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Today we are reading the Rambler Club’s Ball Nine by W. Crispin Sheppard. Sheppard authored many books in the Rambler’s club series. However outside of a list of his books, we were not able to find much information about him. He wrote and created the illustrations for all his books. We’d encourage any of our listeners who are so inclined to create a Wikipedia page for him and at least list all his books that you can find.
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The Rambler Club's
Ball Nine
BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD
Illustrated by the Author
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Introduction
The Rambler Club of Kingswood, Wisconsin, formed by Bob Somers and his friends, Dave Brandon, Tom Clifton, Dick Travers and Sam Randall, after having numerous adventures in their own state, visit Oregon, Wyoming, Washington and New York. In the mountains, on the plains, or deep amidst the forest the five lads taste the joys, and also the trials, of outdoor life, and in most unexpected or thrilling situations manage to acquit themselves with credit. In the East, a house-boat trip up the Hudson furnishes the club an eventful journey, while on a motoring trip from Chicago to Kingswood another series of surprising and unusual events befall them.
The adventures of the Rambler Club are told in the following books: "The Rambler Club Afloat," "The Rambler Club's Winter Camp," "The Rambler Club in the Mountains," "The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch," "The Rambler Club Among the Lumberjacks," "The Rambler Club's Gold Mine," "The Rambler Club's Aeroplane," "The Rambler Club's House-Boat" and "The Rambler Club's Motor Car."
Now the lads are back at the Kingswood High School, from which they will graduate at the end of the term. Fired with an ambition to put new life into the athletic affairs of the school, Bob Somers and his friends take a hand and work some surprising changes. Their zeal and enthusiasm are further aroused by a certain offer made to the school by the town's most wealthy citizen, Mr. Rupert Barry.
"The Rambler Club's Ball Nine," however, greatly to the boys' astonishment, becomes the means of plunging the entire school into the most turbulent period of its existence. No one can foresee the outcome of the factional struggle until it is ended in a manner quite as surprising as the disturbance itself.
When the atmosphere finally clears observing students of the "High" feel that they have learned many valuable lessons.
W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD.
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The Rambler Club's Ball Nine
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CHAPTER ONE
THE NEW BALL FIELD
"Great Scott! Maybe that chap can't run!"
"You're right, Earl. But it will take more than running to beat the Stars and Goose Hill fellows, to say nothing of Rockville Academy. That crowd over there certainly has a corking team. Say, Roycroft, you ought to be on Bob Somers' nine."
Earl Roycroft, a six-foot boy weighing almost two hundred pounds, settled his big frame in a more comfortable position on the rail fence. His eyes mechanically followed the runners speeding one after another around a lot used by the Kingswood High School students as a baseball and training field.
"Why, it isn't Bob Somers' team; it's the school's, Nat," he protested, mildly.
Nat Wingate, a handsome, dark-haired boy with flashing brown eyes, smiled.
"Well, Somers seems to be having things pretty much his own way," he answered. "When I was captain, last year, it was mighty different. Stand up for your rights, Roycroft. The team needs a great big chap like you, and——"
"Great Scott, but he can sprint!"
"Well, it would be mighty funny if a fellow who has such long legs as Tom Clifton couldn't sprint," returned Nat, dryly.
The crisp crack of a bat suddenly attracted his attention. Then he caught sight of the ball describing a long, graceful curve. He watched the sphere flashing against the blue sky until it had reached such a height as to appear but the merest speck, and then as it swiftly dropped and was plucked from space by a slender boy in the outfield.
"Good catch for Charlie Blake," exclaimed Roycroft.
"And there was some class to the hit, too," commented Nat. "I don't think any of the Rambler fellows swung the stick on that one. Whoever he is, I wouldn't mind having him on my team."
"Humph! Don't you recognize that chap? It's Joe Rodgers."
"Gee whiz! The young fellow the Ramblers brought back with 'em on their motor car trip last fall?"
"Exactly!" laughed Earl. "Dave Brandon has been looking out for Joe, and got him a job on Mr. Miles' farm. He goes to school every day with a lot of little chaps about half his age. But Mr. Miles says, from the way Joe's learning, he'll soon put all us high school fellows in the has-been class. Come on, Nat. I want to get a whack at that ball myself."
Nat Wingate eased himself off the fence, flecked a few spots of dust from his clothes, and followed the big form of Earl Roycroft.
"My crowd is going to get the first whack at the Rambler Club's ball nine, Roy," he exclaimed.
A peculiarly sarcastic expression came over his face as Roy flung back:
"Cut that out, Nat. You mean the school team."
"Last season we trimmed the Goose Hill bunch," went on Wingate. "You know what a husky lot they are. Tony Tippen was in the box for us. If any of the scouts from the big leagues ever get to this burg I shouldn't wonder a bit if they'd snap him up."
"I'd be satisfied with the minors," laughed Earl. "Whew! The air is kind of chilly to-day, Nat. Roger Steele didn't think he'd have the boys practicing outside of the gym until next week. Great Scott, but that fellow can sprint!"
"Wonder if he learned the trick by having wildcats chase him out of the woods," laughed Nat. "Ha, ha! We met one once. John Hackett and our crowd ran across the Ramblers on their first trip, and——"
A salvo of cheers suddenly interrupted his sentence, and upon looking up to see the cause of it the captain of the Kingswood Stars saw a stout, round-faced boy advancing leisurely to the home plate.
"Ha, ha! We're going to see the new editor of the high school 'Reflector' in action. Did you read the last copy of that sheet, Earl?"
Roycroft nodded.
"Sure thing, Nat. Dave has written a history of the Rambler Club. The first instalment appears in the 'Reflector's' next issue. Guess there isn't a fellow in the school who won't dive into his pocket for a nickel. Hello, Spearman!"
A boy almost as tall as himself, but of a lighter build, stepped from among a crowd of noisy students and walked toward them. Harry Spearman had prominent aquiline features and a manner which suggested a nervous, high-strung disposition.
"I tell you, Roycroft, these fellows are going to give a good account of themselves," he began. "Steele and Somers have just the right idea of training. Don't push your men too hard, they say, but keep them always on the move. Roger Steele'll soon have a crowd of base-runners that will make some of the fellows on the other teams look as slow as so many ice wagons."
A shade crossed Earl's face. Bob Somers had often expressed the opinion that if the big fellow only possessed a little more speed he would make one of the best players in the school. But, while Roycroft was good at almost every other angle of the game, he was sometimes apt to slip up when quick action was absolutely necessary.
"Better not boast too much, Harry," grinned Nat. "Wait until the Ramblers stack up against the Stars. We expect to pull off a few plays that may make 'em seem like never-wassers. The Rockville football eleven came over last fall, you know, and Bob Somers' crowd didn't cut any great figure in the game."
Harry Spearman's eyes snapped scornfully.
"Suppose they did beat us? That isn't much to brag about," he retorted. "When the Ramblers got back to school this term there was no athletic association; everything was disorganized—you know that, Wingate——"
"Gee! Another dandy hit," broke in Roycroft. "Dave Brandon certainly smacked the ball that time. Look at it—still sailing. I'll bet it's bound for Rockville."
"Of course you do, Nat," went on Harry, paying no attention to this interruption. "Before, it was all hit or miss—mostly miss; and nobody seemed to care."
"Correct," added Earl. "Bob plunged right in, and, with up-to-the-minute plans, got the athletic association started, football and baseball committees formed, and made arrangements with all the various schools around to play a regular schedule of games."
"Oh, I suppose he has your big colleges beaten to a frazzle on the fine points of the game," exclaimed Nat, with a barely perceptible sneer.
Earl Roycroft laughed softly. He knew that it wouldn't take much to start a lively wrangle between Wingate and Spearman, as Nat was of a highly impetuous nature, while the latter's principal characteristics were nervousness and excitability. But he found it easy to stem the tide of belligerency which seemed on the point of beginning.
Freshmen, sophomores, juniors and seniors, mingling in a fraternal spirit, formed scattered groups all over the lot, occasionally yelling with as much vigor and enthusiasm as though about to witness a championship game. Many wore purple and white sweaters, and these garments added a touch of bright color to the still barren landscape.
"There's 'Jack Frost' in the box, fellows," remarked Earl. "He has a slow ball that will puzzle the Rockville boys. I've been up against it, and I know. Comes so slow that you almost fall asleep waiting for it to pass over the plate."
William Frost was the name of the player in question, though, of course, his schoolmates generally called him "Jack."
"And Tony Tippen has an inshoot that would make the Cannon Ball Express look like a slow freighter," laughed Nat. "Gee, I wish the next two weeks would roll around fast. I guess you high school fellows are in for a pretty hard jolt. We hate to do it, too, for this is a mighty poor ball field, and a few lambastings will probably knock all that fine Rupert Barry business in the head."
"Oh, it will, eh?" sniffed Spearman. "Next season the Purple and White team will be using that new ball park, and we'll have a grand stand, besides."
"Sorry to have to put that happy train of thought off the track," chuckled Nat. "Have you forgotten the Goose Hill crowd and a few others?"
"It wouldn't faze us if they were major leaguers."
"Hello, you 'Pie-eaters'; hello! Where's the rest of the 'Doughnut' crowd?"
This hail, coming in very gruff tones from the tall sprinter who had excited Earl Roycroft's admiration, made Nat Wingate's eyes glitter ominously.
"The nerve of that Tom Clifton is getting my nerve," he commented, in a low tone. "It beats me how some of the chaps are willing to swallow all he hands out."
"He doesn't seem to like the idea of us swallowing pie," laughed Roycroft.
By this time the tallest senior in the school had almost reached the group. Tom Clifton, bubbling over with good spirits, eyed Nat quizzically.
"Still making the pies over at Guffin's do the disappearing act?" he asked.
"Yes! And the doughnuts are following the same route."
"How is it that Kirk Talbot didn't come over to see us practicing?"
"Kirk had something more important on hand. He went to a moving picture show instead."
"I'll bet it was a nickel one," snickered Tom. "We're getting ready for your crowd, Nat. Thanks, Roycroft! I can go some. I'll do better yet. Wait till you see me making the circuit of the bases. And when we get that new field—well! We'll make some of the 'Pie-eaters and doughnut crowd' lose their appetites."
Tom Clifton's gaze roved over the rather uneven field, which was situated some distance from the rear of the Kingswood High School. Great patches of weeds and small saplings had been leveled to the ground and hollow places filled in by the willing hands of the boys. But even all the zeal and enthusiasm with which they had worked could not make the result of their labor a joy and delight. This particular field seemed to have a grudge against all athletic sports. Treacherous little bumps or depressions, as well as other irregularities, had often spoiled what might have been brilliant plays.
And now, Tom reflected, after a whole winter of neglect, conditions looked more unpromising than ever. It did not at all fit in with his ideas of what the Kingswood High School boys deserved, especially when he considered the new lease of life which Bob Somers, ably assisted by his friends, had injected into the athletic affairs of the school.
To the north, the three story stone building of the school, the center of which was surmounted by a cupola, shone brightly in the afternoon sun. Beyond the residences which hemmed in the large lot on all sides several towers and domes indicated the business portion of Kingswood. It all made a very pleasing picture.
But Tom Clifton did not allow his thoughts to stray very long from the actual work in hand. He was too anxious to get in the thick of the fray again, and pull down some of the "sky-scrapers" which little Joe Rodgers was batting out with remarkable precision.
"Say, Nat, that chap is a corker," he declared. "Stand wherever you please, and he'll put the horse-hide right into your hands. Gee—see that!"
"What?" asked Nat.
"Why, the way Blake picked up Dave's grounder—one handed, too! By Jove, it was a scorcher! Where are you going, Roycroft?"
"To bat," answered Earl, with a laugh. "Come on, Spearman."
"Good! Try to knock me down. I'll show you a few fancy stunts, Nat."
"We are reserving ours until Saturday week," returned Wingate. "That's right, Tom. Snicker all you want. But it's the snickers which come after the game that count."
Tom's reply was not audible, as there was too much noise. Some hundred schoolboys, whose vocal organs were in excellent condition, seemed to be desirous of learning just how much sound they could produce at a given moment.
Bob Somers had pulled down one of Joe Rodgers' drives after a long, hard run, and although the force of the impact had sent him rolling over and over on the ground, the sphere was safe in his hands.
"Bully—bully!" cried Tom, as the shouts subsided. "See you later, Nat."
"Hold on, Tommy," said Wingate. A quizzical smile was playing about his lips. A restraining hand seized Tom Clifton's wrist. "Anything the matter with your optics to-day, son?"
"Why?" queried Tom, in surprise.
"Haven't they lighted on anything yet, eh?"
"Yes; a whole lot of dandy plays."
"That isn't what I mean."
The earnest manner of his companion made Tom eagerly scan the field. He saw a dozen balls flying about in all directions, students in purple and white sweaters dashing from place to place, and "Jack Frost" engaged in sending in a variety of curves to Phil Brentall, the backstop. He also saw the ball being snapped from first to third and back again with great rapidity.
But the fact that he was not looking in the right direction was speedily impressed upon his mind when Nat shoved him around in a most unceremonious fashion.
"Now what do you see?" demanded Nat.
"Gee whiz—goodness gracious!" cried Tom—"Mr. Rupert Barry."
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CHAPTER TWO
MR. BARRY
A tall, thin man, who, although somewhat elderly, seemed to walk with all the alertness of youth, was directing his course toward the players. He wore a long, faded, dusty-looking black coat and a derby hat of an equally old appearance.
Mr. Rupert Barry, one of the best known and wealthiest citizens of Kingswood, had retired from active business many years before, and, with only a man and wife who acted as housekeepers, resided in a stately mansion which crowned the summit of a hill. Mr. Barry was not partial to visitors. Only a select few had entered his doors. Those who did spoke enthusiastically of a collection of bric-à-brac and paintings which his house contained.
None of the present generation remembered having ever seen Mr. Barry in other than his old-fashioned coat and derby hat. It was a standing puzzle whether the coat and hat refused to be worn out, or whether, by some mysterious process, he was able, year in and year out, to procure garments of exactly the same color and texture.
Mr. Barry seldom appeared without a dog to keep him company. And these animals, which had succeeded one another up to the present time, generally possessed but little beauty.
On this occasion the dog which kept close to the elderly gentleman's heels was a large, shaggy creature of a yellowish hue, with a quarrelsome look in his eye.
"Now it's time to get out on the field and pull off some of those pretty stunts, Tom," advised Nat Wingate. "It may make him take down a few of those no-trespassing signs on that lot of his."
"That's right," laughed Tom. "It fairly bristles with 'em. 'Trespassers dealt with according to law'; 'Private property'; 'No thoroughfare'; 'Keep out'; 'Any one found depositing ashes or refuse on this lot will be prosecuted.' Have I missed any, Nat?"
"Just one," chuckled Wingate, "over on the northeast corner: 'Intruders will be promptly ejected.' It's a wonder he hasn't a few Gatling guns planted around."
"And just to think," mused Tom, "he's going to give that field to us!"
"Well, I like your cheek," blazed out Nat. "You must think you're the whole show. Do you know what my idea is?"
"Guess I will in a minute."
"Mr. Barry knows it's such a safe proposition that you fellows will get trimmed all around——"
"Oh, get out, you 'Pie-eater'!" howled Tom. "Take a doughnut. It looks like a cipher—meaning nothing for you!"
"We can eat up lots of things besides doughnuts," said Nat, sarcastically. "I'm going to trail Mr. Rupert Barry."
"So am I."
As they walked briskly toward the scene of action the noise and the cracks of the bats seemed to be greater than ever.
By this time Mr. Barry had almost reached the high board fence which served as a backstop and score-board.
It was at once observed that Dave Brandon had stopped practicing and was coming forward to meet their visitor. Bob Somers, too, was walking in from the outfield.
"By Jupiter, they're almost falling over themselves," jeered Nat. "I want to hear some of the soft stuff they hand out. Bet they'll have a tremolo in their voices."
Nat Wingate had the ability to provoke a wrangle at almost any moment. A hot flush mounted to Tom's face. He was too eager, however, to learn the reason for Mr. Barry's descent upon the ball field to reply.
In and out through the noisy groups he led the way, soon hearing above the medley of sound the harsh, rasping voice of Kingswood's eccentric citizen.
"I never could understand why boys have to make such a confounded racket while they're playing ball," he jerked out, impatiently. "Good energy all gone to waste. Lie down, Canis!"
The yellow dog seemed to have taken a great dislike to the proceedings going on all about him, and was giving voice to this feeling by a series of savage snarls and barks.
"Long distance conversation for me," laughed Wingate. "His ivories seem to be in good working condition."
"I'll bet he's as yellow inside as out," chuckled Tom. "One good kick——"
"And any hope for your ball field would be gone forever."
"Don't stop for me, Somers." Mr. Barry was speaking. He waved a large, knotty cane peremptorily in the direction of the outfield. "Get right back to your place." His stick struck sharply against the wooden fence. "Here, here, you boys over there: quit that howling; quit it, I say!"
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"GET RIGHT BACK TO YOUR PLACE"
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The students who had been applauding a difficult pick-up by Charlie Blake obeyed his authoritative command.
"That's better. What's the use of howling like a pack of young pirates?"
"If it ain't any use, it's lots of fun, mister." A stocky, freckle-faced boy, handling a very large bat, gave this answer. "And sometimes it puts a whole lot of ginger into the crowd," he added.
"What's your name?"
"Joe Rodgers."
"Do you go to the high school? Keep quiet, Canis!"
"Not yet, sir."
"Then why are you practicing on this field?"
"'Cause they let me."
"As bold as brass," murmured Mr. Barry, in audible tones. "Somers, I believe I requested you to keep right on with your playing."
Mr. Barry looked at the captain of the nine as sternly as though he were some culprit caught trespassing on his field. The afternoon sun played on an angular, smooth-shaven face and a pair of cold gray eyes. There was nothing in his expression to indicate any great sympathy with youth or their pastimes. But it was observable that, even as he spoke, his gaze was continually shifting from one group to another.
"This is the first day we have practiced outside of the gym, Mr. Barry," began Bob. "You see it was such a bully day——"
"I must request that you eliminate such words as 'bully' when addressing me," interrupted the visitor, stiffly.
"Would you like to have a little bat-out and catch, Mr. Barry?" asked Nat Wingate, in a very innocent tone.
"I know you of old, Wingate," returned the other, frigidly. "You may direct your remarks elsewhere. What did you say, Brandon?"
"That we seem to be rounding out in pretty good shape, Mr. Barry; and——"
"I didn't come over to hear any boasting."
"His figure rounded out in pretty poor shape years ago, so I'm told," put in a tall, aggressive-looking lad to whom Nat had just beckoned.
Mr. Barry turned sharply upon him, took a good look, and then remarked:
"I don't think I ever saw you before, boy."
"I don't think I ever saw you before, either."
"And what might your name be?"
"Owen Lawrence. You see, our folks just moved to Kingswood. Of course I had to go to school somewhere, and so I'm a student at the High."
"And if you have any sense you'll stick there until you get a good education," snapped the irascible old gentleman. "Drat that confounded dog! Keep still, Canis! If you boys have as much spirit in training as he has out of training you'll do. Now don't stand around gaping as if you'd never seen a man before. Go back to practice."
Mr. Barry had a way about him which impelled obedience to his will. For fully fifteen minutes, under his critical observation, the boys played with a dash and vim that might have brought a smile of approval from almost any one else.
Then, without a word of comment, he waved his knotty stick in the direction of the captain of the nine, and, closely followed by the yellow dog, stalked back in the direction from whence he had come.
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CHAPTER THREE
THE "RETREAT"
Not far from the high school, at the end of a long row of houses, stood an unpretentious two-story frame building painted white. Big black letters almost covering the width of the house announced that therein was located "Terry Guffin's Student Retreat."
Terry had lived in the "White House" long enough to know generation after generation of schoolboys. His pies, doughnuts and cakes were famous; so were his chops. And many an old "grad" who had left his student days far behind found it convenient to return to Kingswood so that he might see the round, red face of Mr. Guffin, and once more partake of his tasty wares.
The interior of the Student Retreat was filled with interesting souvenirs of school life—photographs, sketches, bits of writing—each possessing a significance dear to the heart of Terry Guffin. There were rather curious paintings, too, on door panels, or over mantel-pieces, which showed ambition, if not high artistic ability. The largest and most important, painted on real canvas, with a gold frame around it, and hanging so conspicuously that all who entered must rest their gaze upon it, was signed "David Brandon."
The picture represented a wild stampede of cattle on the plains. Cowboys, terror-stricken animals, and clouds of dust were depicted in a spirit which had often aroused the enthusiasm of visitors to the Retreat.
At the rear of the building, a large yard enclosed by a high board fence was a favorite spot with many of the students, for tables, with the whitest of table-cloths, and comfortable chairs were placed temptingly about. Several trees and palms, together with a number of small flower beds, helped, in warm weather, to make the place very attractive.
When Nat Wingate and Owen Lawrence entered the "Retreat," late that afternoon, their ears told them before they reached the yard that it had been captured by a crowd of lively boys. And the new student of the Kingswood school immediately noted that his companion seemed to be highly popular.
"Hello, Nat! Hello!" came from half a dozen throats.
"Zip—boom—hooray for the captain of the Stars!" called out a boy almost as tall as Tom Clifton.
"Hello, Hackett! Hello, Talbot!" greeted Nat. "Gee—there's 'Crackers,' too. Howdy, everybody! Fellows, let me introduce Owen Lawrence."
The latter was busy for a few moments exchanging salutations. Then he plumped himself down on a chair, which the smiling Terry Guffin pushed toward him.
Mr. Guffin was pleased—the round, cherubic face under his chef's white cap plainly showed it. A new customer to the "Retreat" generally meant a permanent customer so long as he remained a boy—and sometimes after.
Owen was soon holding a rapid-fire talk with Kirk Talbot, John Hackett, Benny Wilkins, Ted Pollock, and a heavy-set, stoop-shouldered boy wearing spectacles, and who was invariably addressed as "Crackers."
"'Crackers'?" queried Owen, at one of the infrequent pauses.
The heavy-set boy flushed slightly. A ripple of mirth was communicated to various groups.
"Ha, ha!" grinned Nat. "He doesn't do it any more."
"Do what?" asked the new student.
"Why, at one time he almost supported a cracker foundry," explained Nat—"never seemed to be separated from a large bag of them."
"A continuous performance," supplemented Hackett.
"And of course such an awful example had to be made an example of," chuckled Benny Wilkins. "Anywhere within a five-mile zone his name is 'Crackers.' When he gets beyond, some people call him Dan and others Brown. He's been done up brown, too; haven't you, Brown?"
"Some greenies may think so."
"Well, it's a good thing talk like that doesn't mean a black eye for some one. What were you saying, Nat?"
"I'm trying to put Owen straight on who we are and what we are," answered Nat. "You see, John Hackett, Kirk Talbot and myself left school at the end of last term, and have already begun our struggle in life."
"So far, it's been something fierce, too," confided Hackett. "I'm working for my father, and the howl he raises when I want a day or two off would almost make you run out of the store."
"John's the meanest apology for a dry-goods clerk that ever skimped on a yard of cloth," announced Benny Wilkins.
Nat turned toward Lawrence. "Ted Pollock, an old chum of ours, is still making the professors at the school throw up their hands in despair. So are most of the other chaps around here."
"I've seen Benny Wilkins at the school," said Owen.
"We must whisper that he's seen too often everywhere. He totes around a note-book—must fill one every week. What did you put down to-day, Benny?"
Wilkins slowly drew from his pocket the article in question, and, opening it, read:
"Four thirty-five P. M. Sized up the candidates for the ball team. No good. Four forty P. M. Tom Clifton received notification to that effect. Four forty-one P. M. Tom Clifton said so much in about three minutes that I left it all out. Four fifty P. M. Looked at a book containing logarithms, but decided that Terry Guffin's was better."
"There is hope for you yet, Benny," remarked "Crackers," solemnly.
Owen Lawrence paid but little attention to the boys outside of his immediate circle, for he quickly noticed that they were apparently but a chorus playing a very secondary part to the principal "stars" of the "Retreat."
"Say, fellows, who was that elderly gentleman who came over to the ball grounds this afternoon?" he inquired, presently.
Several started to answer at once. But Nat Wingate silenced them.
"Mr. Rupert Barry," he explained. "They say he's the oldest graduate of the high school. Has a great lot of the stuff everybody's scrapping for, too—money."
"Awful queer old chap," confided Ted Pollock.
"What's all the talk about a new ball field that Tom Clifton is getting off every day?" asked Owen.
"I was just about to tell you," answered Nat. "Hello, Terry"—he raised his voice—"are you baking that pie?"
The white cap and smiling countenance of Mr. Guffin immediately appeared in the doorway.
"Just a moment, Nat," he answered, rubbing his hands together.
"Hurry it up, Terry. Well, Lawrence, Mr. Barry owns a large field about three-quarters of a mile from the school. And, last year, he sprang a sensation on the crowd which some of 'em haven't gotten over yet."
"If I'd only known about it at the time I'd have stayed at the school and won it for the boys," remarked John Hackett.
"You?" scoffed Benny Wilkins.
"Before night comes I guess I'll know the particulars," laughed Owen.
"Everybody keep quiet until spoken to," commanded Nat. "Mr. Barry ambled over to the school one day and saw Professor Hopkins."
"I'll tell him what happened," interrupted Ted Pollock. "You weren't there, Nat. I can see the principal now——"
"You can't," declared Benny Wilkins—"unless you've eaten too much pie."
"He came into the assembly room with Mr. Barry. 'Boys,' he said, in solemn tones, 'you all know our esteemed fellow townsman. He tells me that on several occasions some of you have attempted to play ball on his lot.'"
"Thought you were going to catch it, I suppose?" grinned Owen.
"Certainly did. But the principal switched off on a line of talk that filled the fellows with so much astonishment that it's a wonder they could do any studying for the rest of the week."
"I know a few that didn't," came from Benny Wilkins.
Nat silenced him with a gesture, and went on to explain that the eccentric old gentleman who occupied the house on the hill did not go to the school to register a "kick," but had actually offered to present them the field and a grand stand in case they should have a winning ball team the following year.
When Bob Somers, Dave Brandon and Tom Clifton returned from a trip to the East they had started things moving with a vengeance. Assisted by Dick Travers and Sam Randall, two other members of the Rambler Club, they got the student body to vote on the proposition to form a regular athletic association. The boys, much impressed by the various exploits of the Rambler Club, responded with an enthusiasm that not only brought the project to a successful issue but placed in office all those who were champions of Bob Somers and his crowd. Sam Randall became president, Harry Spearman, vice president, Dick Travers, secretary, and Jack Carr, treasurer. And all the representatives from the various classes were hot "rooters" for the Ramblers.
Of course many candidates for the ball team appeared, the most prominent being the big guard of the football eleven, Earl Roycroft. Certain very strong rumors floating about, however, seemed to suggest that while Earl wouldn't be given a chance, Charlie Blake, a lad who had made a failure on the school team when Nat Wingate captained it, was almost certain of being assigned a position by the coach, Roger Steele.
With so much at stake, some of the boys began to feel that the Ramblers were having altogether too much say in the matter. Tom Clifton's calm assumption that he would be a member of the nine was particularly annoying to some of his schoolmates.
"Crackers" insisted that a storm was brewing. In fact, his agitation had already resulted in the formation of an opposition, whose murmuring discontent, if things didn't go right, seemed liable to break out later into a fierce roar of disapproval.
The great prize for which the school was about to strive had the effect of putting this small minority into a belligerent state of mind even before the make-up of the team was actually known.
When his various informers at length came to a stop, Owen Lawrence drawled:
"A very interesting state of affairs. I don't like to say anything against the crowd, fellows, but, honestly, it seems to me that Tom Clifton is about the limit."
"Oh, you knocker!" snickered Benny Wilkins.
"A conceited specimen, if there ever was one," asserted "Crackers," nodding emphatically. "Have you heard the latest?"
"Wait till I get out my note-book," said Benny. "Let's see—five ten P. M. A revelation by 'Crackers' Brown——"
"He's talking about the dieting racket for athletes. By Jove, he had a crowd lined up in the gym this morning, talking bigger'n any M. D. you ever listened to—fact."
A chorus of groans greeted this announcement.
"Pies and doughnuts barred out, I s'pose?" exclaimed Ted Pollock.
"I believe if he even saw one in a window he'd cross over to the other side of the street."
"Ah! That's right, Terry." Nat Wingate was speaking. "Crickets—here come the doughnuts!"
Mr. Guffin had placed before the captain of the Stars and Owen Lawrence as fine specimens of pies as the "Retreat" had ever turned out. An assistant deposited a big plateful of doughnuts in the center of the table.
"We won't be able to eat much supper after this," ventured Owen.
"You only say that because you're not used to Guffin's," chuckled Nat. "These are regular appetizers. What was I saying?"
"Nothing," said Benny. "How did you happen to think of it?"
"What kind of work are you doing, Nat?" asked Owen.
"I'm secretary to my uncle, Mr. Parsons Wingate," answered Nat. "I can take dictation in shorthand and bang on the typewriter with all ten fingers."
"And find time to play ball besides?"
"You bet! I get practice enough to keep on edge. The Stars can trim a lot of would-be big leaguers."
"You're going to play the school team, aren't you?"
"Yes! And we expect to give 'em an awful drubbing, too."
"Get out your note-book, Wilkins. I'm going to ask a question," said Brown, banging the table sharply.
"All right," assented Benny. "Five fifteen P. M. 'Crackers' asks a question."
"It is this," said Brown, staring solemnly over the rim of his glasses: "he who dares to venture within this 'Retreat' must be more than a Pie-eater; he must have the—the—how does that go? Oh, yes—the courage of his convictions—it has to be perfectly straight talk."
"The question—the question!" demanded Benny. "You must excuse him, Lawrence. When he starts out to ask anything he generally forgets what it is before he reaches the point."
"You have been at the Kingswood High one week," said "Crackers," with a stern glare at the grinning Wilkins, "and in that time have seen and heard a lot. Where do you stand on this baseball situation?"
Owen Lawrence pondered a moment. The tongues of the boys were silent.
"Well," he said, slowly, "I'm not one of those chaps who is afraid to tell what he thinks." He beat a tattoo on the plate with his fork. "No, sir. I don't mind saying that from what I've seen of the Somers crowd my sympathies are beginning to be with the opposition."
"Hooray!" cried John Hackett. "We are all for the good of the school. Do you play ball?"
"Of course. I was on a scrub team for two years." He paused. "Fellows, I'm going to try for the Kingswood team myself."
"Great—great!" cried Benny, gleefully. "I'll make an entry of that."
"Think you stand any show of getting on?" inquired Nat.
"Yes. Why not? Hasn't any chap who can make good a chance?"
"That's something we have to find out," growled John Hackett. "But our crowd's afraid Bob Somers will manage to get most of his own chums on the team, besides having the biggest say about the others."
"If that's his scheme we'll nip it," declared the new student, emphatically. "I'm going to have something to say—don't you forget it."
"And just to make sure we won't, I'll make a note of it," chuckled Benny Wilkins.
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CHAPTER FOUR
THE LIST OF PLAYERS
Since their return in the preceding fall Bob Somers and his crowd had certainly stirred things up at the Kingswood High. Of course, for many years, the school had been represented in local sporting events by its football and baseball teams. But there was no athletic association, little discipline, and a general policy of letting things drift along under no particular control.
Now all this was changed. Immediately after the board of directors was chosen, and they, in turn, had elected officers, the business of securing a competent coach was attended to. Roger Steele, a graduate of the school, who had afterward played on a university baseball team and finally taken up the practice of law in Kingswood, readily assented to assume this task.
Roger, a great friend of Bob Somers, entered enthusiastically into the scheme. There was plenty of good material to draw upon, a fact attested to by the number of victories won before Nat Wingate left school.
As early as the beginning of February the coach sent out a call for candidates. Freshmen, sophomores, juniors and seniors responded in such numbers as to make it apparent that the boys were in hearty accord with the new spirit of things.
Even while winter storms were howling practice was begun in the gymnasium. A net cage to protect the walls and windows from damage was arranged. Often while the snowflakes pattered against the panes aspiring candidates labored zealously to perfect themselves in the national sport.
Steele began to drill "Jack Frost" and Willie Singleton who soon gave promise of becoming real pitchers. Charlie Blake, wishing to retrieve his reputation, worked diligently. So did stout Dave Brandon. The football team of which he and Bob Somers had been members had received its bumps at the hands of Rockville Academy only a few months before, and Dave did not wish to leave school with memories of defeat lingering in his mind.
Perhaps, after all, the biggest figure in these events was Tom Clifton. He had had printed a set of by-laws which were to govern the acts of the athletic association. Tom was mighty proud of this achievement, for even Coach Steele expressed the opinion that they were very good. There was no more strenuous candidate for a position on the team than the tall senior, who was usually the first in the gym and the last to leave.
The greatest danger which the coach had to contend with was the tendency of the boys to overdo things. As the time for a definite selection of players drew near interest increased. The adherents of rival candidates began to be heard. The Somersites, however, seemed to be in the great majority, several of the Ramblers being almost certain of winning places on the team.
The Kingswood High School was surrounded by spacious grounds in which, only a few moments' walk from the main building, stood the gymnasium.
Early on the afternoon following the introduction of Owen Lawrence into the select company of the "Pie-eaters," a great crowd of students directed their steps toward it. A cold, drizzly rain fell steadily; a brisk wind shook and rattled the branches of the stately elm on the campus. But the unpleasant weather could not kill the ardor and enthusiasm of the boys.
Coats were doffed, and once again purple and white sweaters made an aggressive note of color amid the surroundings.
Among the throng who came to look on were "Crackers" Brown, Owen Lawrence, Ted Pollock and Benny Wilkins.
"Start 'er going, fellows!"
The businesslike voice of Coach Steele rang through the room.
"All right, Roger," responded Bob Somers. "Who's got my glove—you, Dave? Good! Shoot that ball over here, Tom. Thanks! Here go, 'Jack Frost.'"
With a "Hello, 'Pie-eater'!" addressed to Ted Pollock, the pitcher got to work, Phil Brentall, catcher, having taken his position behind the big chalk mark on the gymnasium mat.
"Take it easy, boys," warned Coach Steele. "Danger of straining your arms if you don't. Cut out those fancy capers, Clifton."
"Shoot it over, Dave," Bob Somers was saying. "Put plenty of ginger behind it, too. Better get over this way a little further, so we won't be in danger of putting 'Jack Frost' out of business."
The snappy work which followed brought a smile of approval to the coach's face. Several other candidates for pitchers followed Frost. Then came batting practice. Some of the boys were able to solve "Jack Frost's" delivery. Frequently the crack of the bats reverberated sharply through the building, and the wire netting stopped some pretty hard drives.
Steele showed his men many fine points in the art of sliding to bases, and Tom Clifton distinguished himself on the big mats spread about for this purpose.
Occasionally the candidates "cut loose," and by the time practice for the afternoon was over most of them were warm and happy.
Earl Roycroft had made a good showing. Everybody who liked the big football guard—and that meant almost every one in the room—was jubilant.
"He's all to the good as a baseball tosser," declared Ted Pollock. "We'll surely see him in a brand new uniform playing at first or short."
The crowd began filing out of the building.
"Hello!" cried "Crackers" Brown, suddenly. "That looks interesting."
"Goodness!—'Crackers' discovers something interesting!" murmured Benny Wilkins. "It's certainly not himself."
"What do you see, Brown?" asked Owen Lawrence.
"You fellows couldn't spy through a hole in a fence," growled "Crackers." He lowered his voice. "Cast your optics over in the direction of Steele and Somers. Now do you catch on?"
"Gee Willikins! They seem to be looking over a long list of some kind," cried Ted Pollock. "I wonder what it means."
"If your brain cells don't operate actively enough I suppose I'll have to tell you," said "Crackers," in his usual solemn tone. "It must be a—a—what's the word? Oh, yes—tentative—a tentative list of eligible players."
"I believe that wearing spectacles must make a fellow smart," grinned Benny. "What are you looking so glum about, Lawrence?"
"Why, I wanted to try for the team myself," exclaimed Lawrence. "By Jingo, they ought to give me a chance. Come on, fellows. I'm going to find out right away where I stand."
"Don't let 'em bluff you," counseled Benny. "Always remember that the 'Pie-eaters'll' back you up."
There was no air of indecision about the new student. The lines of his clean-cut face seemed to tighten.
"I say, Mr. Steele," he called, "may I have a word with you?"
"As many as you please," answered the coach, smilingly. He handed the list which had excited "Crackers'" curiosity to Bob Somers and advanced to the edge of the cage. "What can I do for you, Lawrence?"
"Am I too late to try for the team, Mr. Steele?"
Owen spoke in an aggressive manner, as though he anticipated an affirmative answer and was ready to argue the point. But: "Certainly you may," coming from the coach made the combative light fade from his eyes.
"Oh—oh! Thank you."
"You have played a good deal, I suppose?"
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. You may start in to-morrow."
"Too bad! A revolution nipped in the bud," muttered Benny Wilkins. "Lawrence's expression was something fierce. But it had the 'fade-away' drop, all right. Back to the pie parlor for me."
"I'd like to see that list," remarked "Crackers," wistfully.
"Hi, hi, there, Tom Clifton," shouted Benny Wilkins, "trot over this way."
"Well?" inquired Tom, an instant later.
"Is that—er—er—what was the big word you used just now, 'Crackers'?"
"Tentative, you ignoramus."
"Thanks! A tentative list of players, Tom?"
Tom looked very wise.
"Maybe it is, and maybe it isn't," he answered, slowly. "Just think it over while you're eating doughnuts. Going to practice to-morrow, Lawrence? Good! The more the merrier!"
"The more the sorrier, you mean—when the list is pasted up," interposed Benny.
"I shouldn't be surprised if somebody got pasted after the pasting," said "Crackers."
"Don't worry," laughed Tom, turning away.
During the next few days, whenever the weather was suitable, the boys practiced out-of-doors. Owen Lawrence worked as hard as any of the others. There was no doubt about his being a good player—even Tom Clifton admitted this fact to Harry Spearman.
"Joining that 'Pie-eating' crowd won't do him a bit of good, though," he added.
"Strikes me he'd be a rather hard chap to manage," confided Harry. "Awful set in his opinions, isn't he?"
"Owen makes me tired," confessed Tom. "He actually tried to jump on Dave this morning. But Dave only grinned—that's all. Couldn't get him going."
"How did it happen?"
"He's seen that Dave is chummy with the coach—asked him to put in a good word in his behalf. 'Can't,' said Dave. 'We're leaving it all to Steele.' Seemed to make Owen hot."
"If he doesn't get on the team he'll be hotter yet," chuckled Spearman. "You seem to be getting some of those base-stealing stunts down fine, Tom."
"Steele's put me onto a lot of tricks. 'Tisn't all in the sprinting, he says. Even a slow man who knows how has a chance. He's got the list of players about made up now. Next Monday he'll submit it to the athletic association."
"We've been talking things over with Roger for a long time," remarked Harry. "From what I've seen, I'd say he's struck the list about right. But there'll be a lot of kicks coming, son."
"Sure," admitted Tom. "That officious 'Crackers' Brown, even before the names are put up, is buttonholing everybody he thinks ripe for a row. 'Steele will be making the greatest mistake of his life if he doesn't have Roycroft and Lawrence on that team,' he says. The nerve of him!"
"One good thing: Roger knows his business too well to be influenced. It's up to the coach to run the team, and the school hasn't a word to say."
"Of course not! Gee! I must get over to practice now," exclaimed Tom, suddenly.
Before the week was over Mr. Barry and his dog again appeared on the scene. He was as garrulous as usual whenever spoken to, but otherwise made no comments.
To the anxious candidates Monday seemed very far off; and when it rolled around few of the students were able to keep their minds on the work in hand. Some "fell down" hard in the class room. All sorts of rumors were afloat. Earl Roycroft looked hopeful; "Crackers" Brown decidedly ominous; Owen Lawrence wore an air of belligerency.
At the first opportunity a crowd began trooping over to the gymnasium.
Yes, the list was there, posted in a conspicuous place.
But, due to the noise, pushing and jostling, it was some time before those on the outside of the excited mass could gather any clear idea of what had happened.
"Crackers" Brown and Owen Lawrence were not on the outside of the mass. The former had his face shoved so close to the list that it was with difficulty his neighbors could get a glimpse.
"Gee whiz, 'Crackers,' I'm tired of looking at the architecture of your head," complained Benny Wilkins. "How many of the seven candidates for pitchers got their jobs?"
Numerous exclamations of surprise and disappointment were soon being heard. The ominous expression on "Crackers'" face increased. Lawrence was looking positively savage.
"Say, fellows, this is about the limit. What do you think!" Brown turned to face a staring, noisy crowd. "Neither Roycroft nor Lawrence is on the team!"
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CHAPTER V
THE GRUMBLERS
"Well, I'm mighty glad it's all settled, Steele," said Bob Somers. "I'm afraid, though"—he smiled rather grimly—"that some of the chaps are pretty badly disappointed."
Coach Steele's gray eyes ran over the crowd congregated before the bulletin-board.
"It's the same old story, Bob. A coach's life is not always the biggest snap in the world."
"I wonder how Roycroft will take it," ventured Charlie Blake.
"Like a good sport, I'm sure," answered Steele.
"Of course he will," said Tom, who was bubbling over with glee. "Honest, Bob, I can hardly wait for the umpire to call 'Play ball!' Aren't we going to pulverize Nat Wingate's crowd? I'll bet we whitewash 'em. Doesn't it make you tired to hear some of those fellows boast?"
"Ha, ha! I shall have to make a note of Mr. Clifton's comment on boasting." Benny Wilkins, wearing his usual grin, approached. "Congrats, Brandon and the whole bunch. Thought your weight and Somers' delicate nerve would carry you through. Lucky dogs!"
"I can see an awful lot of hard work before us," drawled Dave Brandon.
"But just think what jolly good fun it'll be getting the school a new athletic field," exclaimed Tom. "Hope some of the teams we play are strong enough to give us a pretty good tussle."
"Cut it out, fellows! I tell you I don't want you to say a word. I'm not putting up any kick."
Earl Roycroft's big form loomed up from among a group of gesticulating, excited admirers. Voices echoed sharply through the big gymnasium.
"How about Lawrence? How about Lawrence?" chorused a small coterie surrounding the new student and "Crackers" Brown.
"Rah, rah, rah for Bob Somers!" answered a challenging roar from lusty throats. "Three cheers for Coach Steele!"
The room seemed to shake with applause. The Somersites were clearly in the majority. A stream began pouring over to offer their well wishes to the members of the first regularly organized team of the Kingswood High.
Bantering remarks, cat-calls, came from the minority. Never in its history had the gym witnessed such a scene of noise, confusion and bustle. From out of the babel of sound came the repeated cry of:
"Roycroft—Roycroft!"
The big guard, red-faced and flustered, found himself being pushed toward Coach Steele. His emphatic protests fell on unheeding ears.
"Quit it, fellows," he commanded, almost angrily. "If the coach didn't want me on the team that settles it."
"Don't roll off any such chicken-hearted stuff as that," growled Owen Lawrence. "We've been handed a raw deal, and it's time to us we said something."
"This looks like the beginning of a real revolution," grinned Benny Wilkins, who had walked over.
"We might as well have a little talk with Mr. Steele right now," suggested "Crackers."
"That's right; strike while the Steele is cool," piped Benny.
"Let go, fellows!" cried Earl. "Stop shoving, Luke Phelps. If I'm satisfied, you haven't any right to fuss about it."
"Oh, yes, we have. It's for the good of the school," declared "Crackers" emphatically. "I told you all along how things would turn out. A protest in time may save nine awful explosions."
________________________________________

"IT'S FOR THE GOOD OF THE SCHOOL"
________________________________________
"Well, I'm in your hands," said the guard, with a rather weak smile.
"I say, Mr. Steele!"—Owen Lawrence was speaking—"may I speak to you a moment?"
"Certainly, Lawrence. Go ahead."
"I don't want to appear in the light of a sorehead, Mr. Steele; but it seems to me—and a good many here will back up my opinion—that it's a mistake to leave Roycroft off the team."
"What has Earl to say about this?" asked the coach, quietly.
"I told these chaps I was ready to abide by your decision," answered Roycroft. "I'm not kicking."
"That's all very well," said "Crackers," "but we happen to know the kind of a game he can play; and the prize the school is going after——"
"I have considered all that, Brown."
The coach, scarcely more than a schoolboy in appearance, spoke so unassumingly that "Crackers" was emboldened to continue.
He began talking earnestly and emphatically, pointing out the various reasons why both Roycroft and Lawrence should be added to the squad.
The coach, however, shook his head.
"I don't think I can make any change, Brown," he announced, firmly. "There are so many promising players in this school that it means no reflection whatever on those who were left off."
"Just the way I take it," said Roycroft.
"Then you're a big dunderhead!" exclaimed Owen Lawrence. "Three of the Ramblers on that team; two others officers of the athletic association! How can you swallow a proposition like that?"
"Oh, go away and eat some pie!" scoffed Tom Clifton. "Steady your nerves with a doughnut. Better wait and see us play before you get so hot about it."
"I'm afraid some one will be roasted if this thing keeps up," murmured Benny.
"We're going to do our level best for the school, fellows," spoke up Bob Somers, earnestly. "A team is twice as strong when there's no opposition or unpleasant feeling. All we ask is: give us a fair show. Then, if things don't break right, it will be time enough to talk."
"Let that idea soak in, Owen Lawrence," spoke up "Jack Frost," who had won his place on the pitching staff.
"All right. We'll give you all the chance you want." Owen, apparently regretting his hasty outbreak, even smiled as he added: "Wherever I study I'm always red-hot for the school."
"Lawrence's thought arrangement unloosens his tongue before he thinks," came from Benny. "I made a note of that the first day he was here."
"Oh ho," yawned Dave Brandon. "I've got a lot of work to do on the next number of the 'Reflector.' Guess I'll skip."
"Crackers," the most solemn-looking boy in school, and yet, some suspected, the most anxious to help along any row, realized that it would be impolitic to allow the opposition to show its hand too freely. He saw that it could only react upon themselves, and, perhaps, throw into the other camp those undecided students who were not quite sure which side to favor.
"The 'Pie-eaters' will act as nice as pie," he confided to Owen Lawrence, late that afternoon at Terry Guffin's.
"I heard Steele speak about getting up a second nine to play the regulars," said Benny Wilkins. "He told the fellows it was the best kind of practice. Now's your chance, Lawrence."
"Not for mine, son," answered Owen, emphatically. "Steele and Somers threw me down. Now they can't pick up yours truly just to make a convenience of him."
"I'm not sore about it," added Earl Roycroft, "but, after being considered a kind of star on the football eleven, I don't feel like taking a back seat."
"I should say not," agreed Brown.
This seemed to be the general feeling among those who failed to get a position on the team. Many thought "Crackers" had a great deal to do with this state of mind.
At any rate, the various teams which soon sprang into being did not include any "big names" among their players. The regulars, for the most part, had an easy time disposing of them, only occasionally being obliged to extend themselves in order to win.
"Wait till they play a real, live club," laughed Owen Lawrence. "Then I guess the score-card will tell another story."
The interest aroused in the coming contest with the Kingswood Stars increased as the day approached.
"An awful lot depends upon the first game," said Bob Somers to Coach Steele, as the crowd left the gymnasium for practice on the following day. "Tony Tippen is certainly a dandy pitcher, and for an all-around player Nat Wingate is one of the best for his age I've ever seen."
"There is plenty of go and courage to that lad," remarked Steele, "though he needs discipline."
"Oh, they're not such a bunch of wonders," laughed Tom—"even if they did beat the Goose Hillers. I guess we can wade right through 'em without half trying."
"Overconfidence has lost many a game," admonished the coach.
"Well, I reckon it won't lose any for us."
"Boys, I think you have all the signals down pretty fine. Now be careful not to cut loose too much. Keep your best in reserve, and when Saturday comes don't let a lot of howling rooters get your nerve."
"Not much," sniffed Tom.
"Well, here we are on the field. Let's get busy. Hello, Joe! Glad to see you. Guess you'll be on hand to see the game, eh?"
An expansive smile rested on Joe Rodgers' freckled face. He looked very different from the lad whom Dave Brandon had found as an employee of Spudger's Great Combined Peerless Circus and Menagerie.
"Won't I though, Mr. Steele?" he answered. "How are you, Dave! Howdy, Bob! Maybe I wouldn't like to be on the team."
"You'll get there some day," chuckled Dave. "Ready, 'Jack Frost'? I want to get my batting eye in shape."
Among the great crowd of boys who surged on the field not a word of opposition was heard. The fast and snappy play brought forth ripples of applause. Bounders, grass-cutters, line drives and high flies were fielded or caught with admirable precision. There were few false movements made in whipping the ball from one to another.
It was an inspiring sight to the Somers partisans. They cheered and yelled themselves hoarse. Joe Rodgers was in ecstasy.
"They can't be beaten!" he cried.
"Three forty-five P. M. Decision reached that the Ramblers can't be beaten," chuckled Benny Wilkins, who happened to be near. "Too bad we can't get some major leaguers out here and show 'em just where they stand."
"Saturday will be a great day for the school team," predicted Harry Spearman. "Everybody is brimming over with confidence."
"I never bank too much on parlor practice," put in Ted Pollock. "Hush! Don't say a word. Here comes Tom Clifton. Strikes me he's up in the air in more'n one way," he added, in a lower tone. "Gee, hasn't he changed! 'Member when he was a little timid sort of a kid, Wilkins?"
"It hasn't been lately," growled Benny. "Of all the hot-air artists that ever strutted around a ball field he carries off the bakery, pie counter and all. If they get trounced on Saturday I won't shed any tears for Tommy."
"What's this—a conspiracy?" chuckled Tom. "Cut out the whispering. Did you see Bob stop Hazel's grounder? Peach—wasn't it? Scooped the ball on a fast run."
"Too bad Mr. Barry didn't witness that performance," said Benny. "He might have taken down the first of those no-trespassing signs. Wasn't it queer of the old chap to make such an offer, anyway?"
"Most staggers me even now," admitted Ted Pollock. "Say, Tom, tried on your uniform yet?"
"Certainly have. Guess it won't look so spick and span after I steal a few bases."
"Better be careful how you try it on Nat's crowd," warned Ted. "His backstop, you know, has a big rep' for nippin' those sly dodges."
"Oh, yes. But he'll have to eat some more pie before he can do the nipping act on me. Look out—let me get it!"
Tom made a frantic rush in and out among the crowd in an effort to reach a high foul which had slipped from Dave Brandon's bat. Two juniors were bowled over in the attempt; but Tom caught the ball, and, flushed with triumph, snapped it over to "Jack Frost."
"Nearly knocks a fellow's head off, an' never even says excuse me," muttered one disconsolate junior, rubbing his forehead. "I like his nerve."
"So don't I," growled the other. "The silly chump rushed right between us before we had a chance to move. Gee! Look at him now, chasing that grounder. Guess he thinks he's the whole show. Listen! What's that?"
A loud, discordant yell had blared through a megaphone.
Turning in the direction from whence the sound had come the two saw a small procession of boys headed by Nat Wingate and tall John Hackett approaching. The majority had megaphones, and the din which they produced indicated that all knew how to use them to the best advantage.
On they came, singing a lusty chorus.
"We are ready for the fray!" shouted Nat, at the end of a stanza.
"Rah, rah, rah!" yelled Hackett.
"Bing, bang, boom!" screeched Kirk Talbot. "We're the best bunch in the amateur ranks."
"And we're going to show just how rank you are!" howled Tom.
An approving roar came from the purple and white.
"That's like Nat Wingate—always butting in with a megaphone," exclaimed one of the juniors. "But say, Freddy Sparker, he's just doing it 'cause he thinks he can rattle Somers' crowd; an', take it from me, some of 'em he can."
"Who?" asked Sparker.
"Charlie Blake, for one; Clifton for another."
"Add Alfred Boggs for a third. Oh, yes; Nat and Hackett'll know how to get some of 'em going."
"I shouldn't mind being knocked down again if it were only time for that game to be played," sighed the first junior. "Wouldn't surprise me a bit if Nat gave our crowd an awful lacing."