CHAPTER XXIII

THE SOAP BOX WAS SHOVED VIOLENTLY

Turning like a flash, he looked squarely into the angry face of Owen Lawrence. The lieutenant of "Crackers" Brown, so wrought up with excitement that his face was of a purple hue, was brandishing his fists savagely.

"I did it, Somers!" he yelled. "Pitch right in if you want to. I'm ready!"

In a second the two were surrounded by a densely-packed mob, while cries of "A scrap—a scrap!" had the effect of bringing from all sides large reinforcements.

"We're not going to lose those grounds just to suit your bump of vanity, Somers," howled Lawrence.

A big boy, ruthlessly thrusting aside all who impeded his progress, quickly jumped between the two.

"Cut it out, Owen Lawrence!" cried Earl Roycroft, sternly. He pushed the belligerent student away. "If you don't look out you'll start such a muss that there'll be no stopping it."

"Then they'll have to chase right off the field!" cried Dan Brown, in a voice which no one would have recognized as his. "Are you going, Somers?"

The chief "outlaw's" words promptly undid the effect of Roycroft's action. Surrounded by his opponents, the captain of the regulars speedily found himself being pushed and jostled off the diamond.

At the same instant a combined rush was made for the other members of the team.

Almost swept from their feet by the fierceness of the attack, they struggled valiantly to stem the tide. Above all the frantic shouts and cries, "Crackers" Brown was heard to yell:

"Keep the bases covered, boys! Don't budge from the field!"

"You bet we won't!" shouted Aleck Parks. "Whoop! Shove the Ramblers right along, fellows!"

The fellows were doing it. "In the hands of the enemy" the players were as helpless as chips upon a seething torrent of water. They quickly lost sight of one another, each compelled to fight his battle alone, for the bodyguard which at first had so valiantly attempted to aid them was already widely scattered.

Bob Somers, thoroughly surprised and indignant, appealed vainly for order. Then, feeling that resistance was useless and ill-advised, he allowed the irresistible tide of boys to sweep him where they willed.

"Now, I wonder if you'll listen to the school!" cried Luke Phelps, giving an extra hard shove. "I only hope the 'Ancient Mariner' is seeing this. What's your awful haste, Somers?"

"Well, if we don't play to-day it's a mighty certain thing the 'Hopes' won't," returned Bob, energetically.

"Boys, boys, what is the meaning of all this?"

The familiar tones of President Hopkins' voice, suddenly rising sharp and clear, quelled the tumult around the captain.

"Stop!—I command you to stop this disgraceful scene at once!" he called, sternly.

"They deserve to be suspended!" came in the sonorous voice of Captain Bunderley.

The boys, taken completely by surprise, fell back in dismay before the president.

But the reaction was only momentary.

"Hold the bases and keep on the field!" Dan Brown was yelling with all his force. "Don't let the Ramblers sneak back a yard!"

"Stop, I say; stop!" repeated President Hopkins. His usually good-natured face was glowing with keen indignation. "You are acting most outrageously!"

"They're a lot of good-for-nothing young scamps!" thundered Captain Bunderley.

"Scamps!" screeched Owen Lawrence from a distance of twenty-five feet. "Why, we're only doing this because they need to have some sense beaten into their heads."

"Listen to the bass voice of him!" piped Benny Wilkins, whose necktie and collar had been torn loose and who was trying desperately to make some entries in his big book. "Hurrah for 'Pinky' Crane!"

Professor Ivins, standing by the side of the president, stared at him in amazement.

"What does he mean by such conduct?" he murmured.

Bob Somers, cool and collected, although his face was flushed from his exertions, found himself facing not only the two professors and Captain Bunderley but Mr. Rupert Barry and "Uncle" Steve. And behind these he saw a great body of spectators.

"Uncle" Steve was evidently wildly excited. His expression seemed to indicate an intense desire to join in the fray himself. The strong, angular face of the millionaire exhibited every trace of the greatest astonishment. He stood grasping his knotted stick as though half expecting that the next moment he might be called upon to use it as a means of defense.

"Boys, boys!" His harsh, rasping voice compelled instant attention. "This disgraceful commotion must cease. I want that Brown chap to come right over—do you understand?" He struck the ground vigorously with his cane. "To come right over, I say!"

"He's done all this mischief!" bellowed Captain Bunderley.

"I'll find out mighty quick how such riotous scenes can go on in the midst of a respectable community. What is the name of that other boy, captain?"

"Lawrence."

"Oh, yes—Owen Lawrence. Some of you boys find Lawrence—tell him to come here immediately." Mr. Barry glanced toward Bob Somers. "Did they do any more than hurt your feelings?" he demanded.

"No, sir; not a bit. And they didn't do much of that, either," answered Bob, wiping his perspiring face.

"I see you still have your nerve with you. Where is Roger Steele?"

"Roger Steele!" howled Benny; "Roger Steele; Mr. Barry wants you!"

A movement in the crowd indicated the approach of Brown and Lawrence.

The chief "outlaws" seemed entirely unabashed.

"I believe you sent for me, sir," began "Crackers" Brown, bowing politely to the millionaire.

He braved unflinchingly the hard, cold glare which Mr. Barry turned upon him.

His attitude seemed to irritate the would-be donor of the ball park.

"What have you to say for yourself?" he demanded, harshly. "I know you're the ringleader in all this business."

"Yes, sir; he was the whole show in the circus," chirped Benny Wilkins, who had squeezed his way to the front. "Owen Lawrence was only the clown. He did what the ringmaster told him to do, and then a bit more."

"Be quiet, Wilkins," admonished Professor Ivins, startled into speech. "I'm positively amazed at you."

"Now, Brown, speak up," commanded Mr. Rupert Barry.

"I've just been waiting for a chance," said "Crackers," calmly. "First of all, Mr. Barry, I'd like to ask you a question: when you made the school the offer of a ball park didn't you say positively that only a winning team would secure the prize?"

"I did!"

"Well, the nine first chosen to represent the school doesn't represent it, because it isn't a winning team. Unusual conditions require unusual treatment. The school finally woke up and chose a team that is winning games and does represent it. And certain fellows who think more of their jobs than they do for the good of the school insist upon defying the wishes of the majority."

"Crackers" proceeded to explain matters from the very beginning. He asserted emphatically that none of the boys had the slightest wish to make trouble.

"I'll admit we did go a bit too far to-day. But, when you consider all the circumstances, can you blame us?"

"Yes, we can, and do," spoke up Bob Somers. "But for the spirit of discontent you stirred up among the boys, and their unwillingness to give us a fair show, things by this time would have been mighty different. How can you expect a team to do its best with the school fighting against it? Don't you know that the effect on the players is bad—it puts a tremendous strain on them."

"It certainly does!" exclaimed President Hopkins.

"We've held out against you in this affair, Brown, because every member of the team knew it was only a question of our being given enough time to round into shape."

"There is the whole story," put in Coach Steele. "To have yielded to your demands would have meant an outrageous piece of injustice."

"Indeed!" jeered Brown. "How much more time do you want?"

"We don't want any. The nine has been hard at work every day until I can now safely say the players are in top-notch condition."

"Let 'an eccentric old creature' settle this dispute," said Mr. Barry, with appalling distinctness.

Tom Clifton, who, a moment before, towering over his neighbor's shoulder, was prominently in view, now shifted his position so that his face was no longer in line with Mr. Barry's eagle glare. To his horror, Benny Wilkins burst out laughing.

"Ha, ha, ha!" giggled Benny. "And I know who said it, too."

The tall boy's nerves tingled with apprehension. It was a moment of intense relief when Mr. Barry, paying no heed to the interruption, continued:

"Frankly, I was not satisfied with the team's showing, and I dropped many remarks to that effect during several of the games. It didn't occur to me at the time, but I've learned since that some of them acted upon the boys with extraordinary force." His cold, penetrating gaze shifted from one to another. "I understand your position, Brown; and I understand the position of the regulars, too."

Not a sound came from the crowd as the elderly gentleman, tapping the turf impatiently with his knotted stick, went on:

"Any lot of boys who have the courage and fighting spirit to stick it out in the face of such a confounded row must be made of pretty good stuff. Confidence in oneself is half the battle in life. This is what I have to say: The lads may be able to do what they claim. If they show as much grit and determination in the coming games as they have during the past few weeks they ought to win the championship."

"But suppose they should lose?" broke in Brown, doggedly—"then the school loses, too, doesn't it?"

"We must give them a chance in the inter-scholastic series. If the nine starts off with reasonable evidence of being winners—all right; if they don't"—the millionaire paused—"then we shall talk about the matter further." His voice rose harshly. "Let me add a word of warning: If the work of the team is in any way interfered with, or if there are again such scenes as have taken place here to-day, I withdraw my offer"—the knotted stick struck the ground a violent blow—"remember that!"

The turn of the regulars to applaud had come at last.

"Hit it out, Dave; hit it out!"

"Jeffords is losing his nerve! You've got him going!"

"Knock the cover off the ball."

"Slam out a homer!"

It was hard to realize that the lot only fifteen minutes before had been the scene of the greatest confusion. The spectators were now as orderly as active, wide-awake lads could be. All signs of ill-feeling seemed to have disappeared as entirely as though such a thing had never existed. Mr. Barry's warning had sunk in deep.

The "Hopes," satisfied at last that their chance would come if the regulars failed to make good, became so mild as to cause Benny Wilkins to make several entries in his note-book.

"They are just like little lambs," he observed. "Look at Aleck Parks with a sensible expression on his face." Then, catching sight of a very tall youth, he called: "Hello, John Hackett, hello! Have you any ten cent neckties in the shop? I've got to pay a bill for the afternoon's scrap. Swing at it, Brandon; swing at it! Bert Jeffords can't pitch, and never could pitch. Who discovered him?"

The twirler for the Rockvilles grinned good-naturedly. He had a variety of curves at his command, and good control. His next delivery was an unusually speedy ball.

Dave Brandon, however, had found his batting eye. As he struck with all his force at the inshoot the stick met the ball squarely, and a smoking hot liner whirled past the pitcher.

Jeffords' gloved hand shot toward it but missed. Even the Brown crowd joined in the roar of approval which rose from hundreds of throats.

"Oh, wasn't that a peach of a hit!" cried "Uncle" Steve, rising from his seat and almost dancing with excitement. "Root, professor, root!" he cried, bringing his hand down sharply on Instructor Ivins' shoulder. "Hooray—he's safe!"

The professor's dignified countenance flushed. He gingerly withdrew from such close proximity to the little man, at the same time eying him with a most peculiar expression.

"I'm astonished, sir," he began, stiffly.

"Well, I ain't!" cried "Uncle" Steve—"not a bit of it. Jeffords ain't in the Tippen class. Hold your base there, Brandon; look out, or he'll nail you!"

"One safe hit doesn't make a game," growled Mr. Barry. "Still, this is encouraging. Who's up now, Mr. Kimbole?"

"That slim lad, Charlie Blake."

"Good! He seems to be a heady player, though he hasn't as much bulk or muscle as I'd like to see."

The "grind" had managed to cast off all feelings of nervousness and excitement. He was determined to do his share toward showing that Coach Steele's claims were entirely justified. At the second ball pitched, he bunted, the horse-hide rolling tantalizingly near the third base line.

Before the pitcher could pounce upon it Blake was safe at first and Dave Brandon had reached the second sack.

But the inning so auspiciously begun did not fulfil the hopes aroused in the hearts of the Somersites. Bob's high fly to deep left field was caught; Phil Brentall fanned. Then, after a hard run, Sawdon nipped Alf Boggs' foul.

"Well, it's all a part of the game," said "Uncle" Steve, resignedly.

"Those boys are simply bound to succeed!" exclaimed Captain Bunderley, in a tone of deep conviction.

"Just what I think, too," agreed Mr. Kimbole.

Sawdon's catch, which was made close to the backstop fence, ended the second half of the first inning. Rockville had been easily disposed of, chiefly due to Singleton's pitching.

The latter appeared to be at his best, starting out on the second round with confidence and determination. He sent the ball over the plate with a speed and accuracy which bewildered the batsmen. In succession he struck out two; the third was thrown out at first.

"They are all right on the defensive," said Mr. Barry. "Yes; the boys do seem to have improved."

For five innings neither side scored. At the beginning of the sixth the friends of the visitors were given a chance to yell and shout in the most uproarious fashion. Bill Allen, according to Benny Wilkins, "started the ball rolling."

And it rolled so far that by the time the stout editor of the "Reflector" succeeded in laying his hands upon its stained and battered surface Allen was on his way to third.

"Bad, bad business," grumbled Mr. Barry. "By George, they are going to score this time."

"Looks like it," mumbled "Uncle" Steve.

"Take him out of the box!" howled Benny Wilkins. "Hooray for 'Jack Frost'!"

Nothing ruffled Singleton, however. He was there to do his best, and he was doing it. He surveyed the big, husky form of Joe Wiles, third baseman, without trepidation.

"Give me the best in the shop," called Joe, shaking his bat suggestively.

Brentall signaled for a high inshoot.

The pitcher snapped the ball toward him, putting forth all his efforts to fool the batsman. Next moment, however, a prolonged groan announced that his attempt was wasted. The shrieking, gleeful Rockvillers, waving every available pennant, saw the ball shooting between first and second with terrific speed.

Bob Somers made a wild attempt to stop it, but the sphere bounded high over his head.

Meanwhile Bill Allen was trotting leisurely for home.

"Sic a Goose Hill gander on Singleton!" shouted Benny. "He's only good at pitching quoits. Get him a doughnut—quick."

"No—he takes the biscuit!" yelled Aleck Parks. "One run, and nobody down."

"I remember when I should have called that an exhibition well worth missing," observed Mr. Barry, with a sort of half chuckle. He smiled grimly, as a Rockville supporter was heard exclaiming:

"Did you ever see anything prettier in your life!"

Jeffords, the next batter, hit safely, advancing Wiles to second.

Singleton, catching a nod from Coach Steele, with a sigh walked toward the players' bench, while "Jack Frost," glad to get into the fray, dashed to the mound.

"Too bad my wing went back on me," exclaimed Singleton, as the two passed each other. "Good luck, old boy."

"Jack" signalized his advent in the box by promptly striking out the next batter.

When John Appleby walked briskly to the plate a storm of approval from the visiting contingent clearly demonstrated to the pitcher that he was considered one of the "star" hitters of the aggregation.

"Now is the time for some of your good stickwork, old boy!" yelled one. "Two men on bases and only one down. Start 'em around the circuit!"

The runners on first and second were doing all in their power to worry the twirler—playing off and running back.

"Take a few yards more, Wiles!" bawled the coach at first. "He won't throw it!"

"Jack Frost" realized that it was the critical juncture of the game. The sight of "Crackers" Brown and Owen Lawrence not far from the "grand stand" nerved him to do his utmost.

"Here's where I'll have to put everything I know on the ball," he reflected, warily watching the antics of the base-runners.

He wheeled abruptly around and shot the ball with all his force toward the batsman.

His heart gave a sudden thump as an ominous crack sounded.

The "slugger" Appleby had hit a low drive which was whizzing with terrific velocity to the right of second base.

"Safe—as sure as shooting!" groaned "Jack."

Bob Somers, with only one glance at the oncoming sphere, dashed toward it like a flash. It seemed almost a hopeless chance. The base runners, confident that the ball would pass over his head, obeyed the instructions of the coach to run. Benny Wilkins started to make a note: "High school team goes to pieces in the sixth." The shouting of the Rockville adherents burst forth in a wild series of whoops.

Then all the racket stopped with curious abruptness.

As the liner sped high above Bob Somers' head the second baseman sprang in the air with upraised hand. There was a resounding smack. The ball, arrested in its flight, dropped to the ground a few feet away.

Bob darted upon it, whipped the sphere to Tom Clifton, and Appleby was out.

The calm was over. Forgetting unpleasant differences, the school voiced its approval in a sea of sound. Benny hastily scratched out his note.

"One-eightieth of a cent's worth of good lead pencil gone to waste," he muttered. "Oh—oh! What do you know about that? Is Wiles wild?"

Joe, making a tremendous effort to score, was speeding home when, to his unbounded astonishment, he discovered that the ball was in the first baseman's hands. Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it flashing straight for the catcher's mit.

Turning abruptly, he made a wild dive to regain the third sack. A volley of cries rang in his ears.

"Get back!"

"Hold your base!"

"Slide—slide!"

Obeying the instructions of his friends, Wiles threw himself at full length on the yellow, dusty line.

But before he was within a foot of the goal the ball streaked over his head, Fred Benson's hand dropped on his forearm, and the only sound which Joe heard clearly was the voice of the umpire yelling:

"Runner out at third!"

"A mighty pretty piece of work," commented Mr. Rupert Barry.

"A Jim dandy!" cried "Uncle" Steve, hilariously. "Regular major league work, I call it."

"I knew they would turn out all right!" exclaimed Captain Bunderley, his eyes shining with satisfaction. "I never lost faith in 'em—never!"

Victor Collins and Joe Rodgers, fairly dancing with glee, took turns with the bugle, sending its musical notes far over the air.

"There's the enemy of the 'Pie-eaters' going to bat now," remarked Nat Wingate to his chum, John Hackett.

"Only wish I had the stick in my hands," said Hackett. "I'd break it in half and knock the cover off the ball at the same time. Say, Nat, maybe the Stars wouldn't wade through this Rockville bunch!"

"I won't be satisfied until we get a crack at 'em," grinned Nat. "Bet they don't score a run."

"Look out for your heads, fellows," counseled Ted Pollock. "Tom Clifton's going to swing, and——"

"Suffering geese, he's cracked it!" roared "Uncle" Steve from the "grand stand." "A pippin, too; right over the second baseman's head. Hooray! He runs like an express train."

Hot and happy, Tom Clifton reached first in safety, while cries of "Good work, old boy; good work!" made his grin grow broader.

"Here's where we start things, 'Pinky'!" he cried, exultingly.

"Don't fool yourself. You won't travel very far," grinned the captain of the Rockvilles.

"Play off the base, Tom," urged "Jack Frost," who was coaching at first. "Jeffords'll never be fast enough to get you."

At the precise second that Jeffords pitched the ball Tom's long legs began to move at such an extraordinary rate as to cause murmurs of wonderment to come from the onlookers.

"By cracky, he can go faster'n the ball!" shouted "Uncle" Steve.

Professor Ivins scowled. He looked at the Goose Hill storekeeper with an air of profound disdain. The spectacle of a man of Mr. Kimbole's age acting in such an undignified fashion rather shocked his sensitive nature.

"If I were in your place I should hardly——"

"Bully boy!" roared Mr. Kimbole, suddenly. "Bully boy! He beat out the ball by a good two yards!"

The field was in an uproar again.

But the noise was as nothing compared to the tumult which broke out when Tom, on the twirler's second throw, once more dared to match his speed against that of their opponents.

Bending far over, he tore down the third base line with all his might, and, with the frantic shouts of the crowd ringing in his ears, slid for the sack, sending up puffs of whirling yellow dust.

"By gum, I'd like to have you on our side," said Joe Wiles, generously.

He lined the ball to Jeffords, while Tom scrambled to his feet, dusted his uniform and surveyed the situation keenly.

"This means a run, old boy," he exclaimed, confidently.

"Extra—extra!" came from somewhere in the assemblage. "All about the terrible robbery—ball player steals two bases. Who wants a copy of the high school 'Reflector'? Only five cents. Read Dave Brandon's thrilling piece of fiction. Greatest story since the days of Munchausen!"

Benny Wilkins, with an armful of papers, was screeching at the top of his voice.

"Why, he's actually selling them!" cried Tom, almost stunned with amazement.

"Sure! I've seen him sling out a dozen already," grinned Wiles.

Pitcher and catcher, who had been in conference for a moment, once more took their places.

"None down, Bob. Sting it for all you're worth," shouted Tom.

"Two balls!" droned the umpire, presently. "Strike one!"

Then Bob Somers was seen to make a lunge.

The ball rose in a long, graceful curve, shooting far beyond the point where John Appleby, right fielder, was playing.

"I told you so!" cried Tom.

Over on the "grand stand" Mr. Rupert Barry's face actually broke into a smile.

"Fine work—a three-bagger, Professor Hopkins," he said.

"Very good indeed!" exclaimed the president. "I should have been sorry to see such courageous boys fail."

"Looks to me as if they could deliver the goods," piped "Uncle" Steve; which style of language so displeased Professor Ivins that he remained ominously silent.

Bob raced in home when Brentall singled.

"Extra, extra!" cried Benny. "Get the latest news! All about the Rockville nine going to pieces!"

With Victor Collins and Joe Rodgers, he headed a little procession around the field, with the object, he candidly confessed, of rattling the visitors as much as possible.

The next batter, Alf Boggs, was thrown out at first. Tom Clifton's hopes that a half dozen runs would cross the plate before the inning was over were shattered by the downfall of "Jack Frost" and Art Bowers.

In the eighth the high school team, by a tremendous effort, scored another run, and the Rockville boys then walked to the players' bench for their final turn at the bat.

But their heroic efforts were without avail. When the last putout, a difficult running catch by Dave Brandon, signalized the end of the contest the score stood three to one in favor of the high school. The yells, cat-calls and general noise made the audience in the "grand stand" hastily withdraw. The staunch Somers party fairly howled with glee, and even "Crackers" Brown was heard to say:

"Not so bad—but——"

"But what, Buttermilk?" inquired Benny.

"If the 'Hopes' had been up against that crowd I'll bet the score would have been about seventeen pies to one small doughnut."

"You've got a better team than the regulars any day," said Benny, with a tremendous grin. "Extra—extra! Full account of the latest boasting by the Brown crowd. Get a high school 'Reflector'! Five cents. Tells how the Ramblers beat Gulliver at his own game!"

A joyous group collected around the regulars. They slapped Bob Somers on the back, ill-treated their tired lungs once again; and all this failing to give sufficient vent to their enthusiasm, they waved purple and white pennants until their aching arms finally rebelled.

Several weeks later the baseball season was in full blast. The "Rambler Club's ball nine" didn't always win in the inter-scholastic series; but they had so many victories to their credit that further opposition to their representing the school was never heard.

"Well, fellows," remarked Bob Somers, one day, as they lounged about in the grateful shade of the big elm tree on the campus, "it certainly paid us to stand up for ourselves."

"Sure as doughnuts, those no-trespassing signs are going to come down," chirped Tom Clifton. "Yesterday, five to three, against the Hilltons! That's not so bad, is it?"

Dave Brandon, leaning comfortably against the trunk, and reading a book of Bryant's poems, smiled.

"How different the situation is from the time when Brown's friends were gently urging us to leave the ball field," he laughed. "Now everything is lovely."

"The Stars far outclass any of the school teams we've met," observed Charlie Blake. "So do the Goose Hill and Willingtons. The fight we had against those clubs must have done us an awful lot of good, eh, Bob?"

"You bet it did," responded the captain. "It made most of the other nines seem easy. Now that our batting average is getting higher and higher I guess it's about time to accept Brown's standing defi and play the 'Hopes' a series."

"So say we all," remarked Dick Travers.

"I certainly laughed when the 'Hopes' played the Stars and Tony Tippen pitched a no-hit game," said "Jack Frost." "It took that fire-eater, Owen Lawrence, down just a trifle, I can tell you. I just couldn't help rubbing it in a little bit."

"And I fairly hammered it in," gurgled Tom. "Lawrence will play against us as hard as he ever did in his life. Fired any more of Benny Wilkins' articles, Dave?"

"No! I can't understand why he didn't give me a couple this morning," answered the editor. "The thirty-seventh showed a lot of improvement. I suppose I'll have to accept something before long, because he's sold more papers than any other boy in school."

"That's a great picture he made of you and Tom," chuckled Sam Randall. "It cost Terry Guffin one ninety-eight to have it framed."

"Good for Terry," laughed Dave. "He has the only real art gallery in town."

One afternoon about a month later, as school let out, Benny Wilkins, with an enormous bundle of papers under his arm, began yelling:

"Get a copy of the high school 'Reflector'! Read B. Franklin Wilkins' great article on the baseball situation. A spicy, up-to-date account, with the opinions of the author added free of charge. Five cents—five cents the copy. Catch the definite article. Well worth a quarter. Who's the lucky buyer of the first copy? Everybody speak at once. Two cents down—the rest in instalments!"

Benny's appeal met with instant response. He was besieged, literally hurled off his feet by the onslaught.

Aleck Parks did the upsetting part.

"Excuse me, Benny," he said, helping the lad to arise; "excuse me. I've got only a cent, but I'll give you my note for the rest."

"All right," chuckled Benny. "I'll make a note of it. Say, Parksy, your manners certainly need a bit of floor polish."

Benny's stock of "Reflectors" dwindled at an astonishing rate.

Bob Somers and Dave Brandon lingered until the crowd had cleared away; then Dave, with a sigh of relief, ambled toward the big elm.

"That place seems to be just made for me," he said. "While I'm taking a well-earned rest, Bob, I'd advise you to glance over B. Franklin Wilkins' article."

"Just what I'm going to do," chuckled the captain, as he opened the paper.

Tom, laying aside his manners for the time being, looked eagerly over his shoulder to read:

"B. Franklin Wilkins on the baseball situation. With his observations on the past and predictions for the future."This has been a season of blasted 'Hopes.' They started out meaning well, and, 'for the good of the school,' withdrew. It is little things like this which break the monotony of student life, though for a time it looked as if something more valuable than monotony would be broken."As I have frequently said in my articles, none of which, however, have been printed—this is no reflection on the editor; lack of judgment is born in some people—the beginning of the season found a lot of wildcat hunters, would-be aeroplanists and house-boat racers trying to play ball."This is, as Shakespeare was too far behind the times to say, 'the limit.' It was up to the limit of what the school could stand. After hitting the top of the toboggan with a dull and deadly thug they started to slide down, the rasping sound which accompanied them being furnished gratis by nearly every boy in school."At the bottom of the chute they accepted an invitation from Daniel Brown and friends to take a well-earned rest—'for the good of the school.' My observation on monotony and breaking things applies mostly to this case. Wildcat fighters are often very tame at home, which is conceded to be a good thing."What would have happened if they had brought their 'forest' manners back to the school you can imagine by reading a serial now being published in the 'Reflector.'"Just as they were about to get the final boost Mr. Rupert Barry appeared and handed something to Mr. Daniel Brown which sounded like a cannon cracker going off in an empty barrel."That's when the 'Hopes' got blasted."Since then the Rambler Club's ball nine—I've ordered the editor not to cut out the name—has been going from victory to victory in exactly the same manner they were boasting about before any playing was done."You can't blame a lot of fellows for making a great blow when they have the goods in the shop. They had just been mislaid, and not even the manager could find them."But the excitement during the search was something awful. The writer's efforts to be on both sides at the same time nearly ruined his nervous system. He found himself, at times, delivering punches impartially to either side."We will now speak of a little tussle between Bob Somers' Bear Cats and Dan Brown's 'Hopes.'"It was certainly the greatest ball game ever played—in Kingswood. Thousands upon thousands of spectators were on the field—anyway, the figure runs up to a good many hundred—but that doesn't look well in print. For eleven innings they fought in a most desperate fashion, both sides winning by the score of three to three—because, if neither side actually won the game, each won a lot of praise for staving off defeat. Three more games have to be played, and a few mean people are pained to think that an admission fee can't be charged."The writer has said as many nice things about the team as he can, hoping to get on the good side of the editor. That scribe doesn't write so much better himself."Another thing I must mention: No team has been able to beat the Stars with Tony Tippen in the box. The 'Hopes' have tried it twice; and each time it was dangerous to speak to Owen Lawrence for at least two hours after a certain little row of ciphers had been chalked down in the run column. Tippen is a pippin."Coming back to the Kingswood High: The writer can almost picture in his mind a nice level field with a grand stand and crowds of spectators watching a game."May this be no trick of the imagination!"

"B. Franklin Wilkins on the baseball situation. With his observations on the past and predictions for the future.

"This has been a season of blasted 'Hopes.' They started out meaning well, and, 'for the good of the school,' withdrew. It is little things like this which break the monotony of student life, though for a time it looked as if something more valuable than monotony would be broken.

"As I have frequently said in my articles, none of which, however, have been printed—this is no reflection on the editor; lack of judgment is born in some people—the beginning of the season found a lot of wildcat hunters, would-be aeroplanists and house-boat racers trying to play ball.

"This is, as Shakespeare was too far behind the times to say, 'the limit.' It was up to the limit of what the school could stand. After hitting the top of the toboggan with a dull and deadly thug they started to slide down, the rasping sound which accompanied them being furnished gratis by nearly every boy in school.

"At the bottom of the chute they accepted an invitation from Daniel Brown and friends to take a well-earned rest—'for the good of the school.' My observation on monotony and breaking things applies mostly to this case. Wildcat fighters are often very tame at home, which is conceded to be a good thing.

"What would have happened if they had brought their 'forest' manners back to the school you can imagine by reading a serial now being published in the 'Reflector.'

"Just as they were about to get the final boost Mr. Rupert Barry appeared and handed something to Mr. Daniel Brown which sounded like a cannon cracker going off in an empty barrel.

"That's when the 'Hopes' got blasted.

"Since then the Rambler Club's ball nine—I've ordered the editor not to cut out the name—has been going from victory to victory in exactly the same manner they were boasting about before any playing was done.

"You can't blame a lot of fellows for making a great blow when they have the goods in the shop. They had just been mislaid, and not even the manager could find them.

"But the excitement during the search was something awful. The writer's efforts to be on both sides at the same time nearly ruined his nervous system. He found himself, at times, delivering punches impartially to either side.

"We will now speak of a little tussle between Bob Somers' Bear Cats and Dan Brown's 'Hopes.'

"It was certainly the greatest ball game ever played—in Kingswood. Thousands upon thousands of spectators were on the field—anyway, the figure runs up to a good many hundred—but that doesn't look well in print. For eleven innings they fought in a most desperate fashion, both sides winning by the score of three to three—because, if neither side actually won the game, each won a lot of praise for staving off defeat. Three more games have to be played, and a few mean people are pained to think that an admission fee can't be charged.

"The writer has said as many nice things about the team as he can, hoping to get on the good side of the editor. That scribe doesn't write so much better himself.

"Another thing I must mention: No team has been able to beat the Stars with Tony Tippen in the box. The 'Hopes' have tried it twice; and each time it was dangerous to speak to Owen Lawrence for at least two hours after a certain little row of ciphers had been chalked down in the run column. Tippen is a pippin.

"Coming back to the Kingswood High: The writer can almost picture in his mind a nice level field with a grand stand and crowds of spectators watching a game.

"May this be no trick of the imagination!"

"Whew; maybe that isn't a whopping long article!" cried Tom. "Not so bad, eh, Dave?"

"It's Benny Wilkins all over," chuckled the editor. "That chap has certainly boomed the circulation of the paper."

As a prophet Benny was in great favor. Now that his article had been accepted he became a most enthusiastic champion of the team, and his delight at each victory was only matched by his disappointment when defeat came to the earnestly-striving ball players.

"Never mind—they're going to get there just the same," he always asserted.

The games between the "Rambler Club's ball nine" and the "Hopes" attracted even more attention than those in the inter-scholastic series. Each was bitterly fought, the Somersites winning two and the "Hopes" one, with the fourth a tie.

Neither "Crackers" Brown nor Owen Lawrence would ever concede the superiority of the others, while big Earl Roycroft expressed the opinion that they were about as evenly matched as teams could be.

It was certainly a great year for baseball at the Kingswood High. With the school now solidly back of them, the nine continued to improve, and at the end of the season Mr. Rupert Barry was the first to shake Coach Steele and Bob Somers by the hand.

"Let me congratulate you," he said, heartily. "You have won not only the ball park and grand stand, but my highest esteem, as well."