If any one ever imagined that Dan Brown would be "held for a while" by the president's remarks they were sadly mistaken.
The first thing which attracted Bob Somers' eye on reaching school next morning was a large poster headed: "Indignation Meeting!"
"By Jingo, that's interesting," murmured the captain of the regulars, pushing his way through the groups toward it.
"Oh, it really is dreadfully awful, Somers!" cried Benny Wilkins. "And everybody thinking, yesterday, that that Brown chap was squelched." He seized Bob by the arm. "Come along. He's said something there that may hurt your feelings."
"So I suppose you're trying to support me," returned Bob. He raised his voice. "Hello, Dave!"
The stout editor, beaming good-naturedly, as usual, sauntered over.
"The blow has fallen, Bob," he laughed. "Have I read it? Oh, yes. Not badly written, either. I wish Brown would scribble an article for the 'Reflector.'"
"Oh—oh! And after firing everything of mine!" wailed Benny. "Isn't that what some one called the 'unkindest cut'?"
Next moment Bob Somers' eyes were scanning the contents of the two by three foot poster, a proceeding which was beset with some difficulty, as a great crowd of boys constantly shoved and pushed each other about in an effort to read it.
The announcement called for a meeting on the campus at three o'clock to settle by a vote of the school which club should represent it against the Rockville team.
"The matter has reached a stage when the students must decide this most important question," stated the poster. "The undersigned, who have been working for the good of the school, will cheerfully abide by the wishes of the majority. And, in order that no advantage shall be taken of the regular team, we invite them, or any one they may designate, to speak in their behalf.
"We call upon all of the students to act calmly, and to refrain from unpleasant observations or in any way disturbing the peace. And we emphatically insist that no one shall shirk his duty. Be present without fail—and vote."
The poster was signed by Dan Brown, Owen Lawrence and Earl Roycroft.
"It's an outrage, Bob Somers!"—Harry Spearman had reached the captain's side—"a direct slap at President Hopkins. Didn't he practically command the fellows to quit this row? Of course he did. For my part, I shall insist that not one of our crowd pays the smallest attention to their so-called invitation."
"There will be no soap box oratory from me," declared Bob.
"Nor from me, either," grinned Dave. "I'd rather practice."
"All the same, I am fearful that something fearful will happen," said Benny. "Here comes T. Vanitas. Oh, I say, T. Vanitas Clifton, here's the shock of your young life."
"You'd better cut out such talk," warned Tom. "I absorbed the contents of that silly thing half an hour ago. It doesn't faze us in the least."
"It isn't expected to. But what happens this afternoon is."
The general feeling of unrest and excitement so affected the students that work in the class room suffered greatly. Professor Ivins was much disturbed.
"I declare, Professor Hopkins, I don't know what we shall do," he said in the president's office. "Several of the brightest boys in the school failed lamentably to-day. It is deplorable that this thing has taken such a hold upon them. Cannot something be done?"
"If conditions get any worse I shall be compelled to take a hand," asserted Professor Hopkins. "It appears to me that young Brown is actually becoming defiant. That flaring poster out there is one of the boldest things I ever saw."
"It certainly is," said Professor Ivins, solemnly.
As the time for the meeting drew near "Crackers" Brown and his assistants got into action. Several large boxes, with boards laid across the tops, and designed for use as a table, were placed beneath the big elm, while another box—the speaker's stand—stood only a few feet away.
By the number of students which poured out upon the campus it looked as if the "Indignation Meeting" was destined to be a great success. Occasionally, above the medley of noises, came the blare of ear-disturbing megaphones or blasts from tin horns. Every cheer for Brown was answered with a yell for Somers. The fighting spirit of the students was aroused, and, in spite of "Crackers'" request, the boys did not refrain from unpleasant observations. Only the leader of the "outlaws" and Benny Wilkins wore their usual expressions.
"Are you going to speak for the Ramblers, Mercer?" asked the latter, as he approached the manager of the team.
"I should say not!"
"Haven't got the nerve, eh?"
"Just as you say, Benny. After noting the terrible effect of Brown's nerve I feel a little shy about cultivating any myself."
"Gee whiz! This is the only time I ever saw a lot of fellows who were elected by almost unanimous consent, and then fired out the same way," mused Benny. "There's Brown getting up to speak. Wouldn't I laugh if that soap box broke and upset him. Rah, rah, rah for Somers! Hooray for the Ramblers. Take 'Crackers' down before he starts! Don't wonder he has a buttermilk voice—he's sour!"
Dan Brown looked leisurely around and began his speech.
"Hooray for Captain Bunderley, hooray!" called out Benny, his shrill tones soaring high above all other sounds.
Not many of the boys could hear the words of the coach. It needed a far stronger voice than his to overmatch the incessant din, which sometimes rose into a loud, swelling chorus from every quarter of the campus. But that made little difference. A large piece of cardboard, hung by several cords from the tree, gave all the desired information.
The proposition to be voted for was: Which team should represent the school in the inter-scholastic series; all those favoring the regulars to state whether the club should remain as it was or be reorganized.
Owen Lawrence, who followed Dan Brown, and whose vocal organs were far more powerful, promptly demanded to know if any of the Ramblers were present.
"We gave them a chance to speak on the last occasion, and do so now!" he cried, looking over the heads of the crowd.
The momentary silence which ensued was broken by the voice of Benny Wilkins.
"Hooray for Brown!" he yelled. "Hooray for Somers! Vanitas forever! One school; one ball nine; one everything! Take him down from the stand. Here I come! I want to make a speech myself."
He was pushing his way forward when Parks thrust a very large fist beneath his nose.
"No, you don't, Benny," he growled. "For once in your life be serious. This isn't any circus."
"Jealous because you can't make a speech yourself!" jeered Wilkins. "I dare you to. Let go! I want to say a word for Somers. All right, Parksy. I'll sic Captain Bunderley on you."
Aleck, with his hand on Benny's shoulder, forced him away.
"I understand the regulars don't consider this occasion important enough to bother about," continued Lawrence. "Will you fellows stand for that? Will you stand for outsiders meddling with school affairs—your affairs?"
"Hooray for Captain Bunderley!" shouted the irrepressible Benny.
The Somers party attempted in vain to stem the tide of enthusiastic cheering which greeted Owen Lawrence's words.
"I knew the boys were with us!" shouted Owen. "I feel that by your votes to-day——"
"You haven't any right to buy votes!" screeched Benny.
"I am sure that through the votes you give us," corrected the speaker, "the field which Mr. Barry has offered will become the property of the school. A decisive victory, fellows, will show those who have been so stubborn and unyielding that they dare not hide any longer behind their refuge of regularity." He turned toward the table. "Get busy, boys."
A half dozen lads, each carrying a box filled with slips of white paper, at once began working their way through the crowd.
"Don't miss anybody!" yelled Dan Brown. "And just let me say this: The fellows who fail to vote are mollycoddles. We'll find out who they are."
"Give me a slip—quick!" cried Benny. "I want to vote for the Ramblers. No; I won't shut up, Dan Brown. You never gave me the note-book you promised. Hooray for Roycroft! Get away from here, Aleck Parks. Your language is always rude."
"In order to avoid mistakes or squabbling over the result we ask every student to put his name on the ballot!" called Brown.
The noise and arguments ceased. Every lad felt the importance of the proceedings and wished, if possible, to end the unfortunate situation which had hovered over the school for weeks. In their eagerness to get the slips of paper a jostling, clamoring crowd besieged each holder of a box. Occasionally a small shower fell to the ground, to be pounced upon by those nearest at hand.
"It doesn't seem as if there are any mollycoddles here to-day," exclaimed Owen Lawrence, triumphantly. "See 'em, Earl Roycroft—almost scrapping for the ballots. What are you looking so sad about?"
"I feel sorry for the Somers crowd," answered Earl. "They're all good chaps; and we must give Bob a lot of credit for starting the athletic association."
"And us the credit for putting the useless thing out of business," interposed Brown. "It might be a grand proposition for the school if the chaps who compose it weren't so blind."
"Do you suppose Bob Somers will have the nerve to fight the verdict of the school?" asked Lawrence.
"We'll call his bluff, if he does," answered the coach. "See how many of the fellows who used to shout themselves hoarse for the Ramblers have swung over to our side. This indifference stunt is the Ramblers' last grand card. Mercer's face shows that he knows the jig is up."
"We'll play Rockville sure as shooting," said Lawrence. He raised his voice. "Any fellow who hasn't received a ballot please put up his hand. Gee—look at that mean little codger!"
Benny Wilkins, showing all the symptoms of keen enjoyment, was seen running around scattering handfuls of the ballots and leaving a trail of white behind him.
"I'm going to snow 'em under!" he cried. "I crammed sixteen down Parksy's neck. Hooray for the good of the school!"
"An unmanageable little duffer," remarked Brown, gravely. "We ought to vote on the question of allowing him to remain at the High."
As soon as every one had been supplied with a slip collecting of the ballots began. There seemed to be few wavering voters, a fact which gave much encouragement to the "outlaws."
Each box, upon being filled, was rushed over to the table and emptied. Then the tellers began their work of counting.
The great trunk of the elm partly shielded the busy students from a brisk, pleasant breeze, which, having no regard for the importance of the occasion, apparently strove its best to send the white scraps dancing merrily to the ground. The soft music of the gently-swaying boughs above kept up a steady accompaniment to the noises which once more broke out on the campus.
A dense crowd surged around the table, threatening at times to interfere with the work. The Somers party, while refusing to admit the right of the "outlaws" to put the question to a vote, were bent upon seeing fair play. Several of the most aggressive struggled through the mass and took up a position by the table.
"You needn't be afraid, Lou Mercer," grinned Owen Lawrence. "We're giving everybody a square deal. Carried the thing too far, have we? Maybe—to suit you and Bob Somers; not the rest of the school."
Incessant calls for information regarding the vote were hurled toward the table. The boys found it hard to restrain their impatience. Only the stern commands of Brown and Lawrence kept a semblance of order.
As the work neared completion the excitement became so great that a wildly-clamoring mob threatened to descend upon the table and sweep it, workers and ballots, irresistibly aside.
"You'll undo the whole business!" shouted Lawrence, in alarm. "Keep back! We'll know the result in a few minutes. Stop your shoving and pushing over there. I'll say this much: it's a landslide for——"
"The good of the school!" came a rousing chorus.
"Yes! You've hit the ball on the nose."
At frequent intervals the cheering was renewed. The tabulators worked desperately, and when the returns, added on a sheet of paper, were handed to Brown, who was still standing on the soap box, he was obliged to yell himself hoarse.
"Keep still!" he bawled, holding the paper high above his head. "Keep still! The result is——"
"Order, order!" shouted Lawrence, frantically.
In the midst of a temporary hush, Brown's voice rose clearly.
"Out of a total of four hundred and nineteen voters only thirty-seven have decided in favor of the regular club; ninety-eight are for reorganization; two hundred and eighty-four—two hundred and eighty-four, mind you—a tre-men-dous majority, have come out squarely in favor of the 'Hopes.'"
The greatest din which the campus had ever known was carried off in waves of sound, and Brown, for the first time throwing off his mask of calmness, shouted and hurrahed as lustily as any.
"Well, something has certainly happened over there," remarked Bob Somers to Charlie Blake, as he lined a batted ball back to Singleton.
"I guess I know what it is," sighed the "grind." "Suppose, by this time, 'Crackers' Brown thinks he's it."
In spite of the continual commotion which rang unpleasantly in their ears the nine kept on practicing, with but a very small audience on the field.
At length the slight figure of Benny Wilkins was seen approaching as fast as his rather short legs could carry him.
"Hi, hi, fellows!" he gasped. "Hi, hi! No use for you to play any more. I've got the awfulest news. Don't throw that ball, Dave Brandon; it's no use, I tell you. 'Four tenP. M.'—got it all chalked down—'Somers and Company thrown out by more than a unanimous vote! Rambler Club changes its name to the Hikers.'"
The sensation which Benny hoped to produce did not materialize. The staunch Somers adherents who had refrained from voting were fully prepared for the announcement, while most of the players merely grinned.
"Well, you're a cool lot!" growled Benny, in disgust. "Haven't you anything to say, T. Vanitas?"
A few weeks before, Tom Clifton would probably have made a hot retort, adding a few remarks which might have been twisted into something highly boastful. Now, however, he merely shook his head, and answered with a smile:
"No news for the note-book, Benny."
"Oh, you're a peacherino. I thought you'd go over and scatter that howling mob single-handed. I can see Brown has your number."
"Benny is agitated," laughed Alf Boggs.
"Who wouldn't be when a chap's lifelong friends are given such an awful sack? And I kept on hollering and hollering 'Hooray for Somers!' I did so, Fred Benson. Ask Parksy. Say, for his size, he has the biggest fist in school. Going to sell your uniforms, fellows? I know a good second-hand dealer. You won't fight this thing, will you, Somers?"
"There's nothing to fight, Benny."
"Oh, my, oh, my! If 'Crackers' should ever hear that! I'm going to tell him. Hooray! Guess that means a bigger scrap than ever. Look at this bunch of hotheads coming over. Get ready to run."
Shouts and songs rising on the air and constantly growing louder announced the approach of the crowd.
Rather fearful that some impetuous students might feel inclined to stir up more excitement, Coach Steele stopped further practice.
"We don't want to give them a chance," he explained to Dick Travers.
The secretary of the athletic association nodded.
"Quite right, Steele. They're so jolly well stirred up that a few words might start a near-riot."
The players quickly gathered up their belongings, and started for the gymnasium just as the advance guard of the "bearers of evil tidings" reached the lot.
From more than a hundred tongues came the result of the afternoon's work. The Somers party seemed to have dropped completely out, not even a single cheer answering the ringing cries of the exultant supporters of "Crackers" Brown.
"You're fired out, Somers!" shouted Aleck Parks, with all his force. "We didn't ask the 'Ancient Mariner's' permission to do it, either."
"Don't rub it in, Parks," expostulated Luke Phelps. "Don't you see—the poor duffers have given up already. Let's beat it over to the gym and see the final surrender. Gee Whitaker, mustn't they feel cheap! Come on, fellows!"
The great crowd promptly fell in behind the players, a steady fire of comments passing from mouth to mouth.
"Aren't they a nice lot!" exclaimed Tom Clifton. "What do you think of 'em, Bob?"
"I guess it's more Dan Brown's fault than any one else's," answered Bob Somers. "By George—there's another bunch at the door of the gym. Guess they think the excitement isn't over yet."
"Nice job facing that staring mob!" grumbled Charlie Blake. "Wish to thunder it was all over."
"I almost feel like losing my temper and being rude to some one," sighed Dave Brandon.
In spite of their feelings the players swung toward the gymnasium door with a firm tread, passing between lines of deeply interested, jostling boys whose sallies and jests all allowed to pass unnoticed.
Inside the big room conditions were pretty much the same. But the ball players did not pause until the office of the athletic association was reached.
The indignation meeting had had the effect of bringing every officer and some of the directors to the scene of action. As they entered Harry Spearman was found pacing the floor excitedly.
"Hello, Bob!" he called, catching sight of the captain. "This has been a fierce afternoon, eh? Brown carried things with a high hand. By George! Let any of you fellows waver, and I don't believe I'd ever speak to you again."
"No use to get excited, Spearman," admonished Sam Randall. "If there is a sign of backdown anywhere I haven't been able to see it."
"Only because you're short-sighted, Sammy," screeched Benny Wilkins, who at that instant pushed open the door and peered in. "Get specs like Brown."
"Sneak away from there!" cried Harry Spearman, wrathfully. "Go on, now; get!"
"What's the matter? Can't a fellow even spy in the open any longer? Dave Brandon said——"
Harry thrust him aside and slammed the door.
"Those fellows think the thing is all settled," he exclaimed. "If it hadn't been for Brown and Lawrence talking a fierce streak to a lot of weak dubs who don't know their own minds——"
"Oh, what's the use of going all over that again?" broke in Dick Travers, impatiently. "Let's——"
Bang—bang!
Two sharp cracks on the door echoed noisily.
"Come in!" called Sam Randall.
"Crackers" Brown, wearing a solemn expression, promptly entered, his lieutenants, Lawrence and Roycroft, following close behind.
"Good-afternoon, fellows!" exclaimed the coach of the "Hopes," without a trace of excitement in his manner. "Gee! Awful big crowd in here for such a small room."
An awkward silence, broken only by the sound of footsteps and the scraping of a chair, as Sam changed his position, added to the pent-up feelings which Harry Spearman was finding it hard to control.
Brown improved the moment by polishing his glasses industriously. Then he sidled over to the window, where his stoop-shouldered form was silhouetted in lines of uncompromising hardness against the panes.
"Randall," he began, deliberately, "we three have been delegated by a number of students to bring to your notice the fact that the 'Hopes' have been chosen by a most decisive vote to represent the school. The thing was done fairly and aboveboard. None of you fellows would even speak a word in your own defense."
Sam nodded coldly.
"You cannot go against the wish of the majority." The chief "outlaw" brought out his words emphatically. "We wish to state that the 'Hopes' are going to play Rockville Academy on Saturday."
"Are they?" cried Harry Spearman, excitedly.
"No athletic association is greater than the school it represents. The boys have spoken. Listen! Here is the result of the vote." "Crackers" could not conceal a feeling of elation as he droned out the figures. He paused to receive an answer, but, hearing none, continued:
"This thing ought to be settled amicably. If you fellows are in earnest about winning that field for the school you'll show it by handing your resignations to the board of directors."
"Indeed!" sneered Harry Spearman. "For an absolutely unmitigated piece of nerve and impudence that's the worst I ever heard."
"We didn't come here, to scrap but to talk quietly over the situation and reach some conclusion," said "Crackers," smoothly. "Now, Randall, what do you propose to do?"
"The athletic association does not concede that the school has the right to dictate to it in such a way. We don't intend to ask any members of the baseball club to resign."
"You don't, eh?" burst out Owen Lawrence. "Well, the boys are not going to stand for any more exhibitions of obstinacy on your part. It's either get out quietly or be thrown out!"
"We'll do neither," returned Harry Spearman, crossing the floor to face the new student. "You can't bluff our crowd!"
"No use having a war of words," put in Brown, authoritatively. "I tell you: when you fellows refused to play us a series of games you started——"
Bob Somers interrupted him.
"We'd surely have played your club if it hadn't been gotten up for the express purpose of chucking us out of our jobs," he said, coolly. "You needn't shake your head, Brown."
"I was talking to a chap yesterday who used to be one of your hottest supporters," persisted "Crackers." "I asked him if he honestly thought the regulars had a ghost of a show against the 'Hopes.' He smiled a mighty sickly smile. 'Not the slightest, Brown,' he flashed back; 'the Ramblers would probably be wiped off the map.'"
"The 'Ramblers'!" repeated Harry Spearman. "That's one of your false alarm cries that have done nearly the whole business."
"All your team had to do was to play good ball," returned Brown, dryly. "Then no one could have kicked. But you lost game after game; and when the boys found that you wouldn't play the 'Hopes' because you expected an awful trimming they made up their minds to assert——"
Bob rapped on the table with his knuckles.
"Brown, we have been telling you all along that the fellows only needed a little time to round into good shape. I'll admit the 'Hopes' are a fine team. But we are striking our real gait now, and don't admit that your team is a bit better."
"There's the plank we stand on," put in Roger Steele. "Frankly, if you chaps had caught us unprepared this little disturbance would have been nothing to the one which a few hotheads would now be engineering."
"Ice-water is good for hotheads!" came through the keyhole.
"Our policy has been dictated by a thorough belief in the team," said Sam Randall, "and, incidentally, we have felt bound to stand up for our rights."
"We're to understand, then, that you defy the whole school?" exclaimed Owen Lawrence. He glared at the boys ranged around the table. "Just remember—there's a big crowd in the gym waiting to get your answer."
"I wouldn't call it such a harsh word as that," said Sam Randall. "The fellows are temporarily against us; that's all. They'll soon see it themselves."
"Crackers" Brown continued to argue, pointing out in his calm way the consequences which might result if the regulars persisted in their course. Owen Lawrence, of combative temperament, threatened and stormed. Earl Roycroft took a middle course, doing his best to act as peacemaker.
But, to their combined efforts, Sam Randall, as spokesman of the athletic association, gave a final, and negative answer.
"All right—nothing doing here!" growled Brown. "There'll be a lot doing somewhere else, however."
"Crackers" Brown, with a curt "So-long!" strode to the door, throwing it open so suddenly that Benny uttered an exclamation of surprise.
"Can't you be more polite when a fellow has his eye to the keyhole, Brown?" he complained. "Got thrown down hard, didn't you? I'm going to tell the fellows."
A crowd quickly surrounded the three "outlaws," loudly demanding particulars of the meeting.
"No one seems to have any rights in this school except themselves," growled Owen Lawrence. "I thought it would be a waste of time to talk to 'em."
The boys became angry and belligerent.
"They won't be dictated to by the school, eh?" sneered one. "Well, we're not going to lose a championship and a dandy ball field just for the sake of Bob Somers' pride. We've voted 'em out; and, by Jingo, they're going out! That's all there is to it."
"And if they try to play Rockville on Saturday," exclaimed Aleck Parks, "there'll be a nice hot time on the old lot."
"We ought to run them right off the field," added Luke Phelps.
"Quit that kind of talk," commanded Earl Roycroft. "I know you'll try to stir up the biggest row you can. Say, Brown," he added, "I'm going over to see President Hopkins. Maybe he'll help us straighten out this tangle. Get him on our side and those fellows might come down from their perch."
"Don't believe the prin'll do it," said "Crackers," "but try it if you want. Yes; we'll wait right here."
During the absence of the big first baseman of the "Hopes," the boys discussed the situation in excited tones, some of the more impetuous often hurrahing lustily.
When Earl returned, in about fifteen minutes, a rush was made for the door.
"How about it?" demanded Parks.
"President Hopkins says he can't interfere, boys," answered Roycroft, slowly. "It's mighty easy to see that he's sore on our crowd, too—good as told me so."
"Of course that isn't any news to me," sniffed Owen Lawrence. "Didn't Brown get handed the same dose?"
"There's been enough talk about this thing, fellows," broke in "Crackers." He looked over the rim of his glasses at the noisy crowd; then, raising his voice so that it penetrated to all parts of the big room, he added significantly: "What we want now is action."
Saturday!
The inter-scholastic series!
Rockville Academy!
These were the thoughts uppermost in the boys' minds, for the great day so long anticipated had at last arrived.
"We'll certainly need all our nerve, fellows," remarked "Jack Frost," as the squad left the gymnasium. "I think we're in plenty good enough shape to beat those chaps; I'm not worried about that. But you may be sure Dan Brown is ready to start something."
Phil Brentall tossed the ball in the air and deftly caught it behind his back.
"Looks like it," he admitted, glancing toward the field, where the "Hopes" were already busily engaged in practice.
"We won't bother about them, boys," interposed Roger Steele. "To-day, our business is to trim the Rockville nine by the biggest score we can." He laughed dryly. "As Frost said: I think the 'Rambler Club's ball nine' is now in a position to hold its own."
"Guess the whole town'll be on hand to-day," observed Charlie Blake. "I heard people talking about the game last night. Terry Guffin is actually going to take an afternoon away from his pies."
When the players reached the lot Victor Collins came rushing up to them.
"Hello, fellows!" he cried. "Guess the 'Hopes' are getting ready to build a bonfire to celebrate the opening game. They've got three or four big soap boxes. I asked Brown what he wanted 'em for, and he said: 'You'll find out before long.' Is Uncle Ralph coming? Why sure! So is 'Uncle' Steve."
"I see Brown has been good enough to leave us the regular diamond," remarked Coach Steele. "Pitch in, fellows. The Rockvilles are almost due."
"I can't help feeling that something is in the wind," said Dave, as he thrust his hand into a mit and started for the outfield. "Line them over with plenty of steam, Bob."
Dan Brown and the "Hopes" were not far distant. Their noisy yelling came incessantly over the air.
"I'd like to know why in thunder those fellows are wearing their uniforms, Sam Randall?" exclaimed Harry Spearman.
"I suppose they are up to some mischief, Harry. Hello, Benny Wilkins!" He raised his voice. "Toddle this way!"
Benny, giving Luke Phelps a punch in the ribs, immediately darted toward the president of the athletic association, hotly pursued by the other.
The crowd, getting in Luke's way, however, soon caused him to desist.
"That's the time I corked him a real good one!" cried Benny, gleefully. "Phelps said something rude about Bob Somers. It was true, all right; but I didn't like to hear it. Look at this, fellows."
Benny exhibited an enormous book and a carpenter's pencil.
"Gee whiz!" exclaimed Spearman. "What's that for?"
"I'm going to write a regular serial story this afternoon and make a lot of sketches besides," explained Benny. "This is the heaviest ammunition I could find. Some class to me, eh? What did you say, Mr. Randall?"
"Why is Brown's crowd practicing to-day; know anything about it?"
"Sure! I've got a whole lot of notes. But they haven't passed the censor yet. 'Buttermilk' Brown's the censor. Gee—look at that! Somers hits the ball so hard it smokes."
"Run along about your business, Benny," said Spearman, in disgust.
"Haven't got any business out here. Want to see a dandy picture? I'm almost an artist—fact."
He opened the blank book, and his interested schoolmates saw a drawing representing a very fat and a very thin boy standing side by side.
"Oh, you cheeky little duffer!" cried Harry Spearman. "It's Dave and Tom."
"It is not. They're over on the field. Honest, though, I've got it in for Dave. He just handed me back the fifteenth article I've written for the 'Reflector.' I call that getting bumped a trifle—don't you? From now on I work for the Pie-eaters and doughnut syndicate. I'll make a sketch in water color like this for Terry Guffin's. Suffering Ramblers! What's all the screeching about?"
The boys wheeled around, to discover the Rockville players, followed by a good-sized crowd, rapidly approaching. In their natty blue uniforms and red stockings, they presented a pleasing picture.
"A likely-looking bunch," said Benny. "Luke Phelps says they can play some, too. Hooray for the Rockvilles!"
The bursts of cheering which came from various parts of the field evidently pleased the visitors, who responded lustily.
Within a few minutes Ed Barr, manager of the team, was conferring with Lou Mercer.
"Not a very extra field, is it?" he said, eying with disapproval some of the irregularities which, in spite of the boys' earnest work, were much in evidence. "Still, it's just as bad for you as it is for us—that makes it even. Your chaps are through practicing, eh? All right. We'll warm up for a few minutes."
A feeling of tense excitement was in the air; and when the "outlaws" presently left off work and sauntered nonchalantly over toward home plate this feeling found expression in curious murmuring sounds.
The "Hopes" disposed their forms comfortably on the turf, or sat astride the soapboxes which had aroused Victor Collins' curiosity.
From the players' bench the regulars keenly watched the work of the visitors.
"They seem to have a lot of steam," remarked Steele, reflectively. "See the big chap over there in left field. That's 'Pinky' Crane—plays at first. I've met him. He's the captain. Nice chap, too."
"At one time, waiting for the game to start would have made my nerves rather shaky, Bob," Charlie Blake was saying. "Thank goodness I've a better grip on myself now. Honest, though, I might have dropped out but for you and Dave. In those days I often wished I had Tom's spunk."
The muscles around Tom Clifton's mouth twitched. His thoughts flew back to the night when he had almost shown the white feather himself.
"Gee—if I had!" he murmured. Then, aloud: "What's that, Dave?"
"We want to play such a lively, snappy game that the Rockvilles will be kept on the jump every second," said the editor of the "Reflector." "You've gotten down those base-stealing stunts pretty fine, Tom. Try 'em for all you're worth."
"I've got 'em right down to the ground," chuckled Tom. "Ah, but that was certainly a pretty catch!"
One of the Rockville players had nipped a high fly and returned the ball to the first baseman.
After fifteen minutes' practice the visitors flocked in from the field, their faces glowing with anticipation and expectation. The umpire, already wearing his chest protector, and carrying his mask in his hand, detached himself from a group of interested spectators and walked to the plate, ready to call out the "Play ball!" for which so many were impatiently waiting.
At the precise moment Dan Brown rose to his feet, shook the dust from his uniform and made for the same point, closely followed by his entire aggregation of players.
This move raised an extraordinary commotion. The low, droning buzz of voices suddenly broke forth into excited murmurings, and above this came a renewal of the shouts and megaphone calls.
The members of the Rockville team were plainly astonished. They scented an unusual situation; and every face was turned toward the heavy, stoop-shouldered form of "Crackers" Brown.
A surging mob quickly surrounded the players, forming a solid wall of humanity, each craning his neck to look eagerly over his neighbor's shoulder.
The throng became so dense that the regulars found themselves on the outside, trying to storm the barricade.
Above the excited jabbering of many voices "Crackers" Brown was heard to speak.
"Fellows," he exclaimed, addressing the Rockville nine, "I am the coach of the team you play against to-day."
This announcement, uttered with great distinctness, instantly caused a hush to come over the crowd.
For a moment the visitors were too dumfounded to speak. Then Captain "Pinky" Crane, suspecting a joke, laughed boisterously.
"Not so bad, boys!" he chuckled. "But I hope you don't think we're so easy as that."
"I was never more serious in my life," said Brown, sharply. "This team"—he raised his hand toward the players packed closely about him—"has been selected by the school to represent it. I can prove what I say. If you're ready to start let's hear the word."
"He's always wanting to start something," piped Benny Wilkins from the rear. "Isn't his voice peppery though! Hooray for Brandon!"
"But—but—I don't understand," gasped Ed Barr, quite helplessly. "Why weren't we notified?"
"I take it that you came here to play the Kingswood High baseball team," answered "Crackers," blandly. "Here it is. The students have thrown out an arbitrary lot of players who absolutely refused to listen to reason. They kept on losing game after game until the boys wouldn't stand for it any longer. If you don't believe me take a vote on the question right now."
"That's it—that's it!" cried Owen Lawrence, excitedly. "How many favor the 'Hopes'? And how many the Ramblers?" he called loudly, raising his hand.
A rousing, prolonged yell for the former, which spread like a flash to all parts of the field, carried such a strong indication of the temper of the school that Captain Crane and his men were immediately convinced.
"I don't know about the regularity of this affair," said Crane. "Our crowd didn't come over here to mix up in any row, but to play ball, and we don't care a base hit who takes the field against us. If you chaps are scrapping among yourselves that isn't our business. The boys say your team is the one; so start up the game and show us what you can do."
"Hold on a moment, captain."
Coach Steele, Bob Somers and Dave Brandon in a flying wedge were forcing a passage through the dense mass of humanity.
"Hold on, captain!" exclaimed Steele again. "There's another side to this story, and you're going to get it right now."
Concisely, and with telling effect, the coach told of the events which had happened at the Kingswood High. His flashing eyes and vigorous manner, backed up by the cool and determined attitude of Bob Somers and Dave Brandon, soon made the visitors regard things in a different light.
As Owen Lawrence saw them wavering his belligerent manner increased.
"This is the time your bluff won't work, Somers!" he cried, angrily. "I wouldn't advise you to talk too much, or you might get run right off the field."
"Who's going to do it?" asked Bob.
"I may take a hand myself."
"Well, you can start a rough-house if you like. I can tell you this much, Owen Lawrence: the regulars are here to play ball, and they're going to do it."
"Hooray—hooray!" shouted Benny Wilkins. "There's sand for you—pure grit. Sand is gritty; so is Somers."
The clamor of the excited, jostling mob, the yells of encouragement from first one side, then the other, and apparently every sound which boys are able to produce made such an uproarious noise that the voices of the speakers were often entirely swallowed up.
One by one the members of the regular team fought their way to the center of interest.
"Come now, Somers, be reasonable," pleaded Earl Roycroft. "Can't you see that by keeping up this thing you're liable to start an awful rumpus?"
"You're the fellows who won't listen to reason," returned Bob. "Why don't you quit this row and let us play?"
"We would if you only knew how," jeered Lawrence. "Better cool off, Somers. It would take only a few words from Brown and me to send you marathoning into the distance as fast as though a number one size grizzly was within a foot of your spiked shoes."
"Talk like that isn't going to have any effect," laughed Coach Steele. "Please get back. We want to begin the game."
Dan Brown's soft, easy manner suddenly underwent a tremendous change. His voice became harsh and rasping as he demanded:
"What are you Rockville fellows going to do? Do you intend to play us or not?"
"Pinky" Crane stared at his companions. Being more gifted in ball playing than diplomacy, he was plainly stumped.
"It's too much for me," he confessed, blankly. "How about it, Barr?"
The manager, a sturdy young fellow with a strong, aggressive chin and an equally positive manner, kicked at the turf a moment before replying. Then, looking squarely into "Crackers" Brown's face, he exclaimed:
"This is what I have to say: we'll play the regularly organized team. No mushroom nine for me." He shook his finger vigorously in the chief "outlaw's" face. "Now beat it! Enough of this fuss. We're going to start."
"Very good, sir!" Brown's former manner returned. "We're ordered to skip, Lawrence. There is nothing to do but follow the manager's instructions. Sorry, boys, to have annoyed you so much. Really, your manner quite pained me. No hard feelings, I hope?"
"None at all," said Barr, heartily.
The sudden and unexpected "crawl" of the "outlaws" was so amazing to their supporters that howls of protest and derisive cries arose from every point in the gathering.
"What in thunder is the matter with you, Brown?" roared Aleck Parks, furiously.
"I thought he was going to fight the thing out to a finish," groaned Luke Phelps. "And the crowd is with him as solid as a stone wall. Hang it all, but I am disgusted!"
The regulars were as much astonished as any of the others.
When the three leaders of the "Hope" movement turned away, and the crowd scattered as promptly as though blown about by some current of wind, they began to congratulate each other.
The discontented majority, however, refused to be quieted. Feeling ran so high that it seemed as if a riotous demonstration might begin at any moment.
"Get the game started as quickly as you can," ordered Coach Steele.
"It's the only way to quiet 'em," agreed Barr. "Never expected to run into anything like this. Let's toss up for choice of innings."
Bob's side having won, the visitors started for the players' bench.
As they did so they saw something which caused them to utter loud exclamations of astonishment and anger. And what they and every one else saw was bringing shouts of approval and encouragement from a mass of turbulent boys.
The home plate and each of the three bases was covered by a large-sized soap box, and on every box sat a grinning youth.
"What does this mean?" cried Ed Barr, fairly racing to the home station, where Dan Brown occupied a prominent position.
"What does this mean?" echoed "Crackers." He looked calmly at the agitated manager. "It means just this, Barr: no game will be played here to-day unless we do our share of the playing."
The field was in an uproar. The gleeful supporters of the "Hopes," at this new turn in affairs, roared their approval. And through all the turmoil and confusion the "outlaws" who were not sitting on the bases gathered at advantageous points on the field, apparently ready and anxious to resist any attempt to put them off.
When Bob Somers, followed by the rest of the team, came running over a hostile demonstration broke forth.
"Get off the field!" shouted one.
"We want real ball players!" came from another.
"The school won't stand for your kind of playing!" yelled a third.
The small minority still loyal to the regulars voiced a vociferous protest, and, backing up their words with action, gathered about the players.
"Chase 'em right off the field, boys!" bawled Owen Lawrence.
The bodyguard, fearful that his order might be carried into execution, prepared to meet the emergency with every means at their command.
"This is an outrage!" yelled Harry Spearman. "I protest."
"Keep on protesting—that's all the good it will do you," sneered a partisan of the "Hopes." "We'll show you the kind of stuff we're made of."
"No game to-day unless we play it!" came from Brown.
Bob Somers leaped on the soap box from which the chief "outlaw" had just arisen.
"I call upon every fellow who believes in fair play to listen," he cried in ringing tones. "We haven't been given a square deal. Every player on this nine is going to stand up for his rights. Threats and yells won't make us quit. I only ask you to be reasonable; to——"
The soap box was shoved violently from beneath his feet, and the captain, obliged to jump, brought up violently against a group of yelling "outlaws."