. I've gotten to be the greatest little sneak in the school, you know."
"It's all right so long as you do your spying in the open," laughed Dave.
That afternoon the regulars went through their practice as usual. But the boys who gathered on the field seemed to be much more interested in comparing notes than they did in watching the players.
"I reckon the big kick Alf Boggs spoke about is almost due," laughed Coach Steele. "Anyway, fellows, in spite of all this commotion, every one is steadily improving. I guess you've been a bit more disturbed than any of us really imagined."
"Perhaps so," said Bob. "I suppose it's like everything else; our nerves have now become accustomed to the strain."
"The unexpectedness of it was what got me," added Tom. "How'd you feel about it, Blake?"
"Pretty badly, until the last few days," admitted Charlie.
"You've both done rattling good work this afternoon," put in the coach, encouragingly. "Keep it up."
"No one will ever see me play such a game as I did last time," said Tom.
"We are finding our batting eye, too," remarked Dave. "With a couple more weeks' practice we ought to be right on edge."
"I notice the 'outlaws' are not working to-day," said "Jack Frost." "Guess it means they're still busy for the good of the school. But don't let it worry any one."
The staunch Somers partisans who witnessed the practice were much pleased. And they industriously spread this fact broadcast.
When the students gathered in the assembly room next morning they expected to hear only the usual introductory remarks from President Hopkins. The head of the school, however, instead of dismissing them at the customary moment, rose from his seat at a desk and advanced to the edge of the platform.
"Boys," he said, in an earnest tone, "I wish to speak to you about certain matters which I find are dividing the school into two factions, and, I regret to say, causing considerable ill-feeling."
A murmur of suppressed excitement, which found relief in muffled "Oh's!" and "Ah's!" spread through the hall.
"I do not doubt that the boys who are causing this commotion have been actuated by entirely good motives; but, unfortunately, movements of this sort, which spring from disappointment, instead of helping matters often act as a hindrance."
"Crackers" Brown nudged his neighbor savagely in the ribs.
"Did you get that, Platt?" he whispered—"a hindrance!"
"You can just bet the 'Ancient Mariner' put the notion into his head. Those Ramblers seem to have even the faculty of the school right where they want 'em."
"It's simply a-ma-zing!"
"I am sure Mr. Barry regrets this state of affairs as much as I do," went on President Hopkins. "We all cannot be winners as we go through life; and to accept defeat manfully and philosophically is sometimes just as creditable as wearing the crown of victory."
"I never knew he was capable of remarks like that," observed Benny Wilkins, cautiously.
In another part of the room Owen Lawrence was saying:
"Mighty fine words! But I'd a heap sooner hear the sound of the axe chopping down those no-trespassing signs."
"I sincerely trust you will think matters over calmly. Remember: the boys whom you find so much fault with to-day are loyal to the school and deeply interested in its welfare. Therefore, be sure that your prejudices don't mislead you; give them the chance they deserve."
As President Hopkins closed his brief address a round of applause followed; but it seemed to come from but a very small portion of the students.
"Ha, ha! You will, will you?" laughed Alf Boggs, passing "Crackers" on his way to the class room. "Got called down, eh? Guess that'll hold you fellows for a while."
"Brown is so pained he'll never do it again," chirped Benny Wilkins. "Give me that note-book you promised, 'Crackers,' and I'll make an entry: 'End of the Brown agitation.' Ha, ha! Lots of fun going to school, isn't there?"
"You'll think so to-morrow," said Brown, ominously.
With quick, springy steps Owen Lawrence reached the side of his chief.
"I don't like the way the president talked a bit," he snapped. "He practically accused us of being hot-headed and prejudiced. It's all very well to talk about accepting defeat; but what's the use when you don't have to?"
"There'll be no accepting defeat here," returned Brown. "What do you think of this idea, Lawrence?"
In a low tone he spoke earnestly to his companion.
Lawrence nodded.
"A capital scheme, Brown!" he cried, enthusiastically.