The Rambler Club's Ball Nine

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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I.	The New Ball Field
II.	Mr. Barry
III.	The "Retreat"
IV.	The List of Players
V.	The Grumblers
VI.	The First Game
VII.	Four to Nothing
VIII.	Discouragement
IX.	Mr. Barry Asks Questions
X.	The "Fearless" Arrives
XI.	Good Baseball Weather
XII.	"For the Good of the School"
XIII.	The Challenge
XIV.	Rebellion
XV.	A Decision
XVI.	Tom Is "Rattled"
XVII.	Benny Wins a Note-Book
XVIII.	The President Speaks
XIX.	The Verdict of the School
XX.	The Wish of the Majority
XXI.	Rockville Is Puzzled
XXII.	Plain Talk
XXIII.	Bob Scores at Last
XXIV.	The "Hopes" Are Blasted

---

"Get Right Back to Your Place"

"It's For the Good of the School"

"What Is the Matter With the Ball Nine?"

"I Know Your Game"

The Soap Box Was Shoved Violently

---

"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."

---

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!"

---

---

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.

---

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.

---

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!"

---

"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."

---

---

"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."

---

"I declare, Bob Somers, I feel a bit nervous about this thing."

Charlie Blake, the most studious boy in the Kingswood High, often referred to as the "grind," paced a corner of the gymnasium floor.

"Oh, forget it!" laughed Bob. "Pull yourself together, Charlie."

"Oh, I think I can play the game all right—even if I didn't make good while Nat was captain. But there's going to be an awful big crowd on that field, Bob; the whole town seems to be talking about it. And Mr. Barry will have his eagle eye on every move we make."

"So much the better."

"Maybe you're right," assented Charlie. "Wish I had Dave Brandon's nerve. Bet he could take a nap right before the game."

There was an undercurrent of excitement in the gymnasium. Each of the players, in a new and spotless uniform, resplendent purple shirt and striped stockings, found himself the center of a little group of eager enthusiasts.

"For the good of the school, boys, do your best!" bawled "Crackers" Brown. "Nat Wingate is a dandy fellow; but I hope you'll beat his crowd so badly they'll never wind off any of their megaphone stunts here again."

"Oh, what an awful bluff, 'Crackers'!" chirped Benny Wilkins. "You know you want him to win."

"There's a big mob on the field already, fellows." This announcement, coming from Tom Clifton, added to the pleasurable excitement.

"Well, it's most time to be getting over," said Bob. "Everybody ready?"

A rousing chorus of assenting voices answered.

"Oh, I say—I say—who's going to report this game for the 'Reflector'?" cried Benny. "Mr. Editor, may I?"

"Write it up and submit your stuff," laughed Dave. "If it's good I'll slip it in."

"Bully! That's a go. Now don't try to back out, Dave Brandon. You heard him say it, fellows."

The team, headed by Coach Roger Steele, was already making for the door, followed by as enthusiastic and hopeful a band of rooters as ever backed up a school nine.

Freshmen struggled for the honor of carrying bats, masks and other paraphernalia.

It was an ideal day, cool and crisp, but not chilly enough to stiffen the players' muscles.

A big crowd greeted the boys on the scene of the impending battle. Almost every student of the school seemed to be there, while numbers of the townspeople mingled with the groups.

"Somers, Somers!" yelled the mob. The cry rose and fell in waves of sound, causing a flush to mantle the captain's cheek. "Rah, rah, rah! Boom!"

Purple and white pennants flashed brightly in the sunlight. It certainly looked like a great day for the Kingswood High.

By the fence behind home plate the players gathered around Coach Steele.

"Don't get rattled," he cautioned. "Remember, quick thinking at a crucial point has won many a game. Feel 'em out in the early innings, and don't let a single chance for stealing a base slip by."

"You bet we won't," laughed Tom. "When that crowd finds out what we have to show in the running line they'll open their eyes."

"Get to work, boys," ordered the coach. "Hello, Lou Mercer!" He extended his hand toward a good-looking boy, manager of the club. "I hear Professor Hopkins is going to see the game."

"That's so," said Mercer, gleefully; "and Mr. Rupert Barry'll be with him. And say, what do you think? Professor Ivins actually said he'd come, too."

"What?" cried Tom.

"Fact. Surprised me, I can tell you. Heard him say once he never could see anything in the game."

"He'll see something in this game." Tom selected a bat from several which an exuberant freshman was lugging about. "Get out a bit further, Dave!" he yelled. "I'm going to knock some cloud swipers."

"Hey! Who's seen the Stars practicin'?" asked one boy of another.

"Not I. Struck me they did all of their practicing over at Guffin's."

"That's where you're wrong, son. Leslie Glinn—he's one of their crowd—unloosened his tongue long enough to say they went through their little turns in a field about two miles out the pike. Oh, Nat's cute, all right; knows every trick of the game."

"So does Bob Somers," growled the other. "Say, if we win this game won't the crowd give him a big hand to-night!"

"Well, ra-ther!"

Twenty minutes later a sound from a megaphone in the distance brought forth a wild cheer from the supporters of the Stars. All eyes seemed to be turned in the direction of the valiant team which, as usual, was headed by Nat Wingate and John Hackett.

Following the players came a great crowd, the members of which were singing in half a dozen different keys a song that "Jack Frost" declared Nat had written himself.

"Sounds like it," chuckled Benny. "Guess it's a first offense, though."

The rooters of the visiting team did their best. But the fans who swore allegiance to Bob Somers drowned their efforts in a turbulent roar.

The Stars didn't present the neat appearance of the Kingswood team, their uniforms, no two of which were alike, bearing unmistakable evidence of hard usage.

The eyes of many were centered upon Tony Tippen, the crack pitcher of whom so much had been heard. Tony was a farmer's son, tall, gaunt, and angular of frame. His face, burnt to almost a coppery hue, indicated that much of his time was spent out in the open. Tony had the reputation of being a cool, imperturbable chap whom nature seemed to have forgotten to supply with nerves.

"Have you fellows done practicing?" sang out Nat. "Good! Our boys'll wade right in."

"We'll need only ten minutes," yelled John Hackett.

"That's right. Let's get the ball rolling in earnest," said Tony Tippen, in a deep bass voice.

Quiet settled over the crowd. The boys were too much interested in getting a line on the opponents of the "High" to make any noise. They presently had to confess that the visitors had a dash and vim about their practice which promised an exciting contest.

---

"Play ball!"

These two words, uttered in a loud, authoritative tone, sent a sort of electric thrill through the impatient audience, which was only waiting for the first opportunity to expend its superfluous energy in a hair-raising yell.

The Stars having won the toss, Tony Tippen went to his place on the mound, while Dave Brandon, smiling in his usual good-natured fashion, walked briskly to the plate.

"He'll have to show the best in the shop to faze old Dave," chuckled Tom Clifton to Catcher Phil Brentall. "'Jack Frost' couldn't do it, could you, Jack? Ah! Tippen is going to let 'er fly. Watch him."

The boys were already watching with wide, staring eyes. They saw the pitcher "winding up." Then almost instantly the ball seemed to smack into the catcher's mit.

"Strike one!" called the umpire.

"Suffering doughnuts!" gasped Tom. "Why didn't he swing on it?"

"I've heard it is hard to lam the ball when Tippen is on deck," said "Jack Frost." "Cheer up, Tom. The game isn't lost yet."

Once more the pitcher sent in the ball.

"Strike two!"

"Great Scott!" breathed Tom. "Gee! I hope Dave takes a chance on the next."

Dave Brandon had no intention of being caught napping a third time. He had been stunned into momentary inaction by Tippen's terrific speed and the quickness with which he delivered the ball. Doggedly determined, he faced the pitcher, realizing that the eyes of hundreds were upon him, and that he was there for the good of the school. Out of the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of Professors Hopkins and Ivins and Mr. Rupert Barry. Warily, he watched the cool, grinning face of Tippen.

But the inshoot which Dave half expected did not come. Instead Tony Tippen slipped over a tantalizing slow ball, and Dave's vicious lunge came a fraction of a second too late.

"Three strikes and out!" bawled the umpire, amid shouts of approval from the Star crowd.

The rest of the inning passed quickly, not a player reaching first.

The members of the school team looked glum but resolute as they sallied out into the field. They had not started off with the dash and brilliancy many expected.

"But never mind," said First Baseman Tom Clifton, fiercely. "We've eight more innings coming to us."

"Batter up!" commanded the umpire.

John Hackett, looking very important indeed, strode to the plate. "Jack Frost" rubbed a little dust on the ball. He raised his arm in the air, brought it down again, and a snappy drop was speeding toward the batter.

John Hackett made a mighty swing—and missed.

"Rah, rah, rah for 'Jack Frost'!" came from the field.

Jack was a little nervous. He had not yet gained his usual control of the ball. The next two went wide of the plate.

Hackett, however, landed on the fourth. But the pitcher scooped up the bounder which resulted and retired the batter at first.

Kirk Talbot was the next to face the pitcher.

At the very first ball delivered he sent a hot line drive whipping straight toward Charlie Blake. Charlie, though still struggling against a feeling of nervousness, easily made the catch.

Jeff Wilber, right fielder of the Stars, reached first on balls; but Nat Wingate's effort to advance him was nipped by Dave Brandon's clever catch of a high fly in left field.

"Ha, ha!" chuckled Tom Clifton. "It will take more'n Tony Tippen's pitching to win this game. You can bet we'll get on to his curves before long. Who's up—you, Blake? Don't let Nat rattle you. He's beginning his holler already."

Charlie selected his favorite bat. He reflected that when Nat Wingate tried to rattle a fellow he generally made a pretty good job of it. He tried to deaden his ears to the sarcastic quips which the captain of the Stars was now hurling toward him.

"It's easy, Tippen!" bawled Nat. "He couldn't hit a stuffed pillow. You've got him going."

"I'll bet he'll be going to first the next minute," muttered Tom, hotly. "My, I hope we do soak it to this crowd."

"Shoot 'em over—shoot 'em over!" howled John Hackett.

And the imperturbable Tippen did shoot 'em over with a maddening skill and persistency which made the high school rooters fairly gasp.

It seemed but a moment before the players found themselves trooping out upon the field again with a dull and deadly feeling that Tony Tippen was more than living up to his reputation. The crowd, ready to voice its approval or disapproval, yelled earnestly at every opportunity.

It was not until the ending of the fourth inning, however, that the Kingswood rooters had a chance to strain their lungs to the breaking point. Tony Tippen, one of the hardest hitters on the Stars, had reached first in safety.

At the instant "Jack Frost" got into action he was off on a wild break for second.

A yell rose on the air as Big Bill Steever smashed the oncoming sphere, sending it directly toward Third Baseman Fred Benson. Benson's practiced eye told him it would be impossible to catch the runner at second—Tippen's long legs were taking him over the ground at too great a speed.

His gloved hand pulled in the bounding ball. Instantly he whipped it over to Tom, at first, then sprang back to his place on the sack.

"Send it here, Tom; send it here!" he yelled.

Charlie Blake, shortstop, was keenly alive to the possibilities of the situation. Day after day, Coach Steele had drilled into his men the importance of backing up players. "Even if it proves unnecessary nine times out of ten, on the next occasion it may prevent the scorer from chalking down a run," he said.

"When Tom gets excited he's apt to throw wild," reflected Blake.

Before Tony Tippen had touched second and was tearing on toward third Blake was off to back up the baseman.

A hundred throats poured forth volleys of encouragement to Tippen; and above the shrieks and yells the voices of Nat Wingate and John Hackett could be heard.

"Go it, Tippen; go it!" howled the former.

"Hi, hi, hi! Come all the way around!" screeched Hackett.

Kirk Talbot was dancing up and down in an excess of joy.

"Here's where we bring in the first run!" he yelled. "Ha, ha! I thought so!"

The ball had beaten Bill Steever to first, while Benson had judged his throw so nicely that Tom Clifton was able to return it without moving an inch from his position.

But the horse-hide had no sooner left Tom's hand than he realized, with a sinking feeling, that it would sail over the third baseman's head.

The purple and white pennants were not waving now. The Kingswood boys looked on in gloomy silence. The shouts of their opponents soared higher as Benson leaped off the ground in a vain effort to stop the speeding ball.

He saw Tony Tippen slipping past and making a break for home.

"Gee whiz!" he groaned.

The swelling din from the field struck harshly on his ears. But with a frantic dash, Shortstop Blake got into the path of the ball, leaped for it and caught it and, although partly off his balance, sent it whirling toward home plate.

Phil Brentall watched the runner and the ball racing toward him. The hot volley of sarcasm and the wild blasts sent up through megaphones in the Wingate camp could not shake his nerves.

"Slide for it, Tony; slide for it!" roared Nat.

"Slide for it!" echoed Hackett, desperately.

For an instant the tumult was stilled.

Tony Tippen obeyed instructions, literally hurling himself with outstretched arms toward the plate. From amidst a cloud of yellow dust his hand shot forward. Then, just as victory seemed certain, a hard thump jarred his shoulder. The ball had won the race.

"Runner out!" called the umpire.

The Star adherents left off shouting as the high school lads began. Caps were thrown recklessly in the air; purple and white pennants waved frantically; and as Blake, flushed with pride, walked in from the field he heard his name rolling out on waves of sound.

"Not so badly done, sir," remarked Mr. Rupert Barry, who sat on a bench between the president of the Kingswood High and solemn-looking Professor Ivins.

"Dear me," said the latter. "I can't understand why the boys get so dreadfully excited."

"It is one of the very annoying features of the sport," returned Mr. Barry. "They distract everybody's attention."

"If they would only enter into their studies with the same enthusiasm we might have a race of intellectual giants," said Professor Ivins, gravely.

"Young Blake is one of those rare combinations who seem to be able to do both," remarked President Hopkins, smilingly.

"The catcher who tagged that boy out is now going to bat," said Mr. Barry, looking up from his score-card. "I don't understand how it is, President Hopkins—your boys don't seem able to hit. I know Anthony Tippen has quite a reputation; but surely, with all their practice, sir, they ought to do better than this. By George—a most ridiculous spectacle! That chap has actually missed another."

"Strikes me it's a most dangerous game," said Professor Ivins. "I declare, I should like to get a little further away, where those balls—what do they call them?—yes, yes: foul tips—a most ridiculous appellation, by the way—would not be so likely to hit us. I read of a case——"

"Strike two!" came from the umpire.

"Disgusting—disgusting!" snorted Mr. Barry. "An exhibition well worth missing. Sir?"

Professor Hopkins seemed quite pained.

"I was saying that Tippen looks bigger and stronger than any of our players."

His manner was almost apologetic.

"There are plenty of boys in the high school quite as big," snapped Mr. Barry. "If the coach knows his business, why didn't he select some of them?"

"Three strikes! Batter out!"

Mr. Barry thumped the bench vigorously with his knotted cane.

"I'm not sure that I shall wait to see the finish of the game," he announced, stiffly.

"I quite agree with you," added Professor Ivins, rising. "If it is your pleasure, gentlemen——"

"Not yet," answered Mr. Barry. He consulted his score-card. "Alfred Boggs," he said. "I hope he does better than his predecessor."

But "Alf," as the right fielder was generally called, didn't. He simply fanned the air vigorously and was retired.

"Now 'Jack Frost,'" exclaimed Bob Somers, "see if you can't be the first to solve Tippen's delivery."

"Get those glum looks off your faces, fellows," admonished Coach Steele. "I'll admit Tippen is a mighty good lad; but, remember, they haven't put a run across the plate yet."

"And won't, either!" cried Tom.

The team eagerly watched "Jack Frost," as he faced his rival. The Star crowd still kept up their yells and quips. Frost, however, scarcely heard them. He had a burning ambition to send a "grass-cutter" safely out of reach of the shortstop.

"Gee, if I only get half a chance!" he murmured.

With every nerve at high tension he waited.

Striking vigorously at the first pitched ball, an electrifying crack filled his heart with glee.

But the sphere, instead of taking the course he had hoped, launched itself fiercely upward and in the direction of the three gentlemen on the bench. The catcher, dashing his mask to the ground, sprinted hard.

"Foul ball! Batter out!" told the story.

As Jack threw his bat spitefully aside he observed a small body of freshmen dragging the bench into safer territory, with three dignified gentlemen following close behind.

"If he only drives them away it would be worth losing the game," chuckled Benny Wilkins.

"I hope it gave 'em a jolly good scare," observed "Crackers" Brown, sourly. "They haven't any business to be watching a game like this."

"Ha, ha! That's so," laughed Benny. "When is a game not a game?"

"When the Kingswood Stars play the Ramblers?"

"Oh, you rude thing. No; when it's punk. Isn't the way our chaps play ball enough to make Barry plant corn on his lot?"

"Get out, you croakers!" snapped Harry Spearman.

"The game isn't over yet," put in little Joe Rodgers, whose generally smiling face looked grave. "Just wait till Dave Brandon gets another chance at bat."

"We've been doing nothing else but wait," growled "Crackers." "So far, it's been a sad, sad spectacle."

"Oh, cheer up," said Benny. "Who grabs the stick now?"

"Con Fuller."

The Stars were swooping in from the field.

"Hurry up, fellows; crack out a few runs, and finish the game!" sang out Nat. "Tippen can't win it all alone."

"I need just one more chance," said John Hackett. "When it's my turn to bat if I don't knock down one of those out-fielders I won't eat any more pie until to-night."

Con Fuller, a big, aggressive-looking boy, smiled grimly.

"Just watch me, Hackett!" he called. "Here's where the cover gets knocked off the ball."

"Oh, my, a good dollar and a quarter ball gone to waste," grinned Benny. "Don't do that, Con. Just dent it. Say, have you noticed how fierce Roycroft and Lawrence look? I wonder if it's Guffin's or——"

"Rah, rah, rah! Boom!"

A furious blast rising from hundreds of throats made it evident that Con Fuller's boast had almost come true. The cover was still on the ball, and it probably wasn't even dented, but those who had been looking in the right direction saw the sphere sailing far over the left fielder's head and stout Dave Brandon making a wild effort to overtake it.

"A three-bagger, sure," groaned Phelps.

But, as the shouting crowd calmed down, they saw that Dave Brandon's rapid recovery and accurate throw had held the runner at second.

"Well, that's going some, anyway!" cried Nat, hilariously.

"Bet if I was at bat now I could bring him in," said Hackett. "If you don't do some good stick work, Sam Manning, there'll be trouble."

Manning, vigorously chewing gum, had a determined glint in his eye.

"Frost is melting; Frost is melting; the pace is too warm for Frost!" shouted Kirk Talbot. "He's getting weak; his nerve is gone! Hi, hi, hi!"

"One ball!"

"I told you so!" snickered Kirk.

"One strike!"

"Take it easy, Sam. That was only an accident," advised John Hackett.

"Two strikes!"

"Lam it, you pirate; lam it!" howled Nat.

Manning smiled curiously. Then, as the ball again shot toward him, he bunted just inside the third base line.

Baseman and pitcher dashed simultaneously toward it. Benson, however, stopped the ball, which he tossed to "Jack Frost" with the laconic remark:

"Too late."

Fuller and Manning played off the bases as far as they dared, worrying the pitcher to the best of their ability.

"Two men on the circuit and none down!" yelled John Hackett. "Don't be afraid to take a chance, fellows. Go it, Fuller; get right off to third!"

The number of gloomy faces among the high school contingent increased.

"I've a dreadful fear that the Ramblers are going to pieces," muttered Benny, disconsolately. "Dave Brandon will never, never print the article I'm going to write. Hello—I reckon this settles it!"

George Marlow, left fielder of the Stars, had connected with the ball so successfully that next instant all three bases were occupied.

The Stars found their voices once more. A vociferous din, in which megaphones and tin horns added to the volume, came from all parts of the field.

"Ah, here's where I do it!" cried John Hackett. "Watch me, Nat. If I don't everlastingly smack the pill I'll work an hour overtime at the store."

"I can stand Hackett's blow because it only makes you grin," mumbled "Crackers." "He knows enough not to mean what he says."

"Say, John looks as dangerous as a regular league player, doesn't he?"

The Stars' coacher near first was bawling out his orders with monotonous regularity.

It was an anxious moment for the High. With none out, the situation looked mighty serious, especially as one of Nat's strongest batters stood at the plate. Two balls and a strike were called before John Hackett got into action. The tall player then swung with all his force.

A terrific bounder shot off in the direction of first base.

At the crack of the bat Conway Fuller, with lowered head, started for home. The rousing cheers of the Stars rose to frantic heights; the purple and white rooters stood glum and silent. Tom Clifton sprang off his base to intercept the ball. The yells—the sight of the wildly-excited boys—made only an indistinct impression on his mind. For the moment, to him, nothing existed but the ball lashing viciously over the ground.

It smacked resoundingly into his gloved hand. Without straightening up, Tom drove it unerringly home and sprang back to the sack.

There was a different sound to the cheers which now reached his ears. They had a volume which made the preceding shouts fade into insignificance. Fuller was out at the plate, and Brentall had whipped the ball back to him.

John Hackett was straining every muscle to reach the bag in safety. But, as an object whizzed past his head and a dull thud sounded, he realized that his effort had been in vain.

In spite of a feeling of intense disappointment, he slapped Tom Clifton on the shoulder.

"Good work, old boy; good work—a corking double play!"

Tom's eyes sparkled. Volleys of cheers for Clifton rang pleasantly in his ears.

"Thanks, Hackett," he replied. "I guess we can play a little when we try."

Sam Manning on third, not discouraged by Fuller's failure to score, launched forward as Kirk Talbot singled. The followers of Nat Wingate went wild with glee. The first run for the Stars was marked down on the score-board, and there were two on bases.

"Jack Frost" seemed to lose some of his control, while the high tension was evidently affecting several of the other players. Right Fielder Alf Boggs fumbled Jeff Wilber's hot liner. Once again the score-keeper made an entry.

"And still two on bases," groaned Joe Rodgers.

"The school team is going to be defeated, sir," Mr. Rupert Barry was saying to President Hopkins. "I've no doubt they will be white-washed."

"Dear me—white-washed!" exclaimed Professor Ivins, somewhat startled. He looked around, as though half expecting to see colored men with pails and brushes. "White-washed!" he repeated. "Do you mean the fence?"

"No!" snorted Mr. Barry. "The baseball nine."

"Dear me—extraordinary!" murmured the elderly professor, in puzzled tones. "Doubtless it is another of those preposterous expressions connected with baseball parlance. Is it, I might ask, a—a general custom to refer——"

"I fear it will be whenever these boys play the Stars," said Mr. Barry, grimly.

It was a disastrous inning for the school team. Before big Bill Steevers' pop fly fell into the hands of "Jack Frost" the Stars had three runs to their credit.

"Never mind, fellows," said Bob Somers, cheerily. "It's a part of the game."

"Of course," laughed Dave. "If it weren't for Tony Tippen we'd probably have twice that many runs ourselves."

"A game's never lost until it's over," said Coach Steele. "You're playing against a pitcher of unusual ability. But don't let that discourage you for a moment."

The end of the eighth inning found the score four to nothing in favor of the Stars.

"We'll simply have to do something now," growled Tom Clifton. "Just listen to Nat Wingate howling. If we don't, maybe he and Hackett won't go strutting around town proud as peacocks."

"Roycroft, if you'd been in this game there might be a different story to tell," grumbled "Crackers"—"eh, Earl?"

"I'm not saying anything," answered the former football guard.

"But I am," put in Owen Lawrence. "These chaps seem to be weak on the stick work."

"You never faced Tony Tippen," sniffed Benny Wilkins.

"Well, if I couldn't do any more than sideswipe the air I'd be sorry. Who's up?"

"Charlie Blake."

"Then we might as well go home."

Charlie, fully determined to do his share toward staving off a disastrous defeat, stilled a nervous flutter at his heart.

"Better to make a try than stand still and hear the umpire yell, 'Three strikes and out!'" he reflected.

He aimed at the second ball, and perhaps no one on the lot was more surprised than he to hear a sharp crack and to see the horse-hide whirling off into space.

Spurred on by a furious din from the purple and white, he sped down the first base line long before the ball was returned to the infield.

The players who had looked so gloomy a few moments before brightened up amazingly. After all, Tony Tippen could be hit. It was a pleasant surprise to many.

"Oh, ginger! If we'd only started this thing in the earlier innings!" groaned Tom Clifton, as he picked up a bat. "If Blake could do it, so can I."

With all his judgment, he aimed at the first ball which cut the plate.

It was the hardest swing of which Tom Clifton was capable. The ball, struck squarely, flew to the left of second base. Nat Wingate, leaping in the air with upraised hand, stopped its onward progress. The sphere rolled to the ground.

With a swift dive, Nat recovered it, stepped on the base and shot the ball to first.

It was the nearest the high school team came to scoring that day, Bob Somers, the next batter, going out on a foul.

The Kingswood Stars and their friends were warm and happy. Tony Tippen became the hero of the hour. He accepted his honors modestly.

But Nat Wingate and John Hackett, who came in for their share of lionization, did not take the victory so quietly.

"Now let somebody call us 'Pie-eaters'!" jeered Nat. "I say, Clifton, do we need some dieting? Won't you join us at a doughnut party to-night?"

"Get out!" retorted Tom, angrily. "One more inning, and we'd have had you going."

"Oh, yes; you'd have had us going around the bases one after another."

Over by the bench Mr. Barry was punctuating some remarks with emphatic motions of his knotty cane.

"Extraordinary—extraordinary! Not even one of them got as far as second base!"

"I suppose you will not come again, sir?" ventured Professor Ivins.

"I most certainly shall," answered Mr. Barry. "But I hope to goodness I'll see a more cheering sight on the next occasion."

The boys who happened to hear these remarks told their companions. As fast as though the air had wafted the words from one point to another the school had them on the tip of its tongue. And they grew in importance in the process of traveling about.

"Never mind, fellows," remarked Bob Somers, as they gathered in the gymnasium. "There are two more games with the Stars before the inter-scholastic championship begins."

A boy rushing wildly into the doorway attracted his attention.

"Hello, Benny! What's up?" drawled Dave Brandon.

"An awful lot!" cried Wilkins, breathlessly. "What do you think? Luke Phelps just told me he heard that Mr. Barry said he was so disgusted he thought of withdrawing his offer—honest fact. Say, Brandon, does that article of mine have to be typewritten?"

"I'm not so sure the 'Reflector' will touch very heavily on recent sporting matters," answered Dave, smiling.

"Is Phelps in the room?"

Tom Clifton's gruff voice rose clearly.

"Sure! Just came in. What's the row?" answered a voice.

"Who told you what Mr. Barry said?"

Phelps pushed his way between the groups toward the players.

"Everybody. No one caught his exact words, but they must have been something pretty hot. There are enough rumors floating around to hurt your eyes if they could be seen. It's been a fierce day, hasn't it?"

When Tom Clifton walked home that evening he passed the field for the use of which the club was fighting.

It had never looked more alluring. He stopped to gaze over its broad green expanse with wistful eyes. His glances wandered from one no-trespassing sign to another. They looked much more formidable now than they ever had before.

"Great Scott!" murmured Tom. "What a beginning—four to nothing!"

---

The sting of defeat lasted for some time with the students of the Kingswood High. The friends of the Stars crowed loudly over their victory; and Tom Clifton, whose boasting previous to the game had annoyed so many, received a generous share of sarcastic flings.

The disquieting rumors which resulted from Mr. Barry's remarks hovered over the school with unpleasant persistency.

"Honest, Bob, it wasn't fair of him to pitch into the crowd at the very first crack of the bat," exclaimed Tom, morosely, in the gym a few days later.

"Nobody seems to know just what he did say," chuckled Bob.

"Don't worry, Tom, old boy," said Dave. "Athletes should keep their minds free from care."

"Wonder if I hadn't better go and see him?" mused Tom.

"Goodness, no!"

"Well, here's the latest."

"Wait till I get my note-book," cried Benny. "Three forty-five P. M. 'The latest—as told by Mr. Clifton.' Go ahead, Tom."

Tom scowled fiercely.

"It isn't any laughing matter, son," he exclaimed, grimly. "You all know what an eccentric old man Mr. Barry is——"

"But not so much as to make him unreasonable," suggested Coach Steele.

"Oh, I don't know. Listen."

The squad "listened," as did many lads who crowded the big room.

"He's an eccentric old creature," repeated Tom. He glanced sternly into Benny's grinning face. "What do you think? I heard that one of the fellows—one of our fellows, mind you—said the way we played ball was enough to make Mr. Barry plant corn on his lot."

"Oh—oh!" gasped Benny Wilkins, faintly.

"Yes, it's so. I'd just like to find him and punch his head."

"That isn't enough to get excited about," laughed Bob Somers.

"You haven't heard the worst. Some chap with more tongue than brains thought it was such a good joke he'd have to tell somebody else, and Mr. Barry happened to hear what he said. And——"

"What happened?" demanded Benny, even more faintly than before.

"Mr. Barry got angry—told Professor Hopkins he hadn't thought of it before, but if that was the way the school was talking he thought the idea might be a good one. If I knew who said it in the first place I'd punch him right here."

"Maybe some one could point him out," suggested "Crackers" Brown, pleasantly. "How about it, Spearman?"

Benny Wilkins made a determined effort to look innocent and unconcerned. It was a most distressing moment until he realized that Spearman, although he guffawed loudly, had nothing to say.

A solemn grin played about the corners of Brown's mouth.

"I'll bet it was you, 'Crackers'!" cried Tom.

"Couldn't have been I," mumbled Brown, "because I have more brains than tongue. I didn't do it. But if you want to scrap I'll accommodate you right now."

"Never mind," said Benny, joining in a roar of mirth. "Wait until they lose the next game."

"I'll get him yet," announced Tom, fiercely. "See here, manager"—he turned toward Lou Mercer—"we play the Goose Hill fellows next Saturday?"

"Correct!"

"If any more boys in the school think Mr. Barry's lot ought to be turned into a corn field they'll change their opinion after that game."

"We'll see," said Owen Lawrence, shaking his head very knowingly.

"What we shall see," supplemented "Crackers."

"I think," mused Benny, "that I'll finish my article on the baseball game. Goodness! Wouldn't it be awful if somebody should tell Mr. Barry what Tom called him—an eccentric old creature?"

Study and practice kept the boys busy for the rest of the week.

The Goose Hill crowd had considerable reputation, although the Stars had won a spirited contest from them by the score of five to three.

Goose Hill was situated on the outskirts of Kingswood, not far from Wolf River. The inhabitants of the Hill, for the most part, worked in the big mills which skirted the river for some distance. They were rough but honest people, living in neat little houses which generally stood in the midst of spacious yards. Many cultivated the ground, or directed their attention to the raising of poultry. The Hill owed its name to the fact that a majority of the bird fanciers chose geese as a means of adding to their incomes.

There were some odd and picturesque corners on the Hill decidedly pleasing to those artistically inclined. Dave Brandon had often wandered about, sketch-book in hand, and, in this way, met Mr. Stephen Kimbole, proprietor of the general store which crowned the elevation.

No one within the confines of the Hill was ever heard to call him Mr. Kimbole, however. To every man, woman and child he was "Uncle" Steve. "Uncle" Steve, though a little, dried-up man of uncertain age, still possessed plenty of life and energy.

From his porch one could look down upon the river and the busy mills sending up clouds of smoke and steam. Not far from the base of the hill, and some distance in from the river, a large stretch of turf was given over to the mill workers for their sports. They had crack football and baseball teams, and had won notable victories.

"Uncle" Steve seldom failed to attend the baseball games. He was regarded as a crank on the subject. Few knew more about the fine points of the game than the old storekeeper.

The thought of the Goose Hillers having a series of games with the Kingswood High filled him with delight.

"I'll be there," he exclaimed to Dave Brandon the day before the game. "I'd sooner lose a quarter's sales than miss it."

So, on the next afternoon, "Uncle" Steve was a prominent figure among the great crowd which gathered to witness the contest. Most of the Nat Wingate contingent seemed to be on hand.

On this occasion Nat's loyalty to the school made him a partisan of the "Ramblers," as many still persisted in calling them. When the players appeared on the scene a tremendous volley of shouts and blasts from megaphones assailed their ears.

"Just listen to the mean bunch!" growled Tom Clifton. "You'd think they were all on our side. I guess Nat is going to try and rattle us."

"Don't let him," counseled Benny Wilkins. "Oh, say, there's Mr. Rupert Barry already."

"If I hear of any of our fellows saying mean things about the club this afternoon they'll find me down on 'em like a ton of red-hot bricks." Tom glared around sternly. "Think I know, now, who got off that silly jabber about the corn field."

"Who?" asked Benny.

"Owen Lawrence."

"I—I don't think so," stammered Benny.

"What do you know about it?"

"I—I—that is—I just thought—er—er—that——"

"Oh, of course, nobody said it was Lawrence. But he looks mighty funny every time I mention it."

Benny changed the subject.

"The Hillers look like a likely bunch," he exclaimed. "Who's that funny little man over there with a white beard? Shouldn't think he'd trot out to see a game of ball."

"You couldn't drive him away with one of Nat's megaphones," said Tom. "It's 'Uncle' Steve Kimbole. Reckon he knows who stitched the first ball and who broke the last bat."

The school nine, in their natty uniforms, were given a cordial greeting as they marched toward home plate.

The big crowd witnessed a highly interesting game.

But two costly errors and a great batting rally of the Goose Hillers in the eighth were the two principal reasons for the home team winning by the score of seven to three.

On several occasions, under fire, both "Jack Frost" and Charlie Blake showed signs of going to pieces. It was a mighty disgusted lot of boys that finally boarded the Kingswood trolley.

Several scouts, who had been eager to pick up whatever crumbs of information fell from the lips of Mr. Barry, were on the same car, as anxious to supply the news as the others were to hear it.

"He was downright mad," announced Luke Phelps, who had the honor of carrying three bats and three pairs of gloves.

Phelps waited so that this news could have all the bad effect possible.

"Anybody could see that," added a junior.

Not all the boys had been able to find seats, but Phelps, nowise bashful in company, spoke loud enough for all to hear, as he continued:

"Yes—he said it certainly looked as if the corn would win the field. He kicked about lack of judgment on several plays, and——"

"Said Somers needs stronger and heavier players," broke in another junior, eagerly—"heard that with my own ears."

"You couldn't have heard it with anybody else's," growled Art Bowers.

"Say anything more?" came a query from the front end of the car.

"A whole lot of things," answered Phelps, with importance, "but I can't think of any just now."

"Another sad, sad day," remarked "Crackers" Brown, solemnly.

"You chaps are talking like a bunch of quitters," howled Tom.

"I'm just stating facts."

"We're not discouraged, Brown," said Bob Somers. "The team hasn't shown its true form yet."

"Of course it hasn't," asserted Roger Steele. "Just give us a chance, boys. There was a little lack of team work in to-day's game, and"—he smiled rather grimly—"some of the boys were a bit rattled by the noise and excitement. They couldn't do themselves justice."

"I guess he means me."

Charlie Blake's foot touched the heel of his neighbor's shoe.

"Oh, I don't know," returned the other, encouragingly. He lowered his voice. "When the fellows were most yelling their heads off, didn't 'Jack Frost' send three men to base on balls in succession?"

"Just as soon as the game is over I feel how much better I could have played," sighed Charlie. "Honest fact—all that rooting does get on my nerves."

"Just because you're not used to it."

"Nat Wingate's crowd certainly acted handsomely by you chaps," remarked "Crackers." "Nat is just as solid for the good of the school as we are."

Suddenly the high, piping voice of the youngest junior rose clearly above the clatter of tongues and the steady rumble and grind of wheels:

"Yes; it was the funniest sight I ever saw. He acted just like a kid; yelled as loud as a pirate! And the queerest part of all was that he seemed kind of chummy with Mr. Barry."

"I guess 'Uncle' Steve was figuring on selling him a bag of peanuts after the game," said a sandy-haired sophomore.

"Heard him say he was coming over to see the next game between the Stars and Ramblers," announced the first.

"Sure he didn't say slaughter?" asked "Crackers," gazing innocently over the rim of his glasses.

The crowd was in a tumult.

"Put him off, conductor!" bawled Benny Wilkins. "He's been rude to the nine."

"If things don't go better I'll be ruder yet," said "Crackers."

When the car swung into the depot the crowd seemed to melt away on the instant, leaving the rather gloomy-looking members of the nine to make their way to the gymnasium alone. Even Phelps seemed to consider it no longer an honor to burden himself with bats, balls and other articles.

"I can't understand it," growled Tom Clifton. "Just think, Dave—seven to three!"

"Oh ho! We can't win every time, Tom," returned Dave, dryly.

"Cut out any gloomy talk, fellows," advised Coach Steele, earnestly. "Be good losers. Let each defeat make you only grit your teeth and plunge in all the harder."

"That's the talk!" cried Blake, brightening up. "We'll do it."

As the days followed each other, Steele's earnest efforts served to put new life and vigor into the team. The Somersites stuck manfully to the nine. Any set of boys who could inaugurate a new era in the athletic affairs of the High were not going to be deserted simply because they had begun the season by losing a couple of games.

Even their ardor and enthusiasm, however, received a rude jolt when the school nine and the Stars again clashed. The score, six to one, told the story of an event which helped to make history for the High. Only those who didn't favor Bob Somers and his crowd cared to talk about it.

They were willing to admit the nine had made some brilliant plays, but pointed out the fact that these same brilliant plays were always on the defensive. They said, too, that when Blake got rattled he was badly rattled; and, according to the way "Crackers" summed up the situation, when the bases were full "Jack Frost" was likely to fall down harder than a chimney in a gale of wind.

"Sit tight and don't say a thing," advised Owen Lawrence. "The school'll wake up in time."

Benny Wilkins' articles on the ball games did not find a place in the "Reflector," but, possibly, they were read by nearly as many students as though they had. Some glanced over their contents with roars of laughter, while others waxed so highly wroth as to cause Benny to steer a careful course in another direction when they approached.

Quickly following the game with the Stars came another against Goose Hill, this time on the home grounds.

Another disheartening page was written in the history of the school's athletics. The official score-card bore this entry:

"Goose Hill 8: Kingswood High 2."

On the day following Coach Roger Steele received a laconic letter which read:

---

If there had been any guide-book of the prosperous town of Kingswood undoubtedly Mr. Rupert Barry's mansion would have received a prominent mention in its pages. Stone steps zigzagged between stone walls to the top of the hill. The mansion of the eccentric millionaire, in the midst of spacious grounds, could scarcely be seen from the road. It seemed as though the architect and builder had found a positive pleasure in concealing from view as much as possible of the rich and ornate structure.

It was already dark when Bob Somers and Coach Roger Steele began mounting the steps. The glare from electric lamps on the street flooded some of the flights; others were left in almost abysmal blackness.

As the two neared the bronze gate at the top the sound of wildly scurrying feet caused both to stop. A series of savage snarls and barks echoed weirdly, as the yellow dog, dark and formless in the gloom, hurled its body against the gate.

"I don't wonder Mr. Barry hasn't many visitors," murmured Steele, softly.

"Hope we don't get as hot a reception inside the house," chuckled Bob, in equally low tones.

"Unless some one can persuade the menagerie department to leave I shall leave," said Steele. "Ah! The situation is saved."

"Come here, Canis; come right here!"

The two recognized the harsh voice of Mr. Barry, and, an instant later, heard the sound of his footsteps on the gravel path.

"Who is there?" The words were flung at them with a sort of challenging querulousness. "Confound that dog! Who is there, I say?"

The tall, gaunt form of the millionaire presently loomed above the ornamental curves and twists of the gate.

"Roger Steele and Bob Somers," answered the coach.

"Then why didn't you say so before?"

The gate swung silently back on its well-oiled hinges. Several sharp commands promptly reduced Canis to a state of docility.

"Come in."

Neither Bob Somers nor Steele had ever visited the Barry mansion, so, as they followed the elderly gentleman along the path, they looked about them with the greatest interest.

It was a beautiful, starlit night with enough illumination to show a profusion of shrubbery and flower beds. Here and there great pines, dark and forbidding, rose like grim sentinels against the sky. Above the stone coping of the wall which surrounded the grounds, masses of buildings and scattered lights faintly indicated the town.

The stately mansion looked dull and gloomy, six heavy columns at the entrance alone showing in a lighter tone. All the windows but one were staring patches of dark, while from the exception rays of greenish light poured out, to streak across the veranda with weird effect.

Mr. Barry immediately led the two boys into his study, brightly illuminated by an electric lamp with a green shade. In the center of the large room stood a table piled high with books. Everything indicated that the millionaire had been busy writing when disturbed by the barking of Canis.

He motioned his visitors to seats near by, taking his own in the revolving chair before his writing materials.

The green light brought out his angular features with uncompromising frankness, giving him the appearance of some inquisitor of old about to interrogate an unwilling subject.

"Mr. Steele," he jerked out sharply, after his stern gaze had rested on their features for a moment, "what is the matter with the ball nine?"

---

---

"It has not shown its true worth yet," answered Steele, calmly.

"Why so? You have played four games, and each time met defeat." His eyes shifted to Bob Somers. "It is not what I expected. You understand, of course, that in order to gain the field the nine must make a good showing—a very good showing?"

"Yes, sir; we understand," said Steele.

"I had hoped by the enthusiasm displayed in putting the athletic affairs of the school on a sound basis that the baseball team would have a corresponding strength. I'm disappointed."

Roger Steele was not flustered by the manner or tone of his questioner.

"You must remember this, Mr. Barry," he answered, quietly: "the nine has met two of the strongest amateur clubs in the vicinity. I'm not offering excuses—only explaining the facts."

Mr. Barry's silver knife rattled vigorously on the table.

"What kind of teams did you expect to play?" he demanded.

Coach Steele ignored the thrust.

"Tony Tippen is a pitcher of exceptional ability," he said, "and has good support. Without Tippen in the box I believe we could even now defeat the Stars. The Goose Hill lads are big, husky chaps whose players are much older and far more seasoned than ours."

"Why didn't you select bigger boys—Earl Roycroft, for instance? As guard on the football eleven he played exceptionally well."

The coach flushed slightly.

"I have played on a champion university team," he said, "and when engaged by the athletic association of the Kingswood High I was given a free hand to choose whichever candidates seemed to be the most promising. I believe in the end my selections will prove to be wise ones."

"Am I to understand, then, that you consulted no one in the matter?"

"No; I can hardly say that, Mr. Barry."

"Have you any objections to letting me know from whom you received suggestions?"

"Not the slightest. Bob Somers, for one; also Sam Randall, Harry Spearman and several others."

There was an awkward pause while the two waited for Mr. Barry to speak. The rattle of the silver knife alone broke the silence of the big room.

"Your reply has the merit of frankness," said the millionaire, at length. He leaned forward, resting his chin in the palm of his hand. "Remember—there must be no sentiment in this matter. Throw off any player who does not come up to requirements. To be honest with yourself and the school you cannot do otherwise."

Coach Steele quieted a feeling of indignation which suddenly flared up within him. After all, he reflected, a man who had made such a magnificent offer to the school, and who felt such a deep interest in the welfare of its ball nine, must be pardoned if he spoke a little brutally.

"I don't believe there's a single member of the team who would not cheerfully step out if he thought it best for the school," he said.

"I'm sure of it, too," spoke up Bob Somers, earnestly. "You see, Mr. Barry, several of us traveled around a good bit, and, as Roger said, haven't had as much opportunity to play in regular games."

"That doesn't affect the matter," returned Mr. Barry, bluntly. "If you can't play, why are you on the team?"

"Oh, we don't admit we can't play," laughed Bob. "I think, before very long, your opinion of the club will change."

"I hope so," said Mr. Barry. "My object in sending for you was to enforce upon you—I am going to speak plainly—this principle: there must be no favoritism. Meanwhile I suspend judgment."

The two rose to their feet and bowed.

"You may be sure there'll be no favoritism while I am coach," said Steele, a trifle stiffly. "I hope, Mr. Barry, we shall see you at the next game."

"Very probably." Mr. Barry pressed a button. "Cassius will accompany you to the gate."

Coach Steele and Bob Somers, bidding the millionaire good-evening, were presently joined in the hallway by the servant, already provided with a lantern.

"A little light on a dark night ain't such a bad thing," said Cassius, cheerily, as he led the way outside. "A header down them steep steps wouldn't be calc'lated to do a feller any good."

"No; not even a ball player could stand it," chuckled Bob.

Cassius laughed softly.

"All who play ball ain't ball players," he remarked. "Great sport, though. Nobody 'ud ever think it, but Mr. Barry's one o' the greatest fans out—yes, sir. Never goes to any of the big cities without taking in a game or two. Latin an' ball playin's his hobbies."

The latch clicked sharply as Cassius pulled open the big bronze gate.

"Good luck, boys. I sure hope you'll win the grounds," he said, as his swinging lantern began to cut a pathway of yellow light down the zigzag stone steps.

Once on the street, Coach Steele and Bob Somers watched his form slowly remounting, to disappear behind the first turn, leaving only erratic spots of light flitting from place to place on coping or shrubbery.

"Some visit, that!" laughed Roger. "Still there's a rugged honesty about the man I like."

"Eight forty-five P. M. 'Coach Steele discovers there's a rugged honesty about the man he likes.' I'll make a note of that."

A slight boy suddenly emerged from the deep shadow of a tree-box a few paces distant, and, as he advanced into the cold glare of an electric light, its rays revealed the grinning face of Benny Wilkins.

---

"Well I declare! What in thunder are you doing here, Benny Wilkins?" cried Bob Somers, somewhat startled, and not altogether pleased at his unexpected appearance.

"Spying," answered Benny, candidly.

"There's a rugged honesty about that answer that I like," laughed Steele. "Still, you ought to be at home studying, instead of cavorting around the street at this hour."

"Never cavorted in my life," grinned Benny.

"What were you doing here?" asked Bob.

"Until about sixty seconds ago, hiding behind that tree-box."

"Oh, come now, Benny!"

"Sure! Which way?" Then Wilkins' manner abruptly changed; a serious expression flitted into his brown eyes. "Say, Bob, what was it all about? Why'd you go to Mr. Barry's?" His hand fell on the captain's wrist. "Tell me. I can hardly wait. Did he sit on you hard?"

"Not so hard as to make us feel soft," grinned Bob. "Now, Benny, before I say another word——"

"All right! I know what you mean. This is the way it happened. I live close by here, you know, and I was standing at the front gate, chinning to a couple of fellows, when I saw you and Roger walk by on the opposite side of the street. When they left, a few moments later, I chased after you, and was just about catching up, when—Gee Whitaker! Astonishment still fills me—you turned into Mr. Rupert Barry's. 'Something's in the wind to make those chaps climb such a flight of steps,' I said to myself. So it was me for the lying-in-wait act until you trotted out, ready to give explanations. Ha, ha! Say—you fellows looked awful glad to see me. Now fire away, Bob."

"I must refer you to Mr. Rupert Barry," returned Bob, smilingly.

"Oh, come, that's mean. What! Aeroplane up those steps to have an interview with a big yellow dog at the top? Well, I should rather say nix! Go on—tell me about it."

"Nothing doing," said Bob.

"Not a word for the note-book," chuckled Steele.

"Well, I'll make an entry, just the same," snapped Benny, highly aggrieved. "It'll read like this: 'Mysterious visit of Coach Steele and Bob Somers to Mr. Rupert Barry's. Principals refuse to be interviewed. Were they called down for the punk showing of the team?'"

With a loud, "Good-night!" the tone of which indicated a decidedly ruffled state of feeling, Benny was off.

"A sarcastic little chap," declared Roger Steele. "I'm rather sorry this happened. He's a regular chatterbox, you know."

"Benny is good hearted enough, but thoughtless," mused Bob. "If the fellows hear about our calling upon Mr. Barry they may put too serious a construction on it."

"And 'Crackers' Brown and his crowd haven't been silenced by any means."

"They can't knock my confidence in the team. What kind of stuff would a captain be made of to become discouraged at the very outset?"

"That's the talk," said Steele, approvingly. "Let the croakers croak. Perhaps we know our own business best."

As Steele had feared, the news leaked out. Benny Wilkins told a friend, in confidence; this friend unbosomed himself to a chum, in confidence, and so on, until the "leak" could only be compared to the bursting of a great water main that sends up streams far above the housetops.

Naturally enough, it created a mild sensation. Boys discussed it animatedly on the campus, as they walked home, and at Terry Guffin's. In some remarkable manner vague suggestions of what Mr. Barry may have said became changed, by a steady process of evolution, into definite phrases.

Bob expressed the situation correctly when he said:

"Those 'They say' chaps have the floor."

But the Somers party treated all insinuations and rumors with a hot breath of scorn that almost, but not quite, extinguished the tiny fire which was kindled.

A few days later three lads strolling along the bank of Wolf River were considerably surprised and interested to discover a large motor yacht approaching.

Some of the richer residents of Kingswood owned gasoline launches or yachts; but none could be compared to the magnificent boat which now cut swiftly through the placid water of the river.

"Well, that's certainly a corker," remarked Luke Phelps, who had been busily engaged in throwing stones at a half-submerged barrel.

"Never saw a finer," said Jim Wilton, a junior at the High. "Wonder what she's doing here? Slowing up, by Jingo!"

"All boats slow up before they stop," grinned Phelps. "Say, fellows, it's got a real saucy name, hasn't it?"

"The 'Fearless,'" read Jim. "Makes me think of the high school ball nine. They're fearless before defeat."

"Or fearless afterward—in this case, the same thing," came from Aleck Parks.

"If Roycroft had any sand he'd be on the team. He seems to be as soft as his muscles are hard. Well, I declare, that yacht is coming inshore. Wonder who the lucky owner can be?"

"They must have spilled a few barrelsful of white paint on it. Hello! There's somebody getting ready to heave the anchor. Let's loaf around here, fellows, and see what happens."

The strange yacht was moored a bit further up-stream; and a few moments afterward the trio saw a small boat being lowered and three people take their places in it.

Luke Phelps' curiosity was stirred. He began scrambling down the steep bank to a stretch of flat shore which bordered the stream.

The yacht's dory had already pushed off, and, under the strokes of a muscular oarsman, was making steady progress toward a rude wharf. Long rippling lines spreading out from its bow caught brilliant gleams from golden and purplish clouds floating lazily above.

The boys walked fast, reaching the rickety pile of boards just as two occupants of the boat clambered upon them.

Phelps was immediately impressed with a strange dissimilarity in their appearance. One was a big burly man with a brown beard dressed in a yachting suit of blue; the other a slight lad attired in clothes of the finest texture, wearing a large checkered cap and a decidedly saucy grin.

"Looks as if he'd melt away in a rain storm," remarked Phelps, confidentially, to Aleck. "Got a peach of a complexion, hasn't he? Just the kind of a chap you have to talk gently to for fear o' hurting his feelings."

"Soak him a good one on the ribs and he'd most likely blubber," whispered Aleck. "Speak to me, sir?"

"I did," answered the man in the yachting costume. The strength of his voice was in full accord with the size of his frame. "Do any of you boys know Bob Somers?"

"Bob Somers!" cried Phelps, arching his eyebrows in surprise. "Well, ra-ther!"

"And a tall, gawky chap named Tom Clifton?" came from the boy in the checkered cap.

"I should say so."

"And Joe Rodgers?" asked the big man.

"Yes, sir!"

"Then I suppose you know Dave Brandon and Charlie Blake?"

"No mistake about that, cap'n," answered Phelps, whose curiosity was receiving additional impetus from the visitors' questions.

"Will you kindly direct me how to reach Bob Somers' residence?"

"I'll do more'n that; I'll lead you right to it," responded Luke Phelps, eagerly.

He reflected that this would be the best way to find out all about the strangers in the shortest possible time.

It was this same sort of feeling, no doubt, which prompted the others to second his proposition.

"It's mighty easy to get all twisted up in the woods around here," explained Jim. "Oh, no; you won't be putting us to any trouble. We've attended to our most pressing business engagements for the day."

"You are a very accommodating lot," laughed the big man. "Lead on."

In his new capacity as guide Luke Phelps made the best use of the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. This, he found, did not require a great deal of diplomacy. The boys soon learned that they were talking to Captain Ralph Bunderley, of Kenosha, and Victor Collins, his nephew, son of a widely-known Chicago lawyer.

They also became aware of the fact that the captain, who owned the motor yacht "Fearless," and his young relative had met several of the Ramblers, Charlie Blake and Joe Rodgers, during the preceding fall, when the boys were making a motor car trip from Chicago to Kingswood.

"As fine a crowd of youngsters as I ever met, too," declared Captain Bunderley. "They said something about getting up a ball nine, and wanted us to run over and see 'em. So here we are!"

"Say, how is Tom Clifton getting on?" asked Victor Collins, abruptly. "Has he pulled off any mighty stunts on the diamond yet?"

Phelps exchanged significant glances with his companions.

"Don't mention it. We're trying to forget baseball," he answered, wearily.

"What's the matter? Wouldn't Bob Somers take you on his team?"

Victor Collins' voice was delicate and refined; but there was something in his manner which impressed the boys with the idea that perhaps he wasn't quite so easy as they had supposed.

"I never tried to get on," grumbled Phelps. "I had better sense."

"I thought those chaps were all corking good players," said Victor. "From the way Clifton talked last fall you might have expected by this time to see accounts of Bob Somers' ball nine in the Chicago papers."

"Is that what he called it?" asked Jim.

"Sure! Why?"

"You mustn't even whisper such a thing before 'em now," snapped Aleck Parks. "It's the Kingswood High baseball team. But the club is run by the Ramblers, just the same."

"I fear there are mutterings of discontent here," said Captain Bunderley. He looked sharply at the trio. "I thought I'd find all the boys red-hot for Bob Somers and his friends. I won't hear a word against them from anybody—understand that. They're all good square fellows with level heads."

Captain Bunderley's bluff style of talking effectually squelched Aleck Parks; and, having learned all he cared to know, the latter soon found a convenient excuse for leaving the party.

Luke Phelps, though not so easily affected, was wise enough to take a hint.

"Going to stay long in Kingswood, cap'n?" he inquired, at length.

"That depends." The skipper shrugged his broad shoulders. "My time is my own. At any rate I'd like to stay until the Rambler Club's ball nine is carrying everything before it."

"In that case I'm afraid you'll never get away," murmured Luke, softly.

After passing through several patches of woods, then across broad undulating fields, the four came to a wide highway. Captain Bunderley's swinging gait before long carried them to the outskirts of Kingswood. Finally the high school was passed, and a short time later Pembroke Hall, the home of Bob Somers' father, loomed into view.

"Boys, I thank you sincerely," said the burly skipper, as he at length placed his hand on the iron gate at the entrance to the grounds. "I hope we shall become better acquainted."

---

Bob Somers was delighted to see Captain Bunderley and his nephew. The two visitors were entertained at the Somers home on several occasions, and soon became familiar figures in Kingswood.

The captain, putting up at the largest hotel in town, often visited the high school and athletic field, where his bluff, hearty manner gained immediate favor. Of course there were exceptions. "Crackers" Brown, Owen Lawrence, Aleck Parks and some of their followers didn't seem so favorably impressed.

"He's got too much to say, and I don't like the way he says it," growled Parks. "Makes you think of a steam roller flattening everything before it."

"He's as thick as paste with the Somers crowd," said Owen.

"And when the captain drops in to Terry Guffin's he roars his opinions out so loud that my delicate ear-drums rebel," remarked "Crackers," in his usual grave tone. "Now, to change the subject. As Mr. Barry said to Bob Somers and Steele the other night, 'There ought to be a change mighty soon.'"

"I guess there's no doubt about his saying it," grumbled Owen, "though both of 'em are as mum as oysters."

"They don't deny it," said "Crackers."

"If the nine doesn't take a brace on the next game," observed Aleck Parks, "I'll begin to believe our athletic field has joined the castle in Spain class."

There could be no doubt that the school was taking an intense interest in the third contest with the Stars, scheduled for the following Saturday. Coach Steele had his men out practicing every afternoon, devoting his attention to strengthening the weak points.

"Jack Frost" was developing more confidence in himself, and Willie Singleton, another pitcher, whom Steele had not yet used, was rapidly acquiring the knack of speeding shoots and curves over the plate.

"Charlie Blake and Tom Clifton bother me a bit," confided Coach Steele to Bob Somers. "Charlie's a mighty good player until something happens to shake his nerves. Then he's apt to hit the toboggan. And Tom's a little too excitable, especially when it comes to close plays. At their best, however, I don't think any of the candidates could beat them."

"Neither do I, though many of the fellows are kicking because Charlie was chosen instead of Roycroft."

"We shall have a distinguished audience on hand Saturday," said Steele—"your friend, Captain Bunderley, and 'Uncle' Steve, of Goose Hill fame, will join the president and Professor Ivins on the anxious bench."

"Yes; they'll have the bench, and we the anxious part," grinned Bob. "How about it, Dave?"

"I've got so much work to do on the next number of the 'Reflector' that I haven't time to be anxious," said Dave.

"Guess Benny Wilkins keeps you busy firing stuff," chuckled Tom, sauntering up in time to hear his remark. "Say, Bob, Victor Collins has bought a bugle. It'll help some to swell the noise of our rooters."

"I hope the greatest part of the din will come right after the ninth inning," remarked Steele.

None of the boys looked forward more eagerly to Saturday afternoon's contest than Victor Collins. Captain Bunderley, too, was expectant, and made several emphatic observations in the "Retreat," which rather jolted the susceptible feelings of the "Pie-eaters."

On the day set for the game the weather turned out to be balmy and springlike. During the past few days the color of the landscape had changed surprisingly. The dull, yellowish grass had given place to areas of cool, refreshing green; trees here and there were beginning to hide their branches under myriads of leaves and blossoms.

No wide-awake boy could have been discouraged or gloomy on a day like this. The players romped through their practice like young colts.

By the time the Stars appeared a happy, excited crowd thronged the field.

Professor Ivins had no desire to see the game, but, being a very amiable man, did not like to refuse President Hopkins' request.

"Our presence may help to encourage the boys," said the head of the school. "What a superb day! I have an idea that we shall win this time."

"If there was only some way by which those abominable foul tips could be prevented I should feel safer," murmured Professor Ivins. "Ah! Here is Captain Bunderley."

"Very glad to see you, gentlemen!" exclaimed the skipper. "Magnificent day, isn't it? Almost makes me feel like playing ball myself."

The three men were seated on the bench reserved for them when Mr. Rupert Barry appeared, with a little man trotting at his side.

Captain Bunderley was thereupon introduced to the millionaire and "Uncle" Steve.

"Very glad to meet you, I'm sure," said Mr. Kimbole, rubbing his hands nervously together. "Grand baseball weather, isn't it?"

"Superb!" said Professor Hopkins.

"Magnificent," added the captain.

"Unexceptionable!" chimed in Professor Ivins.

"Now that the status of the weather has been decided," remarked Mr. Barry, dryly, "we can compose ourselves to witness—a—well, I hope, a better game than it was our misfortune to see on the last occasion."

The high school crowd seemed to be in a state of unusual tension when the game began, and, as it progressed from inning to inning, they relieved their pent-up feelings by uproarious yells. Victor Collins' newly-purchased bugle ably assisted in producing noise.

Tony Tippen, as before, was the stumbling-block in the path of success. No matter how desperately the batters tried to land on his varied assortment of curves the result was the same. At the end of the fifth inning the score stood three to nothing in favor of the Stars.

"Great Scott, Bob, this is awful," murmured Tom Clifton, wiping his perspiring face, as they flocked out into the field. "The jinx certainly has us again. Honest, Bob, Tony sent in a slow ball that I thought, sure as shootin', I could knock a mile, and it didn't reach me until after I'd swung the stick."

"A fraction of a second counts," said Bob. "Don't get worried, Tom."

"Oh, I guess I'm no more worried than anybody else," grumbled Tom. "Just listen to Nat Wingate and Hackett bawling! The way those 'Pie-eaters' try to crow over our crowd certainly makes me weary."

"Batter up!" called the umpire.

"Enter Willie Singleton; exit 'Jack Frost,'" said Bob, his eyes on the new pitcher stepping into the box. "Hope to thunder he can keep down the hits."

Singleton, a businesslike lad whom nothing seemed to rattle, put all his energy and skill into the task.

Tony Tippen, however, found him for a two-base hit; Nat singled, and both made the circuit of the bases before the third out was recorded.

"The same old—old story," remarked "Crackers," disgustedly.

"A serial story," supplemented Benny Wilkins. "To be continued in our next, I s'pose?"

"You're a nice pair!" exclaimed Dick Travers, secretary of the athletic association. "Haven't the boys put up a mighty good defensive fight?"

"Of course!" broke in Harry Spearman. "If it hadn't been for good fielding and some mighty fast throws to bases the score would now be about ten to nothing."

"It's only delayed; it's only delayed," said "Crackers." "You don't need a spy-glass to see how Mr. Barry is looking."

"Gee! What's up to make you chaps look so sour?"

Victor Collins had appeared upon the scene.

"Everything, Checkered-Cap," answered Aleck Parks. "Tell your uncle to be at Guffin's to-night. We'd like to hear his opinion of the game."

"Strikes me that you're kind of fresh," responded Victor, calmly. "But I've noticed that you're mighty quiet when the captain's around."

"Here, Checkered-Cap, don't throw any saucy remarks in this direction," warned Aleck, bristling up.

"I chuck 'em out whenever I please, and whoever gets in the way catches 'em."

At the same moment Owen Lawrence was saying:

"A mighty poor game, Roycroft. They're just as weak as ever on the stick work."

"I think it's partly because Tippen's in a class by himself," said Earl.

"All the same, I'll bet if you had a chance at bat you'd rip the stitches out of that ball."

"Oh, I don't know. I'd like to try it, though."

"If you'd only put up a stiff kick in the gym that day you might be doing it now," exclaimed Luke Phelps.

"Maybe," admitted the big football guard.

"I call this a mighty good game, Owen Lawrence," piped Victor Collins. "What's the dif if your side is losing?"

"Only a big field with a diamond all laid out, and a grand stand besides," sniffed Lawrence.

"Get out! This is only the fifth game. Aren't there about ten more?"

"To lose—most likely," growled Parks.

"I reckon it'll do Clifton a lot of good. He used to be a regular caution. I was going to nickname him 'Vanitas' a dozen times."

"Just suited to him, too, Checkers," said Aleck Parks. "You've got a wee bit of sense, after all."

"Thanks! I can't return the compliment until I know you a bit better."

"Some awful fresh remarks are being let loose," exclaimed Ted Pollock. "'Vanitas'! That seems to hit Tom's case about right. What inning is this—the eighth?"

"Yes! And it's another case of whitewash," grumbled Parks. "There's our grand editor of the 'Reflector' at bat. Watch him. He's going to swing. Ah——"

"Strike one!" came over the air.

Harry Spearman dug his heel viciously into the yielding turf. The sarcastic looks on the faces of "Crackers" Brown and Owen Lawrence stung his sensitive nature.

"Come on, Dick," he said, in a low tone. "I want to speak to Bob a moment."

They found the captain and Coach Steele coming away from the bench on which Mr. Rupert Barry and the others were seated.

Steele shook his head and laughed dryly.

"Things are not breaking just the way we hoped, Harry," he said. "If we could only put a man on base once in a while I'll wager they'd manage to get around some way or other."

"What does Mr. Barry think about it?"

"He can't figure how it is that the boys aren't able to crack out a few base hits."

"The fellows who face Tony Tippen understand it," said Bob. "Side out—back to the field for us!"

The gentlemen on the "grand stand," as Victor Collins had dubbed the bench, rose to their feet a short time later, when yells, hoots, cat-calls and furious blasts from dozens of megaphones announced that something had happened.

That something was Big Bill Steever dashing frantically across home plate, a feat which required the official scorer to jot down the seventh tally for the Stars.

The high school team made a desperate attempt to change the monotonous list of ciphers which filled their run column.

Tippen, however, held them safe.

"Seven to nothing," growled Mr. Rupert Barry.

"It has been a great game," chirped "Uncle" Steve. "Considering everything, I think the schoolboys put up a pretty good fight."

"So do I," exclaimed Captain Bunderley, in his deep bass voice.

"Our ideas differ, sir," said Mr. Barry, gripping his knotted cane as though he intended to knock some one on the head. "I'm disgusted—so completely disgusted that I hardly know how to find words to express my feelings."

"Don't try, sir; don't try!" advised Mr. Kimbole, smiling benignly. "What a grand sport baseball is! I trust, sir"—he turned toward Professor Ivins—"that you have enjoyed the afternoon as much as I."

"Ahem—ahem!" The professor polished his eye-glasses industriously. "To be sure. After one has been cooped up indoors all week this sunshine is really delightful," he admitted.

"No matter who may be discouraged by the showing of the school, I am not," declared Captain Bunderley, emphatically.

"I believe, if we could get the consensus of opinion, you'd have few supporters," snapped Mr. Rupert Barry. "Five straight defeats seem to forecast a dismal failure."

---

A few days later, Bob Somers, hard at work studying in his "den," was summoned down-stairs to the 'phone.

"Now I wonder what's up?" he murmured, somewhat impatiently. "Haven't much time to prepare for the next exercise in logarithms."

As soon as he placed the receiver to his ear the gruff voice of Tom Clifton began coming over the wire. And there was a note of pent-up excitement in it which instantly caught the captain's attention.

"I say, Bob, what do you think? Do you know what 'Crackers' Brown has done? Never heard of such nerve in my life."

"Tell me quick!" laughed Bob.

"He's posted up a big notice on the gymnasium door calling for candidates for another team. How does that strike you?"

"I suppose there is nothing to prevent him, Tom."

"You haven't heard all. The notice says that as the regular nine has been tried and found wanting the interests of the school demand that his players be given an equal show with the others."

"I had an idea something like this was coming. Who told you?"

"Benny Wilkins. Had the thing copied word for word in his note-book. May be a joke, you say? No; nothing of the sort! It's an actual fact. Gee! Maybe I don't feel mad enough to punch 'Crackers' Brown!"

Bob Somers' face remained unruffled.

"I don't think we want to indulge in any real warfare, Tom," he sent through the transmitter. "'Crackers' plan may fizzle out. Besides, I think we can count upon having the majority of the fellows on our side."

"But Benny Wilkins says a whole lot are beginning to waver. He thinks there'll be a sizzling hot time before many weeks. Aleck Parks and Owen Lawrence are buttonholing every fellow in sight, telling 'em how the grounds'll be lost unless Bob listens to reason."

"What does 'Crackers' want us to do?"

"Put Roycroft, Lawrence and a few others on the team, and discharge Charlie Blake, Alf Boggs, and—and"—the tone of Tom's voice seemed hot enough to scorch the wire—"myself. Honest fact, Bob—I don't know whether I can keep from punching him or not. What are you going to do about it?"

"No Central American disturbance at the Kingswood High," said Bob, dryly. "What am I going to do? Get right back up-stairs and finish my work."

"But we can't let a thing like this go on. Show the first sign of weakening, Bob, and the wavering'll become a stampede most as bad as any of the cattle rushes on the plains."

"We don't propose to show any signs of weakening. It's up to the coach to do what he thinks best. I'll stick by what he says."

"Oh, I can see you're taking it pretty cool, Bob. But I was never hotter in my life. Aleck Parks had the nerve to call me 'Vanitas' to-day. Wonder where he got that from? I'm ready to put up the stiffest kind of fight for the club."

"So are we all, Tom," exclaimed Bob. "Going around to tell Dave, are you? Good! Have to get to work now. So-long!"

The captain snapped the receiver back in place.

"Well, that's going some," he soliloquized. "A nice little scheme of 'Crackers' Brown to carry his point. But if he thinks he can force the issue in this way he may be a trifle surprised."

The bold move of Brown made a decided sensation. The big poster was eagerly read by all factions. Hot arguments waxed to such extremes that bosom friends soon passed each other without speaking. Some of the freshmen seemed on the point of backing up their opinions with fistic arguments. The original feeling that the Ramblers had too much power broke out afresh; and through all the noise, excitement and confusion Brown went serenely along, doing far more execution with his calm methods than any loud, boisterous talking could have accomplished.

"For the good of the school," was his slogan.

Purple and white pennants with this motto began to appear. The opposition to the Ramblers, though still in the minority, was undoubtedly gaining strength. Cries for "Roycroft! Lawrence!" and several other candidates who had failed to pass Coach Steele's critical tests frequently rose on the campus.

Brown's call for volunteers met with a hearty response, and the self-appointed coach, determining that no time should be lost in putting his plans into execution, had his squad out within a couple of days. Brown's preference was evidently for big, husky chaps.

"Sometimes the size of a fellow has an effect on the opposing team," he said to Owen Lawrence. "A hundred and seventy-five pounds of bone and muscle tearing along the base lines often does more good than the skill of a hundred and thirty pound stripling.

"Then, chaps like that have bigger hands to grab the ball; and when they crack out a hit it has some steam behind it.

"And, honestly, whenever I see Blake making a dash for a hot liner it puts me in mind of an item like this: 'Baseball player seriously injured by a bounder.'"

"Ha, ha!" laughed Lawrence. "The idea of Steele putting him on instead of Roycroft!"

"Now the big fellow will have all the chance he wants," exclaimed Brown, decidedly. "I'll stimulate his bump of ambition by making him captain of the nine."

"Capital idea! I suppose the Somers crowd will entrench themselves behind the regularity racket. That set of iron-clad by-laws Tom Clifton got up doesn't recognize any little outlaw scheme like ours."

"Red tape versus common sense. I take it that the school has some say in things of this sort. If Steele will agree to take on the players we suggest—all right; if not"—"Crackers" spoke as mildly as though ordering a plate of pie—"the worst insurrection in the history of the school is about to begin."

"The fellows'll soon be coming over to our side so fast that it will make you think of an avalanche in the Alps," predicted Owen. "What's that?" He put his hand to his ear. Faint cries of "Rah, rah, rah for Somers!" were coming over the still air from somewhere in the distance. "That kind of thing only makes it more interesting," added the new student, with a grin.

"Let's get over on the field. There's a big bunch ready for practice," said Brown.

Every member of the regular club was present when the "Outlaws," as Benny Wilkins had dubbed the new set of players, got to work.

Tom Clifton surveyed the proceedings with a heavy scowl, treating with silent scorn, for the most part, the jibes which were occasionally flung toward him by members of the opposition.

"Honest, Bob, it makes me almost boil over," he confessed. "Listen to that buttermilk voice of Brown's!" He turned, as a hand was laid on his shoulder. "Oh! How are you, Steele! What do you think of this?"

"I'm sorry there's disaffection in the school," answered the coach; "otherwise I'm prepared to enjoy the afternoon."

Things on the lot were not as they had been when the other players alone occupied it. Sounds of heated arguments often rose above the hum of voices.

Fortunately there was enough room for the two clubs to practice without interference, and the regulars and "outlaws" seldom came within speaking distance.

On this occasion Coach Brown and his men proved to be the great attraction. A steady stream of schoolboys ebbed and flowed on the lot, eagerly watching every move of the candidates.

"Now we'll see some ball tossing that is ball tossing!" cried Aleck Parks.

"This does me good," said Luke Phelps. "There's Earl Roycroft over there. Looks big enough for a hold-out major league player, eh? No fanning the air for Earl."

"Who do the Willie-boys play next?" asked Parks.

"Oh, some club from Engleton. Don't know much about 'em; but Mercer says they are players, though the Stars waltzed over one day, and, even without Tippen in the box, put 'em in wrong to the tune of seven to three."

"Then Nat's team hasn't lost a game yet. Here, Checkered-Cap, you don't belong on this field. Skip out!"

"Oh, you saucy thing! Who's going to make me?" asked Victor Collins.

"I will—if your line of talk doesn't suit," threatened Aleck.

"Then you'll have to grow some. Gee! There's been an awful lot of near-scraps to-day. In about a week I guess you'll be fighting all over the field. Rah, rah, rah for Somers! How does that strike you, Sourface? If it isn't strong enough I'll blow a bugle call."

An irritatingly long blast immediately sounded.

"Ta, ta! I go! 'Crackers' has a buttermilk voice. Got that from Clifton. Ta, ta!"

"He's a nice specimen for you," growled Parks, as Victor's small form mingled with the crowd. "Wow—look at that hit! Who cracked out that one?"

"Bush. And he's a likely one for pitcher. If anything, he's stronger than Roycroft."

As the afternoon progressed the shouts constantly swelled out into a greater volume. Little processions of Somers adherents moved recklessly through the enemy's camp, yelling lustily for their favorites.

"If we only win from Engleton," remarked Sam Randall, as they gathered in the gym on the day of the game, "it may stop some of that foolish fussing."

"Whatever happens I suppose I'll get another eight-column article from Benny Wilkins," sighed the editor of the "Reflector." "Still, I've adopted one of his suggestions. The 'Note-Book' page will hereafter be a feature of the paper."

"Goodness gracious!" murmured Tom. "Now maybe he won't do some strutting around."

"Say, Bob," put in Charlie Blake, "I've been thinking pretty hard over matters—can't help hearing a lot of things the fellows say, you know"—he glanced toward Roger Steele—"and this affair has been getting on my nerves. Now, I'm willing to step out for Roycroft, Lawrence, or anybody else who——"

"What! And be labeled a quitter?" howled Tom. "I didn't expect it of you, Charlie—not this time."

The emphasis laid on the last words brought a flush to Blake's face.

"If there weren't so much at stake maybe I shouldn't be talking of such a thing," he retorted. "But when a chap has it dinned into his ears every day that he isn't doing the right thing by the school, why——"

"Oh, you make me tired!" scoffed Tom. "Who wants you to get off the team? No one but a lot of soreheads."

Blake gloomily picked his favorite bat from the rack.

"I don't know, Tom," he sighed. "Some of the boys who used to be pretty good shouters for our crowd have flopped over to the other side."

"A lot of weaklings!" jeered Tom.

"Just go about your work as though nothing had happened," advised Steele. "Now's the time to show what you're made of. I know a good player when I see one. Don't let this noisy Brown crowd get your nerve—that's all."

Charlie Blake cast a grateful look at the coach.

"I'm glad to hear you speak that way," he said. "But—but—somehow——"

Steele slapped him heartily on the shoulder.

"A little self-consciousness, Blake, is your only trouble," he interrupted. "Get in the way of paying no attention to any one. And if you do happen to make an error just remember that the highest salaried player in the big leagues is occasionally bound to do the same."

"The chap who doesn't take things too seriously is generally the one who gets there," said Dave. "It's the easiest way to prevent your nerves from getting all in a tension."

"By George, that's right!" cried Charlie.

"I knew you'd come around to our way of thinking," said Tom, delightedly.

The squad felt that a great deal depended upon the outcome of the game with Engleton. And each member was chuck full of courage and determination as he sallied out upon the field.

They found the Engleton lads rather older and heavier than themselves. One of the principal characteristics of their coach, a boisterous young man named Finn, was the habit of making humorous remarks, and, as his voice was of a caliber suitable for an auctioneer, his jokes sent ripples of mirth all over the field.

The game, as summed up tersely by Alf Boggs, was:

"A nothing to three fizzle, with the high school holding the doughnut."

His disconsolate audience was gathered before the fence near home plate, their sad eyes showing no signs of brightening. Even several exceptionally humorous remarks by Mr. Finn passed unnoticed.

Suddenly they became aware of the fact that something not down on the bill was taking place. Dan Brown, Owen Lawrence and Earl Roycroft, followed by all the "outlaw" candidates, were winding in a serpentine fashion—this movement being occasioned by the constantly shifting crowds—toward home plate.

"Mr. Finn," began "Crackers," "I'd like to have a word with you."

"Nobody who ever did got stung," said the coach, pleasantly.

"We"—"Crackers" waved his arm to include the grinning group behind him—"wish to ask a small favor."

"It can't be too small to suit me," laughed Mr. Finn.

"I am forming a baseball nine——"

"What! Is there a baseball nine at this school?" cried the coach, in well-feigned astonishment.

"We wish to state most emphatically that there is—just one; no more," returned "Crackers," "and our great desire is to prove it."

The members of the Engleton team crowded around.

"How are you going to do it, Jack?" asked one, familiarly.

"Well, Bill, it's this way." Brown beamed benignly over the steel frame of his spectacles. "If you have any open dates for next week, and are willing to play us, the thing is as good as done."

"How about it, Finn?" asked the captain of the Engletons.

The eyes of the visiting coach roamed over the forms of the "outlaws."

"Suits me all right, Beebe," he answered.

"We can't thank you too much, Mr. Finn," said "Crackers," mildly. "Here's a chap"—his hand indicated Roycroft—"who is warranted to bat anything hittable over the out-fielders' heads. We have some birds in this bunch. Bush, our pitcher, requires only nine balls to put out a side; he nearly always does it. We've an infield that a ball wouldn't go by if it had a chance. Baseball as we play it can only be seen at the big league games. I shall ask our esteemed friend, Mr. Bill, to remember what I say."

"What's the name of your nine?" asked Mr. "Bill."

"The High School 'Hopes.'"

"We'll promise to dash 'em," grinned the other.

"Commiseration for your feelings after the game prevents me from making a tart reply," said Brown. "What day shall we come over?"

Finn consulted a memorandum book.

"Next Thursday. Our lot is close to the largest ash heap in the county. I may add, too, that some of the fiercest goats at liberty often chase players off the bases. Bring all your nerve along. You'll need it."

"Good!" cried "Crackers," in high spirits. "Why are we doing this, fellows?"

"For the good of the school!" bawled Lawrence.

---

"A large slice of history made for the Kingswood High."

This is the entry Benny Wilkins jotted down in his note-book at the close of the "Hopes'" game with Engleton. Four boys had actually seen him writing it, and perhaps a hundred others had had it flaunted in their faces.

The score, five to three in favor of the "Hopes," sent through the ranks of Brown's followers a wave of enthusiasm that found vent in the noisiest demonstration the quiet town of Engleton had ever known.

Critical observers of the High's new team noted that the fire and dash with which the big lads played seemed to impress their opponents greatly.

"Brown's bunch is the most unruly lot in the school," growled Tom Clifton, who had ardently wished to see the "Hopes" sustain a crushing defeat. "There won't be any discipline on that team very long."

"They played a mighty good game, though," ventured Charlie Blake.

Tom steered his companion out of the way of a procession of joyous rooters, led by Aleck Parks and Luke Phelps.

"How about the 'Pie-eaters and doughnut crowd' now?" yelled Parks, waving his cap in the air.

"If you want to win games go to Guffin's!" screeched Luke. "Ha, ha! Five to three! Don't look so down in the mouth, 'Vanitas'!"

"If it wasn't for this big crowd I'd punch him right now!" cried Tom.

"I'm afraid the effects of Brown's victory will be rather bad," mused Charlie Blake. He paused to watch the throngs hurrying for the Kingswood car. "I wonder if Steele and Bob Somers haven't been a bit stubborn."

"Of course not," returned Tom. "Do you know what I heard this morning? Some of the fellows Brown left off his team are putting up a kick already."

"Dear me! Then, I suppose, before long there'll be a half dozen nines, all playing for the good of the school."

Next day, in the gymnasium, Benny Wilkins had an opportunity to write several very interesting items in his famous note-book. Immediately after classes were over the regular nine assembled in the big room as though nothing had happened. They had hardly donned their uniforms, preparatory to practicing, when the door opened, and Dan Brown, heading his entire aggregation of players, stepped inside.

An eager crowd of freshmen, juniors, sophomores and seniors flocked at their heels, their faces showing a degree of expectancy which indicated that something was up.

"Mr. Steele," began "Crackers," in deliberate tones, "the event of yesterday must still be fresh in your mind. You saw us play the Engletons, I believe?"

The coach nodded.

"Crackers" calmly paused to wipe his glasses.

"Before I go any further I want it understood that we're not wishing to make any trouble in the school."

"Like fun you're not!" burst out Tom Clifton. "From the very first——"

"Quit it, Tom!" commanded Dave Brandon. "Let's hear what Brown has to say."

"Put a doughnut in his mouth!" cried Benny Wilkins.

"Stop your noise, fellows," insisted Brown. "We came here on serious business. Mr. Steele, the school has been patient; it has given you every chance to make good. What has been the result? Six straight defeats, and a mysterious hurry call from Mr. Barry. We all know how dissatisfied he is."

"He talks like a senator," snickered Victor Collins. "Most of 'em never reach the point."

"Be patient, my young friend in the checkered cap," went on Brown. "Mr. Steele, the school couldn't stand by and see a grand chance for getting a ball field and stand slip away."

"And it doesn't propose to!" cried Owen Lawrence.

"We have a proposition—a fair proposition: play us a series of games, and let whichever club wins represent the school. This is no time for stubbornness. Personal ambition has no place at such an important epoch in the history of the Kingswood High."

As the leader of the "outlaws" paused a lively rattle of tongues began. Excited students cheered, or voiced their protests until the room echoed with a noisy din.

"Don't do it, Steele; don't do it!" cried one.

"The whole bunch ought to be thrown out of the school!" shouted a second.

"You're away off. Brown's the best friend the Kingswood High ever had!" exclaimed another, hotly.

"Crackers" looked at the excited groups about him with as much unconcern as though reciting in the class room.

"Order—order!" yelled Lawrence. "What do you say, Steele?"

The coach was visibly annoyed—even angry. He shot a swift, questioning glance at Bob Somers, then turned to face Dan Brown.

"Your request should have been made in proper form to the athletic association, Brown," he said, coolly. "If you choose, you can carry the matter to them. Personally, I must emphatically decline to comply with your wishes. What do you say, fellows?" He addressed the members of the nine.

A unanimous "No!" cut crisply above the buzz of conversation.

"I thought so!" exclaimed Owen Lawrence, fiercely. "Afraid, eh? Have to crawl? We want the whole school to know it."

"Not so fast, Lawrence," protested Brown. "I'm sure Mr. Steele is open to reason. What's the use of all this red tape about athletic associations? Rules may be all right in their way; but there are times when they had better be thrown on the scrap heap."

"Our policy is not determined by rules or red tape, Brown."

"What reason can you give for not playing us?"

"Now you've got him!" came in a loud tone from Lawrence.

"We're working on a definite plan," explained Roger Steele, in a conciliatory manner. "Every one of us has the interest of the school at heart; and if there are no internal dissensions the task will be easy. Our team is going to do much better than you think; it's going to improve steadily."

"An answer that is no answer," remarked Brown. "You'll be saying the same thing after the tenth consecutive defeat."

"We can't be jollied," added Lawrence.

"Come now, Mr. Steele, why not play the 'Hopes'?" said Earl Roycroft, mildly. "I don't think there ought to be any row or ill-feeling. Two or three games couldn't do any harm, and——"

"I should like to oblige you, Roycroft, but I can't encourage the idea."

"Well, I should rather say not!" howled Tom, whose pent-up wrath had once more gotten the better of him. "I never heard of such nerve in my life. Get out, 'Crackers'! Go back to Terry Guffin's and hatch up some new plot!"

"'Vanitas' heard from again!" sneered Aleck Parks.

"Don't get too gay, Parks," warned Tom. "I shouldn't be a bit surprised if you're the chap who made that mean remark about the corn field."

"No such thing," answered Aleck, tartly.

"Cut out all quarreling on the side lines, boys," interposed Brown. "Now, Mr. Steele, I'll answer the question I asked you. Frankly, brutally, and to the point: you won't play us because you and every member of the nine is afraid. I dare you to come out on the field and cross bats with us this afternoon. If you don't, what will the school think?" He raised his voice. "The boys have no use for a team with a yellow streak."

"Brown, you're going a little too far," interposed Bob Somers. "Talk like that won't make us budge. If you really are for the good of the school you'll stop all this rumpus."

"Really are for the good of the school!" echoed "Crackers." His mild tone suddenly departed. "Do you mean to insinuate, Bob Somers, that I'm doing this just for the sake of a row?"

"I didn't insinuate anything."

"Well, you'd better not." "Crackers" turned to face his "outlaws." "Fellows, our perfectly reasonable proposition has been turned down. It's up to us to break the red tape into a thousand pieces. Mr. Steele"—his voice resumed its former mildness—"I shall put my request in writing and send it to the athletic association."

The room was in an uproar. The Somers party attempted, by sheer force of noise, to drown the angry remarks of Brown's disappointed followers. Benny Wilkins was thoroughly charmed. He noted, too, with satisfaction, that the "outlaws" seemed to be in no hurry to leave.

As the commotion was at its highest the door suddenly flew wide open, and the form of a big, burly man was sharply outlined against the bright outdoor light.

He listened a moment in seeming astonishment, then strode heavily across the floor, making for the point of loudest noise.

"What does all this mean, boys?" bellowed Captain Ralph Bunderley. "Do you want to take the roof off, or crack the window-panes? I've been looking for my nephew, Victor Collins; and I've found him, and something else I didn't bargain for."

The unexpected appearance of the burly seaman in their midst had the effect of quelling all but the most turbulent spirits.

"I'd like to know what's going on!"

"Uncle, let me introduce you to the biggest bunch of fire-eaters in Wisconsin," called Victor. "It's a revolution—that's what it is, isn't it, Brownie?"

From a dozen points in the room came the explanation that Captain Bunderley was seeking.

The skipper was astonished and angry. "I should think you boys would have better sense than to act this way," he stormed. "What do you expect to gain by such conduct?"

"A ball field and grand stand," answered Brown.

"All ridiculous nonsense!" The captain struck the palm of his hand an emphatic blow. "The boys have done right to refuse to play such an organization."

"Have you recently entered the High as a student?" asked Brown.

A fierce glare sprang into the captain's eyes.

"I would suggest, sir," continued Brown, smoothly, "that the students are not asking advice from outsiders."

"I beg pardon," said the captain, "but I thought a little friendly counsel might not come amiss."

"It's the way you offer your suggestions that hurts our feelings," said Brown, quite candidly. "Really, I expected to find myself flying through space."

"'Crackers' felt as if he'd been banged on the head," added Benny Wilkins. "Who's got a note-book? My new one's full already."

"My esteemed young friend," said "Crackers," turning toward him, "I saw a bargain sale on Central Avenue. Let me advise you to get a dozen at once. Even then, I fear, it won't be enough to hold an account of what our team—the 'Hopes'—are going to do."

---

"You can put your request in writing, Brown; but, honestly, I don't think it will do a bit of good."

Sam Randall, president of the athletic association and member of the Rambler Club, seated at his desk in a room which adjoined the gymnasium, gazed squarely into his visitor's face.

It was late on the same afternoon, for Brown had determined to force the issue at once.

Within the last year Sam Randall had grown to be quite a young man in appearance. All the lines about his clean-cut face tending to firmness had become accentuated, and he had a quiet, decisive manner which even had its effect on the imperturbable Brown.

"I'm to understand, then, that my challenge has been thrown down flat?"

Sam Randall toyed with a paper-weight on his desk.

"No, I can't say that, Brown. I'm only one of the officers of the association. The others must speak for themselves."

"But you, as president, ought to have a great deal of influence," suggested "Crackers," slowly pacing the floor. "I tell you plainly, the fellows are getting worked up; they won't stand for any dictatorial methods. Aren't you going to use your influence to prevent the explosion that one more defeat would certainly bring? It might blow nearly every member of the organization out of his job."

"Ah!" said Sam.

His keen eyes showed no sign of wavering.

"You know how to take a hot proposition very coolly," said "Crackers," in soft tones. "Is there any use of arguing the matter?"

"I don't think so."

"Neither do I. But, to make sure, I'll hunt up the rest of the officers, and see what they think about having the match shoved so close to the gunpowder."

"Remember this," retorted Randall: "Some one has just said that the fellows won't stand for any dictatorial methods. You must include yourself as well as the rest. So-long."

"Crackers" immediately reported to his lieutenants outside the gymnasium.

"Well?" queried Lawrence, eagerly.

"He won't listen to reason," said Brown, shaking his head gravely. "His abruptness almost pained me."

"Why not call all this thing off?" asked Earl Roycroft, with a disturbed expression. "Suppose we give 'em another week?"

Owen Lawrence eyed him scornfully.

"That's a fine way to talk," he growled. "If you're going to back down at the very start we'd better know it now."

The big captain of the "Hopes" flushed.

"Of course I'm not," he answered, hastily. "All I want is to see everybody get a square deal."

"That stout gentleman who poked his delicate frame into the gym this afternoon about typifies the actions of the Ramblers," remarked Brown. "He has an idea that every one must bend to his will. So do they. Why, in that room back there, I began to think I was talking to the head of some big corporation doing business in a dozen states."

"There's no use chirping all day. Let's get busy," broke in Lawrence, impatiently. "What's the first move, Brown?"

"A poster announcing our intentions would be about the proper caper," answered Brown, reflectively. "I'll consult my special artist, Mr. Benny Wilkins."

"What! Can he draw?"

"He may not have Dave Brandon's a-mazing talent, but, at any rate, his sketches don't need explanations to go with 'em. I'll jolly him into making one—that is, unless the other High Moguls of the association overrule the iron hand back there."

Before supper time Dan Brown had managed to interview Harry Spearman, Dick Travers and the others.

As Sam Randall had predicted, he got no encouragement.

"That settles it," murmured "Crackers." "The next thing is to see Benny Wilkins."

Benny was decidedly surprised when the coach of the "Hopes" called upon him that evening. He was also much pleased.

"Gee whiz, Brown, this is going to boost me into a person of national importance. Of course I can make the poster; I can draw even with my eyes shut."

"And color, too?" asked Brown.

"Sure; coloring is easy for me. I know all about it. Here, pull up a chair, Mr. Brown, and I'll make the sketch right now."

After a great deal of thought and much hard work, Benny evolved an idea which met with the chief "outlaw's" approval. On one side the design represented an armor-clad knight with his heel on the neck of a prostrate boy who was apparently yelling with all his might.

"The chap on the ground represents the school," explained Benny.

"Great idea!" exclaimed Brown. "What's the knight?"

"A figure representing tyranny and oppression," answered Benny, glibly. "I haven't studied history for nothing, have I, Brown?"

"I'm agreeably surprised," murmured "Crackers." "I really didn't expect it of you, Benny. The Ramblers are shown in their true light at last. What's that mass of lines on the right—a house on fire?"

"Goodness gracious, no! That's going to be the Goddess of Reason, enthroned, bowing to the will of the school. I'll stick your phiz on the front row, Brown, and the lady'll be giving you the glad hand."

"Stunning idea!" said Brown. "I guess if the government ever catches sight of this poster they'll have you design all their new postage stamps. When will it be done?"

"I'll bring it around to the school to-morrow morning."

"Good! And I'll put on the lettering."

Benny aided the gas company considerably that night, never stopping work until a piece of heavy wrapping-paper two by three feet had been liberally flooded with color.

To be sure, it looked a little odd in the morning; for the surfaces which seemed so delicately yellow at night proved to be of a startling brilliancy.

But the poster, mounted on a board, attached to a stout stick, and planted in a prominent position on the campus, made the sensation for which Brown had hoped.

Pushing, jostling crowds quickly gathered before it. Every one seemed to be asking questions or answering them. All through the school an inquiry found its way:

"Say, have you seen that poster?"

Those who hadn't quickly joined the army of those who had.

Only the calm counsel of Bob Somers and Dave Brandon prevented some of their hot-headed supporters from hurling the offending object to the ground and trampling it to pieces.

"The drawing is very good indeed," said Dave. "Benny's an artist. He ought to be encouraged."

"How can you talk about the mean little duffer that way, Dave?" exclaimed Tom, wrathfully.

"Don't take it too seriously, Tom. We haven't lost our jobs yet."

"All the same, I'm afraid I'll have to get out if the rumpus keeps up much longer," reflected Charlie Blake.

Brown's announcement called for a meeting that afternoon under an enormous elm on the campus. His object was to explain to the students the "Hopes'" contention that they had the better team and by gaining recruits compel the regulars to yield to their demands.

When class exercises were over "Crackers," Roycroft and Owen Lawrence, followed by every member of the "outlaws," in uniform, made directly for the tree.

A dense, excited crowd of students awaited them. A rousing cheer went up.

"Rah, rah, rah for Roycroft! Hurrah for Brown and Lawrence!" was carried off on a surging sea of sound.

The Somers crowd, glum but determined-looking, seldom voiced a protest.

Dan Brown promptly mounted a box placed under the wide-spreading branches of the tree. The excitement and tumult found no reflection on his face.

"Fellows," he began, in a calm, even voice, "the school is going to get those grounds!"

A burst of wild cheering came from his followers.

"In order to do this great work for the High we've been obliged to match extraordinary conditions with extraordinary methods. Fellows, we must determine which shall rule: red tape and regularity, or common sense."

"Common sense, common sense!" roared an admiring contingent.

"So say we all! There's material enough here to form a nine which could trim any team in the section."

Another salvo of cheers rang out.

"Some fellows seem to have the silly idea that we're doing all this to stir up trouble. I was impolitely told yesterday to meander over to Guffin's and hatch up another plot."

Jeers, and shouts of "Vanitas!" from Lawrence.

"Really, it quite pained me. Why are we doing this thing, boys?"

"For the good of the school!" bellowed his team in chorus.

"Exactly! Our proposition for the Ramblers to play us has been turned down. Why?"

"Because they know that you'd lick 'em worse than the Stars have done!" yelled Aleck Parks.

An emphatic roar of approval, mingled with hand-clapping and shrill whistling, brought a gleam of pleasure into Brown's gray eyes.

"That's it! Fellows, I have three propositions to offer. Alone, we count as nothing; but with the school behind us our force would be as irresistible as the—as the——"

"He's stuck!" cried Victor Collins. "He's floundering!"

"As the tides," completed Brown.

"I told you! He's floundering in the tides," giggled Victor.

"The first proposition is this: simply force the regulars to play us, and prove they have the better team—if they can. If the crowd continues to refuse, the second proposition is to demand a thorough reorganization. I have players who ought to be on the school team."

"Roycroft, Roycroft, Roycroft!" shouted the students.

"And until the other day I never knew what star players we had in Platt and Bush—both of 'em nearly six feet of bone and muscle—plenty of skill and speed, besides."

The noise and confusion became so great that "Crackers'" oration only reached those on the outside of the mass as disconnected sentences.

"The 'Hopes' will have such a string of victories——"

"Hurrah, hurrah!" shouted the crowd.

"Order, order!" bawled Lawrence.

The tumult subsided.

"Proposition number three is this: in case the Ramblers refuse all overtures, the students shall recognize our team—the hard-working, victorious 'Hopes'—as the official representative of the school!"

The storm of approval which immediately followed grew to such uproarious proportions as to make the combined efforts of the "outlaws" to restore order futile. Their voices were drowned in a roar of sound which carried a conviction to the hearts of Bob's friends that the Kingswood High was about to be plunged into the stormiest period of its history.

Earl Roycroft looked hot and uncomfortable as he heard his name called from every point of the campus.

"Roycroft, Roycroft! Speech—speech!"

This cry was caught up and repeated until the big fellow was literally forced to take his place beside Dan Brown.

Only husky throats and tired lungs brought the quiet for which Dan Brown was pleading.

"Look out—there'll be a perfectly good box busted under that ton weight!" piped Victor Collins.

"Fellows, I appreciate your kindness," said the big captain of the "Hopes." "I only want to do the right thing for the school. We all know that every effort should be made to win Mr. Barry's field; and I'm afraid the regular team is not equal to the job. I am one of those who believe the majority counts. If you agree with Brown—and it looks very much as if you do—all I have to say is: give us your support."

"We will—we will!"

"Our team is going to develop rapidly. We ask you to watch its progress."

As Earl stepped down, to be slapped enthusiastically upon the shoulder by Owen Lawrence, Brown spoke up:

"If any of the officers of the athletic association or the Ramblers are present I invite them to state their side of the case. That's fair enough, isn't it?"

There was an instant of tense silence.

"They're over on the lot practicing, coachy," cried Victor Collins. "Those chaps are right on the job, while you're putting up the biggest blow I ever listened to."

"Crackers" gazed toward him mildly, but made no reply.

"Fellows"—he abruptly raised his voice to a pitch of harshness—"I ask you to pledge your support. Those who are with us raise their hands."

Arms shot up from every quarter, and the roar of voices which accompanied the movement caused the boys practicing on the distant field to stop and look around.

---

"I hope you understand, Somers, that I have nothing against you fellows. Nobody ever heard me squeal. But if the school wants me to play what can I do?"

Earl Roycroft, with an expression of embarrassment on his good-natured face, was speaking to Bob Somers, not more than an hour after the meeting on the campus.

"I don't blame you, Roycroft," answered Bob, as the two walked along Central Avenue. "I'm sure the rest won't, either."

"Not even Tom?" queried the captain of the "Hopes," with a faint smile.

"On reflection, I'm not so sure about that," grinned Bob.

"We're old friends, Somers; and I hope this"—Earl paused. A troubled look shone in his eyes—"this unfortunate muddle won't cause any trouble between us."

"It isn't going to."

"Well, it must go against the grain to see one of your old chums on the opposition line-up. Honestly, Somers, don't you think"—Earl hesitated again—"that you'd better—well—reconsider this matter? It's a fact, Somers: you're losing supporters every day. The thought of saying good-bye to that field has put such a scrapping spirit into the boys that they're ready to fight to a finish."

Bob reflected a moment before answering.

"Then you mean that we should yield to popular clamor?"

"No, that isn't it. I hope—I hope you won't be offended if I speak plainly." A smile from Bob encouraged the rival captain to continue. "You chaps have been traveling about so much you haven't had a chance to keep in the game like some of the others. I don't say you can't play good ball—mind. When your crowd was practicing, as candidates for the team, you looked good to all of us. But, somehow"—Earl became considerably embarrassed again; his eyes shifted from the frank gaze of his companion—"I suppose I'll have to finish it," he sighed—"you don't seem to be of a quite strong enough caliber to truly represent the school. Now, Bob, it's out; and I guess you feel mighty hot about it?"

"Not a bit, Earl. I admire your honesty and candor. I'll agree that things look rather discouraging. Still,"—the captain seemed to weigh his words—"don't you think your very contention that we've not had as much practice as the others is an argument in our favor?"

"How?"

"Because, in a little time, we'll round into shape. The nine is improving steadily, though some of the fellows are so excited and hasty they can't see it."

Roycroft shook his head.

"I don't doubt you are sincere in feeling that way, Somers," he said, slowly, "but the boys couldn't be made to think so. Then, again, you've lost your batting eye. Mr. Rupert Barry has kicked enough about that, I'm sure."

"I've heard about it," laughed Bob, dryly.

"And some of the fellows feel sure—I don't like to say it, Somers—that you're not playing as well as you did a couple of years ago. Tom Clifton, too, though he's done some pretty good work, doesn't seem to have the necessary physical strength."

Earl looked searchingly at his companion, expecting each instant to see a gleam of anger in his eye. Bob, however, gave no indication that his feelings were disturbed.

"One thing, Roycroft," he said: "you spoke about our traveling around so much we couldn't keep in good trim. This applies only to Dave, Tom and myself. There are six others in every game."

"Sometimes one man is enough to lose a contest," answered Roycroft, dryly.

"You're right there," grinned Bob.

"Aren't you going to listen to my advice, Somers?"

"Why, I'm not running things, Earl. I'm only captain of the team."

"Come now, Bob, don't try to put up any such ridiculous bluff as that. If you wanted the team reorganized it would probably be done."

"Who do you want fired?" asked Bob, bluntly.

"Blake, Clifton, Boggs and maybe a couple of others," answered Roycroft, with equal bluntness. "Think it over, Somers. I'll leave you here. Sure you don't feel sore about what I've said?"

"Not a bit of it," responded Bob, heartily. "It hasn't ruffled a hair. So-long, Earl. Yes; I'll think it over."

On the same evening all five members of the Rambler Club met in Bob Somers' study to discuss the situation. The languid air which usually characterized Dave Brandon was entirely absent.

"We must take a firm hand, Bob," he said, emphatically. "The only question to consider is this: are we merely stubborn and mistaken, or is our confidence in the team so justified that we can feel sure of final success?"

"If our nine isn't quite up to the 'Hopes' now I am certain that later on it will be a great deal better," said Bob.

"How did they manage to get such a good team?"

"That's easy to figure out," replied Dick Travers. "Wherever he could, 'Crackers' selected the biggest men. Most of the chaps belong to the roughest bunch in school—an unruly lot. They have plenty of brute strength, and are sort of carrying things by rough-house methods."

"But the club can play and is likely to go right on winning," said Dave, emphatically.

"Oh, I'm not saying anything against their ability," admitted Dick. "But outside of Roycroft and several others, it is chiefly confined to hitting."

"They can line out the ball—and that's about all they can do," supplemented Tom.

"If it wins games it's enough," returned Dave. "Now suppose we could beat the 'Hopes' to smithereens. Would you play 'em?"

Dave broke into a broad grin, but the others looked very solemn indeed.

"It's awful to feel that lots of fellows think we're crawling," said Bob, "but, in that case, perhaps—perhaps—we would."

After a short pause, Dave continued:

"Since the organization of the Rambler Club the crowd has run into some pretty stirring adventures, and has had quite a few thrills." He smiled quizzically. "I refer you to the history now appearing in the 'Reflector.'"

"Never read better writing in my life; it's stunning!" cried Tom.

"Thanks! Now let's get back to the issue. We've had things pretty much our own way. All of us graduate this year. We expected to leave school in a blaze of glory, with the winning of Mr. Rupert Barry's field as the final achievement of our student days. I agree with you, Bob: in a short time the regulars will be a stronger nine than the Brown aggregation."

"Why not just call his bluff and play them?" exclaimed Tom, excitedly.

"Oh, no," said Dave, with a twinkle in his eye. "They might beat us. And if they did we'd find ourselves squelched and thrown on the scrap heap."

"And so fast that we'd never recover from it," added Sam Randall. "Our crowd would have the pleasure of standing around watching the 'Hopes' play in the inter-scholastic series."

"There are a lot of chaps in the school who would help 'Crackers' throw us out just for the sake of the excitement. Nothing to do, fellows, except to fight the thing right out to a finish."

"And we can hold our end up, too!" cried Tom. "Of all the mean chumps I ever ran across that Earl Roycroft is the biggest. What do you think? He had the nerve to speak to me this evening—honest, Bob, I came mighty near calling him down—said he wanted to explain things; and I told him he needn't mind."

"Oh, Earl's all right," laughed Bob.

"All wrong, you mean. Suppose Steele should put him and a few others on the team? Do you think it would stop 'Crackers' Brown's hollering? Not on your life! He'd groan like a wheezy old locomotive for something else."

"Just my idea," agreed Dick Travers.

"Then I gather that we're going to stick it out, eh, Bob?" said Dave Brandon.

"Yes!" answered the captain, with emphasis. "I have studied the playing of the 'Hopes' carefully. Roger Steele agrees with me that they won't get much further in the fine points of the game."

"And that's just the thing we're trying for," said Tom.

Bob beat a tattoo on the floor with his foot.

"We were a bit rusty, fellows," he confessed. "It's taken us longer to get into condition than I expected. I feel that we are nowhere near our true form yet."

"I never thought things would turn out like this," said Tom, disconsolately. "Nearly every time I pass one of the 'Pie-eaters and doughnut crowd' they say something mean. Good thing they can't get my nerve like they do Charlie Blake's once in a while."

"Well, then, it's settled," said Sam. "We'll just let the opposition howl itself hoarse."

"If they'd only stop their yelp and let us alone it would show a lot more sense," remarked Dick Travers. "How in thunder do they expect us to win while they're kicking up such a row and knocking us on every side? But never mind; they can't bluff us."

"You bet they can't!" cried Tom.

"Boys, I fear I have a big supply of the weaknesses of human nature," said Dave. "I'm actually stirred up about this thing; I'm in a fighting mood. Why are we acting this way?"

"For the good of the school!" laughed Bob.

"And for our own good, too!"

"This little meeting has put us straight on the affair," remarked Sam Randall. "Our only chance to win out is to stick together. The student body elected us to take charge of the athletic interests of the High; and, in doing so, they gave us rights which we must now force them to recognize. If they have common sense enough to do so, the rest ought to be easy."

The boys enjoyed the evening more than any had anticipated, and, on taking leave of one another, each firmly resolved to show the enemy a bold, determined front.

---

"The fourth straight," said Aleck Parks. "The 'Hopes' are mowing 'em down as easily as a scythe cuts grass. How's that for playing, Luke Phelps? Wasn't yesterday's game a peach? Nine to six against Willington. Roycroft cracked out a homer, a two-base hit and a single. Oh, yes; that's going some. I saw 'Vanitas' sneaking around in the crowd looking kind of pale."

"If the Ramblers lose the next game they'll be yanked from their jobs as fast as a vacuum cleaner sucks up dust," remarked Phelps, complacently. "They go over to play the Engletons again to-morrow."

"Another bucket of white stuff for the official record," growled Parks. "Let's get away. Here comes 'Checkered-Cap.'"

"Afraid of him?" laughed Luke.

"No! It's his own safety I'm thinking about. Ever since I met him I've had a hard time to keep from handing him something that might disturb his center of gravity."

"Simply awful!" grinned Phelps. "Let's do the next worse thing—go over and see the Ramblers practicing."

An ominous calm seemed to hover over the school. The "Hopes'" string of clean-cut victories was bringing more wavering Somers adherents into the "outlaw" camp. The quiet did not lull the fears of the staunch supporters of the regulars. It seemed to possess a deeper, more significant meaning than the noisy, wild demonstrations which had taken place on the campus.

On the following afternoon the Engleton trolley did a flourishing business. Eager students and townspeople packed the cars to their fullest capacity.

Engleton was a little town about five miles distant, nestling amidst an amphitheater of hills. The baseball field was situated in the northern part, hemmed in on three sides by steep, grass-covered slopes. At the extreme end of the open section an immense pile of ashes covered what was once a treacherous gully. Several ramshackle frame dwellings, surrounded by rickety or broken fences, with here and there great piles of rubbish, indicated that "Goatville" was not the most select part of the town.

By the time the regulars arrived the ball field and grassy hills were crowded.

"I hope you'll enjoy this game, Roycroft," said "Crackers" Brown. "I can't help feeling kind of sorry for Bob Somers. He's a pretty good sort. But I guess this is the last game the Ramblers will play as the school team."

"Here, Dan Brown, you cut out calling it the Ramblers' team, or there'll be a whole lot of trouble!" cried a gruff voice so near at hand that the captain of the "Hopes" was startled.

Tom Clifton, with flushed face, was striding forward.

"Trouble?" echoed Brown.

"Yes! And more than you can handle. I know your game, Brown. You've been sneaking around, trying to put it into everybody's head that the Rambler Club is running this team. Do you get me, Dan Brown?"

---

---

"I shall pretty soon," returned "Crackers," solemnly.

"Oh, you think you're mighty smart!" cried Tom. "But if your specs weren't so blurred with conceit you'd see that you're going too far."

"I suppose this is a little prelude to the show," said the coach, pleasantly. "It's a bad thing for ball players to get overheated before the umpire begins his chirp. Please oblige me: run away and cool off."

"Two forty-five P. M. A ball player advised to run away and cool off," piped Benny Wilkins, suddenly. "What's the best way, Mr. Brown—shower bath or——?"

"You're the meanest little duffer in the whole school!" cried Tom, turning upon him wrathfully. "It's a wonder you have the nerve to show your face inside the door!"

"Well, I like that!" snorted Benny. "Now what's up?"

"Oh, you thought you could keep it quiet. But I found out, just the same."

"Found out what?"

"Why, it was you who said that mean thing about Mr. Barry planting corn on his field!" fairly exploded Tom. "You ought to be ashamed to look me in the face."

Benny was aghast.

"What—what?" he stammered.

"I don't wonder you can hardly speak," went on Tom, fiercely.

"Hardly speak?" interposed "Crackers." "Why, if you're not careful, he'll let off such a blast that we'll all get blown down flat."

"Well, suppose I did say it! It was all a joke!" admitted Benny.

"A fine joke!" jeered Tom. "Didn't it make Mr. Barry so mad that he almost felt like withdrawing his offer? Oh, I know all about it!"

The look of embarrassment faded from Benny's eyes, to be replaced by an expression of blazing anger.

"I don't care if you do," he roared. "And I know something about you, too, that ought to make you chuck off that uniform and beat it back to Kingswood."

"Get out!" snapped Tom. "You don't know anything, and never could know anything. That wooden head-piece of yours wouldn't hold it."

"You haven't got anything on me, 'Vanitas!'" Benny Wilkins stalked forward, planting himself directly before the tall first baseman. "I don't, eh?" he cried. "Just listen to this: one day in the gym you called Mr. Barry an eccentric old creature—you know you did."

Tom's face flushed a deeper crimson.

"Well—well?" he demanded.

"And Mr. Barry heard about that, too! I got it from a fellow who knows. And maybe he wasn't riled!—said he wished he'd never made the confounded offer."

"I—I don't believe it," gasped Tom.

"Ask Victor Collins, then. You will try to sit on me, 'Vanitas'—you will, eh?"

"If Mr. Barry heard about it, I'll bet you told him yourself!" howled Tom, thoroughly angry. "You're small in every way, Benny Wilkins. Bob Somers and Steele caught you spying."

"You mean that I caught 'em trying to sneak into Mr. Barry's without being seen," retorted Benny. "I never said a word to Mr. Barry. But if you get too fresh with me, 'Vanitas,' he's going to learn the name of the particular chap who made such an interesting remark; that's the only thing he doesn't know. Now—will that hold you for a minute?"

The altercation was attracting considerable attention. A grinning crowd, industriously calling upon the two principals to "mix it up a bit," presently brought the realization to Tom that his thoughtless remark uttered in the gymnasium was being scattered broadcast.

"Said Mr. Barry was an eccentric old creature!" jeered Benny, "and has the nerve to try and call me down for something not a quarter as bad!"

"You've got the tall one going!" cried an Engleton boy, encouragingly. "Don't be skeered. Wade right into him."

"I'll sic a goat on him; that's what I'll do!" exclaimed Benny.

"Hello, Tom Clifton! Hello, Tom!" coming over the air was the most pleasant sound the first baseman had heard for some time. "We're ready for practice," continued the voice—Roger Steele's. "Hello, Tom! Where are you?"

"Coming!" bawled Tom. Then darting an angry, flustered look at his little tormentor, he added: "I haven't done with you yet, Benny Wilkins."

"Is that so?" sneered Benny. "If you and Blake had sense enough to get off the team maybe all this row in the school would come to an end."

"Do you think I'll stand for being pushed off? Well, I rather guess not!" cried Tom.

"Have a wooden head-piece, have I? Well, it isn't a solid block like yours. Just remember: If the school doesn't get those grounds T. 'Vanitas' Clifton will be one of the chaps who's most responsible. Everybody's saying it."

Embarrassed and confused by the staring, noisy crowd, so full of emotion that his tongue seemed almost incapable of framing the words he wished to utter, the first baseman turned away.

"Everybody saying it, eh?"

Tom Clifton's thoughts sprang back to the beginning of the season, when, full of confidence and enthusiasm, he had expected the High's team to go from one victory to another. "Vanitas!" The word rang in his ears. He recalled now that his zeal and earnest efforts in behalf of the nine had called forth remarks of a somewhat similar nature before. But his armor of confidence was so great that the shafts dropped harmlessly aside.

"I never could have believed it," he murmured. "The fellows are twisting my words and manner into something wholly undeserved. They ought to see that it was only because I'm red-hot for the school and team."

The first baseman was so deep in thought that he scarcely heeded the voices of the fans, or the sharp cracks of the bats as the balls were sent flying over the field.

"So everybody's saying it: if we don't get the field I'll be one of the chaps who's most responsible, eh? By George! I wonder if it's true! I'll find out before night."

Tom's thoughts turned to the crowd—the fickle crowd—ever ready to yell itself hoarse when things were breaking right, but which, he reflected bitterly, was often equally ready to jeer and hoot a player off the field on small provocation.

"What's the matter, Tom? Aren't you going to practice to-day?" called Roger Steele, catching sight of him from his position near home plate.

"Sure!" responded Tom, making a strong effort to change the channel of his thoughts.

"Anything wrong, son?" Steele came forward. He lowered his voice. "You look kind of down in the mouth."

"Oh, it's nothing," said Tom.

"Well, get busy. I think we can turn the trick to-day."

Tom had been losing his self-consciousness. Now, however, it returned with added force. The first baseman could not shake off a feeling that the fans, friends and foes alike, had their eyes upon him, watching every move. The vigorous shouts, the blasts from megaphones and the strains from Victor Collins' bugle seemed to possess an importance which he had never noticed before. He felt in a far greater degree than the other players how much hinged on the contest.

With his nerves at a tension Tom was, naturally, unable to do himself justice. In his over-anxiety to play the best game of his life he made several errors which called forth derisive yells of "butterfingers!" from the familiar voice of Benny Wilkins.

"Take him out!" yelled some one else.

"How'd he get on the nine?" screeched Aleck Parks.

"Who told him he could play ball?" shouted Jim Wilton.

"It's enough to make any self-respecting trolley company refuse to carry him home," growled Luke Phelps. "I wonder if he's selling out the High?"

"I suppose that kind of talk is for the good of the school?" roared a tremendous voice.

Captain Bunderley glowered savagely upon the group, the members of which, a little startled at having their words overheard by so firm a friend of the Ramblers, returned his gaze without speaking.

"You remind me of a mutinous crew who deserts the captain of a ship in the hour of peril." The skipper's tones spoke volumes of disapproval and disgust. "How do you expect that lad to play when you're doing everything you can to rattle him?"

"Good! Soak it to 'em, Uncle Ralph," cried Victor Collins. "They certainly need it."

"You may have started out honestly enough," went on the captain, relentlessly, "but your idea now seems to be to have your own way at any cost."

The group was silent and sullen.

Then the heavy broadside of the captain seemed to waft them away like the blasts of a hurricane. That part of the field knew them no more.

"He's the noisiest old chap I ever saw," cried Aleck Parks, after a distance of two hundred feet separated them from the skipper. "I'd like to give him a piece of my mind."

"Why didn't you?" asked Benny Wilkins. "Maybe your intellect suffered a complete lapse."

"You're like a two-edged sword, Benny," growled Aleck. "You've got something mean to say to everybody. Fellows, the only thing I ask is this: if you see me getting anywhere near 'Checkered-Cap' to-day grab me at the front, back and sides. I'm afraid I might accidentally let fly, and pulverize him."

"By Jingo! There's Brown talking to the old salt water pirate, now," put in Benny. "Another fifty feet for me. I wonder if we'd better run? His voice gives me the staggers."

"I'm going back," announced Parks, firmly. "Roycroft and Lawrence are with Brown. Ha, ha! I think they'll protect us from violence."

Captain Bunderley's arm, directed straight toward them, however, caused Benny Wilkins' motion of fifty feet to be immediately seconded.

"Those were the chaps," the skipper said to the imperturbable Brown.

"But, captain, the boys are all worked up over this affair; you can't expect 'em to act like a lot of little French dancing masters," protested Brown.

"All nonsense! I say emphatically you're not giving the nine a fair show. I've noticed your carryings-on."

"Sorry you feel that way, captain. We look upon things differently. When a set of fellows chosen to represent the school doesn't make good it's up to the boys to find another set who will."

"And that's what we've done," put in Owen Lawrence.

"I'm sorry all this has happened," put in Earl Roycroft. "No one wanted to see Bob Somers succeed more than I."

A tremendous volley of cheering and the sight of boys waving their caps in the air put a stop to Captain Bunderley's reply.

Looking over the scene, he saw hilarious groups racing down the grass-covered slopes and the field being invaded by a stream of humanity on its way to the break in the hills beyond.

"Ah! The game must be ended," said Captain Bunderley. "I was so busy talking I forgot to look. What is the score, young fellow?"

He addressed a boy just passing.

"Five—two, favor Engleton."

"That clinches our argument, Captain Bunderley!" exclaimed Brown. "Compare the showing the 'Hopes' made against Engleton with that of the Rambler Club's ball nine." He paused an instant then added significantly: "This is probably the last game they'll play as the recognized team of the Kingswood High."

---

That night, Tom Clifton, a sadly-disturbed boy, paced the floor of his room. Mental pictures of the events of the afternoon constantly passed in a disordered array before his mind.

He knew that he had made a wretchedly poor showing in the game.

But whose fault was it?

In a heated discussion with Roycroft he had attempted to place the blame where he felt that it belonged, only to become convinced that his efforts were wasted. The big fellow told him all he cared to know about the general sentiment that existed among the students.

In the quiet of the room Tom Clifton attempted to study the situation from all sides. He owned to himself that he felt very unlike the boy who played in the opening game. But it was not until to-day that his confidence had received a blow in a vulnerable spot.

What should he do?

The thought of again facing the jeering, critical "fans" of the opposition and the sarcastic cries which were bound to come from Benny Wilkins and others on the smallest provocation made the hot blood mount to his face.

He paused before the window, to gaze out upon the starlit sky and the long lines of houses and lights which lost form and brilliancy in the distance. Mechanically, he watched the passers-by, envying their apparent freedom from care and trouble.

"I wonder if Bob has ever thought I should get off the team!"

Tom Clifton had never before been assailed with such conflicting emotions. Was Mr. Barry's field destined to become the monument to the folly of a few?

"I'll go right over and see Bob now," he decided, suddenly.

And then, just as Tom was about to open the door, the sarcastic, grinning face of Benny Wilkins seemed to flash before his eyes.

"Am I going to let that chap think I'm a quitter?" he exclaimed, aloud. "No, sir; not on your life! I'll play the game to the end."

A heavy load of anxiety seemed to instantly take wing. The grim, set expression about the first baseman's lips relaxed. He walked with a springy step to his study table and plumped himself down on a chair before it.

"No, Mr. Benny Wilkins, you'll never have a chance to say I have a yellow streak," he muttered. "I understand those chaps. Work to beat the band to scare a fellow off the team, and when he does call him a quitter."

Once more Tom plunged into his studies, thinking his doubts and perplexities were entirely cleared away. As he picked up a Latin grammar, however, the mocking cries of "Vanitas!—Vanitas!" which of late had become more frequent popped into his head.

"Van-i-tas!" he repeated, slowly. He raised his elbow on the table; his chin dropped into the palm of his hand. "And I heard that 'Crackers' Brown said I was a conceited specimen, if there ever was one. It's all a mistake. I never was either vain or conceited. Still——"

Tom paused. He was studying hard to view himself and his conduct from the disinterested standpoint of a spectator. He strove to reconstruct scenes and incidents about the ball field.

Yes; perhaps his remarks to the "Pie-eaters and doughnut crowd" had carried a note of egotism, which, at the time, he never suspected. He had talked in a "big" fashion, too, about what he expected the nine to do on the diamond. It was pretty hard to throw the cold light of analysis upon himself; yet, once started, he continued relentlessly.

At last Tom leaned back in his chair with a sigh. A smile played about his mouth. The flood of thoughts brought him to a better understanding of himself than he had ever before possessed. He realized now how easy it must have been for the boys to think him a shallow boaster.

"Maybe this hasn't been such a bad thing, after all," he reflected. "Even Dave, I remember, has looked at me in a queer way once in a while. I'll be a bit more careful what I say from now on. As for all those howling rooters, they'll never get me going again. And Benny can keep right on yelling his 'butterfingers' and 'bonehead' in that little piping voice of his until it goes on strike."

Tom Clifton turned to his books again, and this time was able to give his undivided attention to study.

When the members of the nine got together in the gym on the following day their faces looked grave but determined.

"That last defeat seems to have made some of the fellows pretty sore," remarked Bob Somers.

"The biggest kick of all is coming mighty soon," said Alf Boggs. "'Crackers' Brown and his crowd aren't saying much just now. But you can bet your uniforms they're getting ready."

"I have the pleasant sensation of a chap who is sitting on a keg of gunpowder with some one behind about to touch it off," put in Dave Brandon, dryly.

"Oh, I wish to goodness it was all over," sighed Charlie Blake.

"What! The touching off process?" laughed Dave. "I don't want to leave the diamond that way. There's no glory in it."

"Besides, it might hurt one's feelings," said Willie Singleton.

"Well, I haven't had to go to a nerve specialist yet," grinned Fred Benson. "How d'ye do, Joe Rodgers! Haven't seen you for two days. What's doing?"

"Seems to me an awful lot," answered Joe, with a grin. "Hello, Dave! Teacher says I'm going to make the High in great shape one of these days. What do you think? I'm playing on a baseball team."

"Which one?" asked Dave.

"The Stars. Nat Wingate said he'd give me a chance. Say, you don't think it's mean of me, do you?"

"Of course not," answered the editor of the "Reflector." "Good luck, Joe! And play for all you're worth."

Boys were flocking in and out of the big room, and above the general noise Benny Wilkins' voice soon made itself heard.

"I tell you it is so, Aleck Parks! Look out! Who's treading on my toes? Yes, I saw him myself, only a few minutes ago, walking along as if he owned the whole earth. And when he got to Mr. Rupert Barry's he turned and went up those steps. Quit leaning against me, Luke Phelps. Are you too lazy to support your own hundred and fifteen pounds? Oh—there's Joe Rodgers over there!"

"Finish your story!" cried Parks.

"It isn't any story; it's true. Captain Bunderley didn't come out for twenty-five and a half minutes."

"Wonder what in thunder he went there for?" inquired Luke Phelps.

"Crackers" Brown, standing near the doorway, moved leisurely toward the group.

"Straight goods, Benny?" he asked, pleasantly.

"Certainly is. I jotted down a note, too. Reads like this: 'The Crackerites probably get their first big jolt.' You know, Brown, what the Cap thinks of this 'For-the-good-of-the-school' business."

"He's an old meddler," said Brown, in a low tone. "The first thing you know he'll be stirring up trouble."

"I know something else, 'Crackers,' and it ought to put more ginger into your voice. When he left Mr. Barry the 'Ancient Mariner' came hiking right over to the school."

"He did?" exclaimed Brown.

"He did! He's in there now. Guess he's telling President Hopkins a few fine things about Parks, Phelps and Company. Their squeak yesterday didn't do your side a bit of good, Brown."

The coach of the "outlaws" looked thoughtful. There was a gleam behind the eye-glasses which made Aleck Parks hope that a first class row might add zest to the afternoon.

"S'pose we skip over by the big front door and see him come out," he suggested. "Phelps, you an' I'll stand together close there; an' if he gives us a steely glare it'll show, perhaps, that he's been up to some mischief."

"Not a bad idea," said "Crackers," approvingly. "But, mind now, I don't want you chaps to say anything."

Followed by a large group, the party walked outside, directing their steps toward the school entrance.

"Where are you leading that army, Brown?" called Owen Lawrence from a distance.

"Follow us, and see!"

Lawrence relayed the message to Roycroft, who, with several other "outlaws," was already on his way to the practice field, the result of this move being that when Brown and his contingent arrived at the steps a straggling army was headed in the same direction.

Questions and answers were hurled from one boy to another. Naturally, no one knew anything about the matter; but many thought they did. Rumors born of a chance utterance seemed to spread with the speed of a wireless message, until an excited and jostling crowd of students surrounded the stoop-shouldered form of the chief "outlaw."

"Hello, Brown! I say—what's the matter?" came from Owen Lawrence.

"Is the school on fire again?" asked Earl Roycroft, glancing upward at some smoke which emanated from a hidden chimney.

"Yes! It's burning up with indignation. But the blaze won't get far before the firemen are on the job and put it out."

"Hooray for Brown!" yelled Aleck Parks.

"Three rahs for the good of the school!" shouted Benny Wilkins.

"And a 'tiger' to get after the Ramblers!" added Luke Phelps.

"My only regret is that we haven't a moving picture machine to get some films of our friend with the heavy-weight voice when he trips down the steps and sees this crowd," remarked Brown.

"You're a mean thing to want him to trip," said Benny Wilkins. "I guess those specs hide a hard, cruel light in your eyes."

"Boys, I think we'd better skip," said Earl Roycroft. "Our business is ball playing; not gaping at visitors to the school. Don't you think this will look rather queer to President Hopkins?"

"The enemy must be fought with their own weapons," answered Brown. "We wish to show the aid-de-camp of the Ramblers that those who have the good of the school at heart see everything going on. They must be shown that they can't play this game of favoritism."

"All right," said Earl, resignedly.

Murmurs of indignation began to be heard. Rumors had become almost moulded into certainty.

What right had the captain to interfere?

Five minutes later a warning "Sh-h-h-h!" rippled from the various groups. The door of the school was seen to open, and the portly form of Captain Bunderley stood on the top step.

As he walked down his gaze was directed toward the gathering. Upon reaching the ground he paused. The lines on his good-natured face tightened when he saw the serenely smiling countenance of "Crackers" Brown.

Aleck Parks found it convenient to avert his eyes from the glare which, a second later, fell upon him. He momentarily expected to hear a thunderous outburst.

Captain Bunderley, however, showed no signs of recognition; and, without a word, resumed his walk. The students watched his big form swinging along the graveled path until it passed outside the ornamental gateposts.

"I feel sure he's tried to do us," growled Parks.

"Such an opinion is creditable to your power of discernment," said Brown. "Back to the field, boys. The show is over."

On their way the coach called Benny Wilkins to his side.

"Benny," he said, "thanks for telling us about this. Want a job?"

"Not if there is any work to it."

"I've too much sense to ask you if there was."

"You put me in mind of a cannon cracker that hasn't been exploded," grunted Benny. "Fire away!"

"Victor Collins has a pretty good line on what the captain says and does, hasn't he?"

"Certainly!"

"Well, if you find out just why the captain went to see Mr. Barry, and what brought him over to annoy President Hopkins and tell me I'll give you a new note-book."

"The idea of asking me to act as a spy!" said Benny. "Outrageous! But I'll do it. Understand, of course, I don't like the job. What are crocodile tears, Brown? That's the kind somebody said you dropped every time the Ramblers play a game and are made to eat nothing but doughnuts."

"I know there's a bunch of trouble-makers in this school, but that doesn't worry me," answered Brown. "If the regulars had been winning games I'd probably be half asleep now reading a book. Get busy, Ben. Report to me after practice."

"All right. Please remember, 'Crackers,' I don't want any book that you've fished out of some waste-basket."

Three-quarters of an hour later a slight boy wearing a large checkered cap, and who was intently watching the "Hopes," now hard at work, was approached by the grinning Wilkins.

"Say, Benny, I haven't seen any of your articles in the 'Reflector' yet," began Victor Collins. "I guess you can't write worth beans."

"My talents can't be measured by the bean standard," returned Benny. "They cost only six cents a quart. Look at Bush shooting 'em over home plate! Suppose your old Ramblers had to face pitching like that! Wouldn't they get bowled down in one, two, three order?"

"Go on, Know-it-all!" snapped Victor.

"I wonder what kind of a game Bush'll put up against Rockville Academy next Saturday. The inter-scholastic series begins then."

Victor Collins grinned.

"Funny little ideas seem to creep into that funny little noddle of yours," he remarked. "Neither Brown nor all the rest can bluff Bob Somers."

"Is that so? I know your Uncle Ralph is on the firing line, ready to use up all the ammunition he has in the shop to help 'em. Guess Mr. Barry told him the jig is up with the Ramblers."

"Humph! Spying again!" sniffed Victor. "I don't know what Mr. Barry said, and wouldn't tell you if I did."

"You don't even know what your uncle went to see him about, I s'pose?"

"Of course I do."

"I dare you to tell me."

"Who do you think I'm afraid of—you?"

"Yes! And if you have the nerve to say that Captain Bunderley has been saying anything against the 'Hopes' I'll attend to your case right now."

"You will!" howled Victor, beginning to pull off his coat. "You will! Well, wade right in and mix it up! That's just what Uncle Ralph did do."

"Thank you, Mr. Collins," said Benny, sweetly. "You've given me all the information I wanted. Don't you think I make a pretty good spy? Ta, ta!"

---

During recess on the following day Dan Brown knocked gently on the door of President Hopkins' private office.

"Come in!" called a mild but authoritative voice.

The president, a dignified figure, was seated at his desk near the window.

"Good-morning, Brown! What can I do for you?"

He motioned the originator of the "Hopes" crusade to a seat close by.

"I have been delegated by a committee to call upon you," answered "Crackers," articulating each word with great distinctness.

"Ah, indeed! Who is the committee?"

"Earl Roycroft, Owen Lawrence and Frank Bush, representing the new baseball club and almost the entire body of students."

Professor Hopkins looked surprised.

"What is the nature of your business?" he asked.

"We think the time has come when an unfortunate exhibition of obstinacy on the part of a few students should come to an end."

"Go ahead, Brown," said the president, as the big lad paused.

"We should be very glad indeed if you would allow us the use of the assembly room to hold a meeting."

"For what purpose?"

"As you know, professor, the inter-scholastic series begins next Saturday. Rockville Academy will send its team over here to play the first game of the season. If the regulars meet them it is bound to be a bad day for the High; the school team, so far, has failed to win a single victory, while the 'Hopes' have not met with a single defeat."

The professor gazed abstractedly out of the window. Brown, the earnestness of his manner increasing, kept on.

"When Mr. Barry made his generous offer he positively said that only a winning team would get the grounds."

"Quite true, Brown."

"Can you blame the boys for objecting strenuously when they see such a magnificent prospect fading with every game the regulars play?"

The president's revolving chair wheeled sharply around. He removed his eye-glasses, to stare searchingly into "Crackers'" impassive face.

"Brown," he said, slowly, "the boys composing the athletic association were elected to their respective positions by a great majority of the students. A coach was duly appointed and players selected. Do you think it is fair to them that, before the inter-scholastic season has actually started, they should be hampered and discouraged by their own comrades?"

"We are working for the good of the school," answered "Crackers," doggedly—"that's our motto."

"But your ideas and the actual facts may not agree. You haven't yet told me for what purpose you wish the assembly hall."

"We would like to vote, to-morrow, on the question as to which team shall play Rockville Academy. Our fellows are perfectly willing to abide by the decision of the school. That seems to all of us a perfectly fair proposition, professor?"

"Have you submitted the matter to the athletic association?"

"We asked them to reorganize the team, and met with a curt refusal. We tried to get them to play our club, the 'Hopes'—same thing again, although in the beginning they were quite ready to cross bats with any team."

"Perhaps so, Brown. But the circumstances in this case are entirely different. The regular coach usually attends to such matters. You have formed an organization which has no official standing; it is not subject to the rules or direction of the athletic association. In fact, it is directly antagonistic to them."

"The reason we ask for the hall is to give the club official standing," returned Brown, easily. "The students are clamoring to have this done."

President Hopkins shook his head.

"The faculty of the school never interferes with athletic affairs unless for very serious reasons. Those stated are not sufficient to justify me in acceding to your proposal." The president leaned forward. "My attention has been called to the fact that some of the boys have been shouting and carrying on in such a manner as to lead one to suppose that they desired above all things to see the regulars defeated. I heard this from a reliable authority."

"I'm afraid the person who told you is not disinterested," said Brown. "We know who he is. Besides, in every cause, there are nearly always some foolish hotheads whose actions can't be controlled." He rose to his feet. "Don't you think you could change your decision, professor? I'm sure the students would appreciate having the use of the room; and this troublesome matter ought to be ended at once."

"No, Brown, I cannot."

There was no expression of chagrin or disappointment on the chief "outlaw's" face, as he turned away, exclaiming cheerfully:

"I thank you very much for the interview, professor."

Of course, through the agency of Benny Wilkins and several others, "Crackers'" visit to the principal immediately became known throughout the school.

"And Brown got thrown down flat, Mr. Editor of the 'Reflector,'" remarked Benny, addressing Dave Brandon.

"Please don't send me a three-column article about it, Benny. What did Brown want with the assembly room?"

"Oh, that's telling! Spies have to keep mum. I've gotten to be the greatest little sneak in the school, you know."

"It's all right so long as you do your spying in the open," laughed Dave.

That afternoon the regulars went through their practice as usual. But the boys who gathered on the field seemed to be much more interested in comparing notes than they did in watching the players.

"I reckon the big kick Alf Boggs spoke about is almost due," laughed Coach Steele. "Anyway, fellows, in spite of all this commotion, every one is steadily improving. I guess you've been a bit more disturbed than any of us really imagined."

"Perhaps so," said Bob. "I suppose it's like everything else; our nerves have now become accustomed to the strain."

"The unexpectedness of it was what got me," added Tom. "How'd you feel about it, Blake?"

"Pretty badly, until the last few days," admitted Charlie.

"You've both done rattling good work this afternoon," put in the coach, encouragingly. "Keep it up."

"No one will ever see me play such a game as I did last time," said Tom.

"We are finding our batting eye, too," remarked Dave. "With a couple more weeks' practice we ought to be right on edge."

"I notice the 'outlaws' are not working to-day," said "Jack Frost." "Guess it means they're still busy for the good of the school. But don't let it worry any one."

The staunch Somers partisans who witnessed the practice were much pleased. And they industriously spread this fact broadcast.

When the students gathered in the assembly room next morning they expected to hear only the usual introductory remarks from President Hopkins. The head of the school, however, instead of dismissing them at the customary moment, rose from his seat at a desk and advanced to the edge of the platform.

"Boys," he said, in an earnest tone, "I wish to speak to you about certain matters which I find are dividing the school into two factions, and, I regret to say, causing considerable ill-feeling."

A murmur of suppressed excitement, which found relief in muffled "Oh's!" and "Ah's!" spread through the hall.

"I do not doubt that the boys who are causing this commotion have been actuated by entirely good motives; but, unfortunately, movements of this sort, which spring from disappointment, instead of helping matters often act as a hindrance."

"Crackers" Brown nudged his neighbor savagely in the ribs.

"Did you get that, Platt?" he whispered—"a hindrance!"

"You can just bet the 'Ancient Mariner' put the notion into his head. Those Ramblers seem to have even the faculty of the school right where they want 'em."

"It's simply a-ma-zing!"

"I am sure Mr. Barry regrets this state of affairs as much as I do," went on President Hopkins. "We all cannot be winners as we go through life; and to accept defeat manfully and philosophically is sometimes just as creditable as wearing the crown of victory."

"I never knew he was capable of remarks like that," observed Benny Wilkins, cautiously.

In another part of the room Owen Lawrence was saying:

"Mighty fine words! But I'd a heap sooner hear the sound of the axe chopping down those no-trespassing signs."

"I sincerely trust you will think matters over calmly. Remember: the boys whom you find so much fault with to-day are loyal to the school and deeply interested in its welfare. Therefore, be sure that your prejudices don't mislead you; give them the chance they deserve."

As President Hopkins closed his brief address a round of applause followed; but it seemed to come from but a very small portion of the students.

"Ha, ha! You will, will you?" laughed Alf Boggs, passing "Crackers" on his way to the class room. "Got called down, eh? Guess that'll hold you fellows for a while."

"Brown is so pained he'll never do it again," chirped Benny Wilkins. "Give me that note-book you promised, 'Crackers,' and I'll make an entry: 'End of the Brown agitation.' Ha, ha! Lots of fun going to school, isn't there?"

"You'll think so to-morrow," said Brown, ominously.

With quick, springy steps Owen Lawrence reached the side of his chief.

"I don't like the way the president talked a bit," he snapped. "He practically accused us of being hot-headed and prejudiced. It's all very well to talk about accepting defeat; but what's the use when you don't have to?"

"There'll be no accepting defeat here," returned Brown. "What do you think of this idea, Lawrence?"

In a low tone he spoke earnestly to his companion.

Lawrence nodded.

"A capital scheme, Brown!" he cried, enthusiastically.

---

If any one ever imagined that Dan Brown would be "held for a while" by the president's remarks they were sadly mistaken.

The first thing which attracted Bob Somers' eye on reaching school next morning was a large poster headed: "Indignation Meeting!"

"By Jingo, that's interesting," murmured the captain of the regulars, pushing his way through the groups toward it.

"Oh, it really is dreadfully awful, Somers!" cried Benny Wilkins. "And everybody thinking, yesterday, that that Brown chap was squelched." He seized Bob by the arm. "Come along. He's said something there that may hurt your feelings."

"So I suppose you're trying to support me," returned Bob. He raised his voice. "Hello, Dave!"

The stout editor, beaming good-naturedly, as usual, sauntered over.

"The blow has fallen, Bob," he laughed. "Have I read it? Oh, yes. Not badly written, either. I wish Brown would scribble an article for the 'Reflector.'"

"Oh—oh! And after firing everything of mine!" wailed Benny. "Isn't that what some one called the 'unkindest cut'?"

Next moment Bob Somers' eyes were scanning the contents of the two by three foot poster, a proceeding which was beset with some difficulty, as a great crowd of boys constantly shoved and pushed each other about in an effort to read it.

The announcement called for a meeting on the campus at three o'clock to settle by a vote of the school which club should represent it against the Rockville team.

"The matter has reached a stage when the students must decide this most important question," stated the poster. "The undersigned, who have been working for the good of the school, will cheerfully abide by the wishes of the majority. And, in order that no advantage shall be taken of the regular team, we invite them, or any one they may designate, to speak in their behalf.

"We call upon all of the students to act calmly, and to refrain from unpleasant observations or in any way disturbing the peace. And we emphatically insist that no one shall shirk his duty. Be present without fail—and vote."

The poster was signed by Dan Brown, Owen Lawrence and Earl Roycroft.

"It's an outrage, Bob Somers!"—Harry Spearman had reached the captain's side—"a direct slap at President Hopkins. Didn't he practically command the fellows to quit this row? Of course he did. For my part, I shall insist that not one of our crowd pays the smallest attention to their so-called invitation."

"There will be no soap box oratory from me," declared Bob.

"Nor from me, either," grinned Dave. "I'd rather practice."

"All the same, I am fearful that something fearful will happen," said Benny. "Here comes T. Vanitas. Oh, I say, T. Vanitas Clifton, here's the shock of your young life."

"You'd better cut out such talk," warned Tom. "I absorbed the contents of that silly thing half an hour ago. It doesn't faze us in the least."

"It isn't expected to. But what happens this afternoon is."

The general feeling of unrest and excitement so affected the students that work in the class room suffered greatly. Professor Ivins was much disturbed.

"I declare, Professor Hopkins, I don't know what we shall do," he said in the president's office. "Several of the brightest boys in the school failed lamentably to-day. It is deplorable that this thing has taken such a hold upon them. Cannot something be done?"

"If conditions get any worse I shall be compelled to take a hand," asserted Professor Hopkins. "It appears to me that young Brown is actually becoming defiant. That flaring poster out there is one of the boldest things I ever saw."

"It certainly is," said Professor Ivins, solemnly.

As the time for the meeting drew near "Crackers" Brown and his assistants got into action. Several large boxes, with boards laid across the tops, and designed for use as a table, were placed beneath the big elm, while another box—the speaker's stand—stood only a few feet away.

By the number of students which poured out upon the campus it looked as if the "Indignation Meeting" was destined to be a great success. Occasionally, above the medley of noises, came the blare of ear-disturbing megaphones or blasts from tin horns. Every cheer for Brown was answered with a yell for Somers. The fighting spirit of the students was aroused, and, in spite of "Crackers'" request, the boys did not refrain from unpleasant observations. Only the leader of the "outlaws" and Benny Wilkins wore their usual expressions.

"Are you going to speak for the Ramblers, Mercer?" asked the latter, as he approached the manager of the team.

"I should say not!"

"Haven't got the nerve, eh?"

"Just as you say, Benny. After noting the terrible effect of Brown's nerve I feel a little shy about cultivating any myself."

"Gee whiz! This is the only time I ever saw a lot of fellows who were elected by almost unanimous consent, and then fired out the same way," mused Benny. "There's Brown getting up to speak. Wouldn't I laugh if that soap box broke and upset him. Rah, rah, rah for Somers! Hooray for the Ramblers. Take 'Crackers' down before he starts! Don't wonder he has a buttermilk voice—he's sour!"

Dan Brown looked leisurely around and began his speech.

"Hooray for Captain Bunderley, hooray!" called out Benny, his shrill tones soaring high above all other sounds.

Not many of the boys could hear the words of the coach. It needed a far stronger voice than his to overmatch the incessant din, which sometimes rose into a loud, swelling chorus from every quarter of the campus. But that made little difference. A large piece of cardboard, hung by several cords from the tree, gave all the desired information.

The proposition to be voted for was: Which team should represent the school in the inter-scholastic series; all those favoring the regulars to state whether the club should remain as it was or be reorganized.

Owen Lawrence, who followed Dan Brown, and whose vocal organs were far more powerful, promptly demanded to know if any of the Ramblers were present.

"We gave them a chance to speak on the last occasion, and do so now!" he cried, looking over the heads of the crowd.

The momentary silence which ensued was broken by the voice of Benny Wilkins.

"Hooray for Brown!" he yelled. "Hooray for Somers! Vanitas forever! One school; one ball nine; one everything! Take him down from the stand. Here I come! I want to make a speech myself."

He was pushing his way forward when Parks thrust a very large fist beneath his nose.

"No, you don't, Benny," he growled. "For once in your life be serious. This isn't any circus."

"Jealous because you can't make a speech yourself!" jeered Wilkins. "I dare you to. Let go! I want to say a word for Somers. All right, Parksy. I'll sic Captain Bunderley on you."

Aleck, with his hand on Benny's shoulder, forced him away.

"I understand the regulars don't consider this occasion important enough to bother about," continued Lawrence. "Will you fellows stand for that? Will you stand for outsiders meddling with school affairs—your affairs?"

"Hooray for Captain Bunderley!" shouted the irrepressible Benny.

The Somers party attempted in vain to stem the tide of enthusiastic cheering which greeted Owen Lawrence's words.

"I knew the boys were with us!" shouted Owen. "I feel that by your votes to-day——"

"You haven't any right to buy votes!" screeched Benny.

"I am sure that through the votes you give us," corrected the speaker, "the field which Mr. Barry has offered will become the property of the school. A decisive victory, fellows, will show those who have been so stubborn and unyielding that they dare not hide any longer behind their refuge of regularity." He turned toward the table. "Get busy, boys."

A half dozen lads, each carrying a box filled with slips of white paper, at once began working their way through the crowd.

"Don't miss anybody!" yelled Dan Brown. "And just let me say this: The fellows who fail to vote are mollycoddles. We'll find out who they are."

"Give me a slip—quick!" cried Benny. "I want to vote for the Ramblers. No; I won't shut up, Dan Brown. You never gave me the note-book you promised. Hooray for Roycroft! Get away from here, Aleck Parks. Your language is always rude."

"In order to avoid mistakes or squabbling over the result we ask every student to put his name on the ballot!" called Brown.

The noise and arguments ceased. Every lad felt the importance of the proceedings and wished, if possible, to end the unfortunate situation which had hovered over the school for weeks. In their eagerness to get the slips of paper a jostling, clamoring crowd besieged each holder of a box. Occasionally a small shower fell to the ground, to be pounced upon by those nearest at hand.

"It doesn't seem as if there are any mollycoddles here to-day," exclaimed Owen Lawrence, triumphantly. "See 'em, Earl Roycroft—almost scrapping for the ballots. What are you looking so sad about?"

"I feel sorry for the Somers crowd," answered Earl. "They're all good chaps; and we must give Bob a lot of credit for starting the athletic association."

"And us the credit for putting the useless thing out of business," interposed Brown. "It might be a grand proposition for the school if the chaps who compose it weren't so blind."

"Do you suppose Bob Somers will have the nerve to fight the verdict of the school?" asked Lawrence.

"We'll call his bluff, if he does," answered the coach. "See how many of the fellows who used to shout themselves hoarse for the Ramblers have swung over to our side. This indifference stunt is the Ramblers' last grand card. Mercer's face shows that he knows the jig is up."

"We'll play Rockville sure as shooting," said Lawrence. He raised his voice. "Any fellow who hasn't received a ballot please put up his hand. Gee—look at that mean little codger!"

Benny Wilkins, showing all the symptoms of keen enjoyment, was seen running around scattering handfuls of the ballots and leaving a trail of white behind him.

"I'm going to snow 'em under!" he cried. "I crammed sixteen down Parksy's neck. Hooray for the good of the school!"

"An unmanageable little duffer," remarked Brown, gravely. "We ought to vote on the question of allowing him to remain at the High."

As soon as every one had been supplied with a slip collecting of the ballots began. There seemed to be few wavering voters, a fact which gave much encouragement to the "outlaws."

Each box, upon being filled, was rushed over to the table and emptied. Then the tellers began their work of counting.

The great trunk of the elm partly shielded the busy students from a brisk, pleasant breeze, which, having no regard for the importance of the occasion, apparently strove its best to send the white scraps dancing merrily to the ground. The soft music of the gently-swaying boughs above kept up a steady accompaniment to the noises which once more broke out on the campus.

A dense crowd surged around the table, threatening at times to interfere with the work. The Somers party, while refusing to admit the right of the "outlaws" to put the question to a vote, were bent upon seeing fair play. Several of the most aggressive struggled through the mass and took up a position by the table.

"You needn't be afraid, Lou Mercer," grinned Owen Lawrence. "We're giving everybody a square deal. Carried the thing too far, have we? Maybe—to suit you and Bob Somers; not the rest of the school."

Incessant calls for information regarding the vote were hurled toward the table. The boys found it hard to restrain their impatience. Only the stern commands of Brown and Lawrence kept a semblance of order.

As the work neared completion the excitement became so great that a wildly-clamoring mob threatened to descend upon the table and sweep it, workers and ballots, irresistibly aside.

"You'll undo the whole business!" shouted Lawrence, in alarm. "Keep back! We'll know the result in a few minutes. Stop your shoving and pushing over there. I'll say this much: it's a landslide for——"

"The good of the school!" came a rousing chorus.

"Yes! You've hit the ball on the nose."

At frequent intervals the cheering was renewed. The tabulators worked desperately, and when the returns, added on a sheet of paper, were handed to Brown, who was still standing on the soap box, he was obliged to yell himself hoarse.

"Keep still!" he bawled, holding the paper high above his head. "Keep still! The result is——"

"Order, order!" shouted Lawrence, frantically.

In the midst of a temporary hush, Brown's voice rose clearly.

"Out of a total of four hundred and nineteen voters only thirty-seven have decided in favor of the regular club; ninety-eight are for reorganization; two hundred and eighty-four—two hundred and eighty-four, mind you—a tre-men-dous majority, have come out squarely in favor of the 'Hopes.'"

The greatest din which the campus had ever known was carried off in waves of sound, and Brown, for the first time throwing off his mask of calmness, shouted and hurrahed as lustily as any.

---

"Well, something has certainly happened over there," remarked Bob Somers to Charlie Blake, as he lined a batted ball back to Singleton.

"I guess I know what it is," sighed the "grind." "Suppose, by this time, 'Crackers' Brown thinks he's it."

In spite of the continual commotion which rang unpleasantly in their ears the nine kept on practicing, with but a very small audience on the field.

At length the slight figure of Benny Wilkins was seen approaching as fast as his rather short legs could carry him.

"Hi, hi, fellows!" he gasped. "Hi, hi! No use for you to play any more. I've got the awfulest news. Don't throw that ball, Dave Brandon; it's no use, I tell you. 'Four ten P. M.'—got it all chalked down—'Somers and Company thrown out by more than a unanimous vote! Rambler Club changes its name to the Hikers.'"

The sensation which Benny hoped to produce did not materialize. The staunch Somers adherents who had refrained from voting were fully prepared for the announcement, while most of the players merely grinned.

"Well, you're a cool lot!" growled Benny, in disgust. "Haven't you anything to say, T. Vanitas?"

A few weeks before, Tom Clifton would probably have made a hot retort, adding a few remarks which might have been twisted into something highly boastful. Now, however, he merely shook his head, and answered with a smile:

"No news for the note-book, Benny."

"Oh, you're a peacherino. I thought you'd go over and scatter that howling mob single-handed. I can see Brown has your number."

"Benny is agitated," laughed Alf Boggs.

"Who wouldn't be when a chap's lifelong friends are given such an awful sack? And I kept on hollering and hollering 'Hooray for Somers!' I did so, Fred Benson. Ask Parksy. Say, for his size, he has the biggest fist in school. Going to sell your uniforms, fellows? I know a good second-hand dealer. You won't fight this thing, will you, Somers?"

"There's nothing to fight, Benny."

"Oh, my, oh, my! If 'Crackers' should ever hear that! I'm going to tell him. Hooray! Guess that means a bigger scrap than ever. Look at this bunch of hotheads coming over. Get ready to run."

Shouts and songs rising on the air and constantly growing louder announced the approach of the crowd.

Rather fearful that some impetuous students might feel inclined to stir up more excitement, Coach Steele stopped further practice.

"We don't want to give them a chance," he explained to Dick Travers.

The secretary of the athletic association nodded.

"Quite right, Steele. They're so jolly well stirred up that a few words might start a near-riot."

The players quickly gathered up their belongings, and started for the gymnasium just as the advance guard of the "bearers of evil tidings" reached the lot.

From more than a hundred tongues came the result of the afternoon's work. The Somers party seemed to have dropped completely out, not even a single cheer answering the ringing cries of the exultant supporters of "Crackers" Brown.

"You're fired out, Somers!" shouted Aleck Parks, with all his force. "We didn't ask the 'Ancient Mariner's' permission to do it, either."

"Don't rub it in, Parks," expostulated Luke Phelps. "Don't you see—the poor duffers have given up already. Let's beat it over to the gym and see the final surrender. Gee Whitaker, mustn't they feel cheap! Come on, fellows!"

The great crowd promptly fell in behind the players, a steady fire of comments passing from mouth to mouth.

"Aren't they a nice lot!" exclaimed Tom Clifton. "What do you think of 'em, Bob?"

"I guess it's more Dan Brown's fault than any one else's," answered Bob Somers. "By George—there's another bunch at the door of the gym. Guess they think the excitement isn't over yet."

"Nice job facing that staring mob!" grumbled Charlie Blake. "Wish to thunder it was all over."

"I almost feel like losing my temper and being rude to some one," sighed Dave Brandon.

In spite of their feelings the players swung toward the gymnasium door with a firm tread, passing between lines of deeply interested, jostling boys whose sallies and jests all allowed to pass unnoticed.

Inside the big room conditions were pretty much the same. But the ball players did not pause until the office of the athletic association was reached.

The indignation meeting had had the effect of bringing every officer and some of the directors to the scene of action. As they entered Harry Spearman was found pacing the floor excitedly.

"Hello, Bob!" he called, catching sight of the captain. "This has been a fierce afternoon, eh? Brown carried things with a high hand. By George! Let any of you fellows waver, and I don't believe I'd ever speak to you again."

"No use to get excited, Spearman," admonished Sam Randall. "If there is a sign of backdown anywhere I haven't been able to see it."

"Only because you're short-sighted, Sammy," screeched Benny Wilkins, who at that instant pushed open the door and peered in. "Get specs like Brown."

"Sneak away from there!" cried Harry Spearman, wrathfully. "Go on, now; get!"

"What's the matter? Can't a fellow even spy in the open any longer? Dave Brandon said——"

Harry thrust him aside and slammed the door.

"Those fellows think the thing is all settled," he exclaimed. "If it hadn't been for Brown and Lawrence talking a fierce streak to a lot of weak dubs who don't know their own minds——"

"Oh, what's the use of going all over that again?" broke in Dick Travers, impatiently. "Let's——"

Bang—bang!

Two sharp cracks on the door echoed noisily.

"Come in!" called Sam Randall.

"Crackers" Brown, wearing a solemn expression, promptly entered, his lieutenants, Lawrence and Roycroft, following close behind.

"Good-afternoon, fellows!" exclaimed the coach of the "Hopes," without a trace of excitement in his manner. "Gee! Awful big crowd in here for such a small room."

An awkward silence, broken only by the sound of footsteps and the scraping of a chair, as Sam changed his position, added to the pent-up feelings which Harry Spearman was finding it hard to control.

Brown improved the moment by polishing his glasses industriously. Then he sidled over to the window, where his stoop-shouldered form was silhouetted in lines of uncompromising hardness against the panes.

"Randall," he began, deliberately, "we three have been delegated by a number of students to bring to your notice the fact that the 'Hopes' have been chosen by a most decisive vote to represent the school. The thing was done fairly and aboveboard. None of you fellows would even speak a word in your own defense."

Sam nodded coldly.

"You cannot go against the wish of the majority." The chief "outlaw" brought out his words emphatically. "We wish to state that the 'Hopes' are going to play Rockville Academy on Saturday."

"Are they?" cried Harry Spearman, excitedly.

"No athletic association is greater than the school it represents. The boys have spoken. Listen! Here is the result of the vote." "Crackers" could not conceal a feeling of elation as he droned out the figures. He paused to receive an answer, but, hearing none, continued:

"This thing ought to be settled amicably. If you fellows are in earnest about winning that field for the school you'll show it by handing your resignations to the board of directors."

"Indeed!" sneered Harry Spearman. "For an absolutely unmitigated piece of nerve and impudence that's the worst I ever heard."

"We didn't come here, to scrap but to talk quietly over the situation and reach some conclusion," said "Crackers," smoothly. "Now, Randall, what do you propose to do?"

"The athletic association does not concede that the school has the right to dictate to it in such a way. We don't intend to ask any members of the baseball club to resign."

"You don't, eh?" burst out Owen Lawrence. "Well, the boys are not going to stand for any more exhibitions of obstinacy on your part. It's either get out quietly or be thrown out!"

"We'll do neither," returned Harry Spearman, crossing the floor to face the new student. "You can't bluff our crowd!"

"No use having a war of words," put in Brown, authoritatively. "I tell you: when you fellows refused to play us a series of games you started——"

Bob Somers interrupted him.

"We'd surely have played your club if it hadn't been gotten up for the express purpose of chucking us out of our jobs," he said, coolly. "You needn't shake your head, Brown."

"I was talking to a chap yesterday who used to be one of your hottest supporters," persisted "Crackers." "I asked him if he honestly thought the regulars had a ghost of a show against the 'Hopes.' He smiled a mighty sickly smile. 'Not the slightest, Brown,' he flashed back; 'the Ramblers would probably be wiped off the map.'"

"The 'Ramblers'!" repeated Harry Spearman. "That's one of your false alarm cries that have done nearly the whole business."

"All your team had to do was to play good ball," returned Brown, dryly. "Then no one could have kicked. But you lost game after game; and when the boys found that you wouldn't play the 'Hopes' because you expected an awful trimming they made up their minds to assert——"

Bob rapped on the table with his knuckles.

"Brown, we have been telling you all along that the fellows only needed a little time to round into good shape. I'll admit the 'Hopes' are a fine team. But we are striking our real gait now, and don't admit that your team is a bit better."

"There's the plank we stand on," put in Roger Steele. "Frankly, if you chaps had caught us unprepared this little disturbance would have been nothing to the one which a few hotheads would now be engineering."

"Ice-water is good for hotheads!" came through the keyhole.

"Our policy has been dictated by a thorough belief in the team," said Sam Randall, "and, incidentally, we have felt bound to stand up for our rights."

"We're to understand, then, that you defy the whole school?" exclaimed Owen Lawrence. He glared at the boys ranged around the table. "Just remember—there's a big crowd in the gym waiting to get your answer."

"I wouldn't call it such a harsh word as that," said Sam Randall. "The fellows are temporarily against us; that's all. They'll soon see it themselves."

"Crackers" Brown continued to argue, pointing out in his calm way the consequences which might result if the regulars persisted in their course. Owen Lawrence, of combative temperament, threatened and stormed. Earl Roycroft took a middle course, doing his best to act as peacemaker.

But, to their combined efforts, Sam Randall, as spokesman of the athletic association, gave a final, and negative answer.

"All right—nothing doing here!" growled Brown. "There'll be a lot doing somewhere else, however."

"Crackers" Brown, with a curt "So-long!" strode to the door, throwing it open so suddenly that Benny uttered an exclamation of surprise.

"Can't you be more polite when a fellow has his eye to the keyhole, Brown?" he complained. "Got thrown down hard, didn't you? I'm going to tell the fellows."

A crowd quickly surrounded the three "outlaws," loudly demanding particulars of the meeting.

"No one seems to have any rights in this school except themselves," growled Owen Lawrence. "I thought it would be a waste of time to talk to 'em."

The boys became angry and belligerent.

"They won't be dictated to by the school, eh?" sneered one. "Well, we're not going to lose a championship and a dandy ball field just for the sake of Bob Somers' pride. We've voted 'em out; and, by Jingo, they're going out! That's all there is to it."

"And if they try to play Rockville on Saturday," exclaimed Aleck Parks, "there'll be a nice hot time on the old lot."

"We ought to run them right off the field," added Luke Phelps.

"Quit that kind of talk," commanded Earl Roycroft. "I know you'll try to stir up the biggest row you can. Say, Brown," he added, "I'm going over to see President Hopkins. Maybe he'll help us straighten out this tangle. Get him on our side and those fellows might come down from their perch."

"Don't believe the prin'll do it," said "Crackers," "but try it if you want. Yes; we'll wait right here."

During the absence of the big first baseman of the "Hopes," the boys discussed the situation in excited tones, some of the more impetuous often hurrahing lustily.

When Earl returned, in about fifteen minutes, a rush was made for the door.

"How about it?" demanded Parks.

"President Hopkins says he can't interfere, boys," answered Roycroft, slowly. "It's mighty easy to see that he's sore on our crowd, too—good as told me so."

"Of course that isn't any news to me," sniffed Owen Lawrence. "Didn't Brown get handed the same dose?"

"There's been enough talk about this thing, fellows," broke in "Crackers." He looked over the rim of his glasses at the noisy crowd; then, raising his voice so that it penetrated to all parts of the big room, he added significantly: "What we want now is action."

---

Saturday!

The inter-scholastic series!

Rockville Academy!

These were the thoughts uppermost in the boys' minds, for the great day so long anticipated had at last arrived.

"We'll certainly need all our nerve, fellows," remarked "Jack Frost," as the squad left the gymnasium. "I think we're in plenty good enough shape to beat those chaps; I'm not worried about that. But you may be sure Dan Brown is ready to start something."

Phil Brentall tossed the ball in the air and deftly caught it behind his back.

"Looks like it," he admitted, glancing toward the field, where the "Hopes" were already busily engaged in practice.

"We won't bother about them, boys," interposed Roger Steele. "To-day, our business is to trim the Rockville nine by the biggest score we can." He laughed dryly. "As Frost said: I think the 'Rambler Club's ball nine' is now in a position to hold its own."

"Guess the whole town'll be on hand to-day," observed Charlie Blake. "I heard people talking about the game last night. Terry Guffin is actually going to take an afternoon away from his pies."

When the players reached the lot Victor Collins came rushing up to them.

"Hello, fellows!" he cried. "Guess the 'Hopes' are getting ready to build a bonfire to celebrate the opening game. They've got three or four big soap boxes. I asked Brown what he wanted 'em for, and he said: 'You'll find out before long.' Is Uncle Ralph coming? Why sure! So is 'Uncle' Steve."

"I see Brown has been good enough to leave us the regular diamond," remarked Coach Steele. "Pitch in, fellows. The Rockvilles are almost due."

"I can't help feeling that something is in the wind," said Dave, as he thrust his hand into a mit and started for the outfield. "Line them over with plenty of steam, Bob."

Dan Brown and the "Hopes" were not far distant. Their noisy yelling came incessantly over the air.

"I'd like to know why in thunder those fellows are wearing their uniforms, Sam Randall?" exclaimed Harry Spearman.

"I suppose they are up to some mischief, Harry. Hello, Benny Wilkins!" He raised his voice. "Toddle this way!"

Benny, giving Luke Phelps a punch in the ribs, immediately darted toward the president of the athletic association, hotly pursued by the other.

The crowd, getting in Luke's way, however, soon caused him to desist.

"That's the time I corked him a real good one!" cried Benny, gleefully. "Phelps said something rude about Bob Somers. It was true, all right; but I didn't like to hear it. Look at this, fellows."

Benny exhibited an enormous book and a carpenter's pencil.

"Gee whiz!" exclaimed Spearman. "What's that for?"

"I'm going to write a regular serial story this afternoon and make a lot of sketches besides," explained Benny. "This is the heaviest ammunition I could find. Some class to me, eh? What did you say, Mr. Randall?"

"Why is Brown's crowd practicing to-day; know anything about it?"

"Sure! I've got a whole lot of notes. But they haven't passed the censor yet. 'Buttermilk' Brown's the censor. Gee—look at that! Somers hits the ball so hard it smokes."

"Run along about your business, Benny," said Spearman, in disgust.

"Haven't got any business out here. Want to see a dandy picture? I'm almost an artist—fact."

He opened the blank book, and his interested schoolmates saw a drawing representing a very fat and a very thin boy standing side by side.

"Oh, you cheeky little duffer!" cried Harry Spearman. "It's Dave and Tom."

"It is not. They're over on the field. Honest, though, I've got it in for Dave. He just handed me back the fifteenth article I've written for the 'Reflector.' I call that getting bumped a trifle—don't you? From now on I work for the Pie-eaters and doughnut syndicate. I'll make a sketch in water color like this for Terry Guffin's. Suffering Ramblers! What's all the screeching about?"

The boys wheeled around, to discover the Rockville players, followed by a good-sized crowd, rapidly approaching. In their natty blue uniforms and red stockings, they presented a pleasing picture.

"A likely-looking bunch," said Benny. "Luke Phelps says they can play some, too. Hooray for the Rockvilles!"

The bursts of cheering which came from various parts of the field evidently pleased the visitors, who responded lustily.

Within a few minutes Ed Barr, manager of the team, was conferring with Lou Mercer.

"Not a very extra field, is it?" he said, eying with disapproval some of the irregularities which, in spite of the boys' earnest work, were much in evidence. "Still, it's just as bad for you as it is for us—that makes it even. Your chaps are through practicing, eh? All right. We'll warm up for a few minutes."

A feeling of tense excitement was in the air; and when the "outlaws" presently left off work and sauntered nonchalantly over toward home plate this feeling found expression in curious murmuring sounds.

The "Hopes" disposed their forms comfortably on the turf, or sat astride the soapboxes which had aroused Victor Collins' curiosity.

From the players' bench the regulars keenly watched the work of the visitors.

"They seem to have a lot of steam," remarked Steele, reflectively. "See the big chap over there in left field. That's 'Pinky' Crane—plays at first. I've met him. He's the captain. Nice chap, too."

"At one time, waiting for the game to start would have made my nerves rather shaky, Bob," Charlie Blake was saying. "Thank goodness I've a better grip on myself now. Honest, though, I might have dropped out but for you and Dave. In those days I often wished I had Tom's spunk."

The muscles around Tom Clifton's mouth twitched. His thoughts flew back to the night when he had almost shown the white feather himself.

"Gee—if I had!" he murmured. Then, aloud: "What's that, Dave?"

"We want to play such a lively, snappy game that the Rockvilles will be kept on the jump every second," said the editor of the "Reflector." "You've gotten down those base-stealing stunts pretty fine, Tom. Try 'em for all you're worth."

"I've got 'em right down to the ground," chuckled Tom. "Ah, but that was certainly a pretty catch!"

One of the Rockville players had nipped a high fly and returned the ball to the first baseman.

After fifteen minutes' practice the visitors flocked in from the field, their faces glowing with anticipation and expectation. The umpire, already wearing his chest protector, and carrying his mask in his hand, detached himself from a group of interested spectators and walked to the plate, ready to call out the "Play ball!" for which so many were impatiently waiting.

At the precise moment Dan Brown rose to his feet, shook the dust from his uniform and made for the same point, closely followed by his entire aggregation of players.

This move raised an extraordinary commotion. The low, droning buzz of voices suddenly broke forth into excited murmurings, and above this came a renewal of the shouts and megaphone calls.

The members of the Rockville team were plainly astonished. They scented an unusual situation; and every face was turned toward the heavy, stoop-shouldered form of "Crackers" Brown.

A surging mob quickly surrounded the players, forming a solid wall of humanity, each craning his neck to look eagerly over his neighbor's shoulder.

The throng became so dense that the regulars found themselves on the outside, trying to storm the barricade.

Above the excited jabbering of many voices "Crackers" Brown was heard to speak.

"Fellows," he exclaimed, addressing the Rockville nine, "I am the coach of the team you play against to-day."

This announcement, uttered with great distinctness, instantly caused a hush to come over the crowd.

For a moment the visitors were too dumfounded to speak. Then Captain "Pinky" Crane, suspecting a joke, laughed boisterously.

"Not so bad, boys!" he chuckled. "But I hope you don't think we're so easy as that."

"I was never more serious in my life," said Brown, sharply. "This team"—he raised his hand toward the players packed closely about him—"has been selected by the school to represent it. I can prove what I say. If you're ready to start let's hear the word."

"He's always wanting to start something," piped Benny Wilkins from the rear. "Isn't his voice peppery though! Hooray for Brandon!"

"But—but—I don't understand," gasped Ed Barr, quite helplessly. "Why weren't we notified?"

"I take it that you came here to play the Kingswood High baseball team," answered "Crackers," blandly. "Here it is. The students have thrown out an arbitrary lot of players who absolutely refused to listen to reason. They kept on losing game after game until the boys wouldn't stand for it any longer. If you don't believe me take a vote on the question right now."

"That's it—that's it!" cried Owen Lawrence, excitedly. "How many favor the 'Hopes'? And how many the Ramblers?" he called loudly, raising his hand.

A rousing, prolonged yell for the former, which spread like a flash to all parts of the field, carried such a strong indication of the temper of the school that Captain Crane and his men were immediately convinced.

"I don't know about the regularity of this affair," said Crane. "Our crowd didn't come over here to mix up in any row, but to play ball, and we don't care a base hit who takes the field against us. If you chaps are scrapping among yourselves that isn't our business. The boys say your team is the one; so start up the game and show us what you can do."

"Hold on a moment, captain."

Coach Steele, Bob Somers and Dave Brandon in a flying wedge were forcing a passage through the dense mass of humanity.

"Hold on, captain!" exclaimed Steele again. "There's another side to this story, and you're going to get it right now."

Concisely, and with telling effect, the coach told of the events which had happened at the Kingswood High. His flashing eyes and vigorous manner, backed up by the cool and determined attitude of Bob Somers and Dave Brandon, soon made the visitors regard things in a different light.

As Owen Lawrence saw them wavering his belligerent manner increased.

"This is the time your bluff won't work, Somers!" he cried, angrily. "I wouldn't advise you to talk too much, or you might get run right off the field."

"Who's going to do it?" asked Bob.

"I may take a hand myself."

"Well, you can start a rough-house if you like. I can tell you this much, Owen Lawrence: the regulars are here to play ball, and they're going to do it."

"Hooray—hooray!" shouted Benny Wilkins. "There's sand for you—pure grit. Sand is gritty; so is Somers."

The clamor of the excited, jostling mob, the yells of encouragement from first one side, then the other, and apparently every sound which boys are able to produce made such an uproarious noise that the voices of the speakers were often entirely swallowed up.

One by one the members of the regular team fought their way to the center of interest.

"Come now, Somers, be reasonable," pleaded Earl Roycroft. "Can't you see that by keeping up this thing you're liable to start an awful rumpus?"

"You're the fellows who won't listen to reason," returned Bob. "Why don't you quit this row and let us play?"

"We would if you only knew how," jeered Lawrence. "Better cool off, Somers. It would take only a few words from Brown and me to send you marathoning into the distance as fast as though a number one size grizzly was within a foot of your spiked shoes."

"Talk like that isn't going to have any effect," laughed Coach Steele. "Please get back. We want to begin the game."

Dan Brown's soft, easy manner suddenly underwent a tremendous change. His voice became harsh and rasping as he demanded:

"What are you Rockville fellows going to do? Do you intend to play us or not?"

"Pinky" Crane stared at his companions. Being more gifted in ball playing than diplomacy, he was plainly stumped.

"It's too much for me," he confessed, blankly. "How about it, Barr?"

The manager, a sturdy young fellow with a strong, aggressive chin and an equally positive manner, kicked at the turf a moment before replying. Then, looking squarely into "Crackers" Brown's face, he exclaimed:

"This is what I have to say: we'll play the regularly organized team. No mushroom nine for me." He shook his finger vigorously in the chief "outlaw's" face. "Now beat it! Enough of this fuss. We're going to start."

"Very good, sir!" Brown's former manner returned. "We're ordered to skip, Lawrence. There is nothing to do but follow the manager's instructions. Sorry, boys, to have annoyed you so much. Really, your manner quite pained me. No hard feelings, I hope?"

"None at all," said Barr, heartily.

The sudden and unexpected "crawl" of the "outlaws" was so amazing to their supporters that howls of protest and derisive cries arose from every point in the gathering.

"What in thunder is the matter with you, Brown?" roared Aleck Parks, furiously.

"I thought he was going to fight the thing out to a finish," groaned Luke Phelps. "And the crowd is with him as solid as a stone wall. Hang it all, but I am disgusted!"

The regulars were as much astonished as any of the others.

When the three leaders of the "Hope" movement turned away, and the crowd scattered as promptly as though blown about by some current of wind, they began to congratulate each other.

The discontented majority, however, refused to be quieted. Feeling ran so high that it seemed as if a riotous demonstration might begin at any moment.

"Get the game started as quickly as you can," ordered Coach Steele.

"It's the only way to quiet 'em," agreed Barr. "Never expected to run into anything like this. Let's toss up for choice of innings."

Bob's side having won, the visitors started for the players' bench.

As they did so they saw something which caused them to utter loud exclamations of astonishment and anger. And what they and every one else saw was bringing shouts of approval and encouragement from a mass of turbulent boys.

The home plate and each of the three bases was covered by a large-sized soap box, and on every box sat a grinning youth.

"What does this mean?" cried Ed Barr, fairly racing to the home station, where Dan Brown occupied a prominent position.

"What does this mean?" echoed "Crackers." He looked calmly at the agitated manager. "It means just this, Barr: no game will be played here to-day unless we do our share of the playing."

---

The field was in an uproar. The gleeful supporters of the "Hopes," at this new turn in affairs, roared their approval. And through all the turmoil and confusion the "outlaws" who were not sitting on the bases gathered at advantageous points on the field, apparently ready and anxious to resist any attempt to put them off.

When Bob Somers, followed by the rest of the team, came running over a hostile demonstration broke forth.

"Get off the field!" shouted one.

"We want real ball players!" came from another.

"The school won't stand for your kind of playing!" yelled a third.

The small minority still loyal to the regulars voiced a vociferous protest, and, backing up their words with action, gathered about the players.

"Chase 'em right off the field, boys!" bawled Owen Lawrence.

The bodyguard, fearful that his order might be carried into execution, prepared to meet the emergency with every means at their command.

"This is an outrage!" yelled Harry Spearman. "I protest."

"Keep on protesting—that's all the good it will do you," sneered a partisan of the "Hopes." "We'll show you the kind of stuff we're made of."

"No game to-day unless we play it!" came from Brown.

Bob Somers leaped on the soap box from which the chief "outlaw" had just arisen.

"I call upon every fellow who believes in fair play to listen," he cried in ringing tones. "We haven't been given a square deal. Every player on this nine is going to stand up for his rights. Threats and yells won't make us quit. I only ask you to be reasonable; to——"

The soap box was shoved violently from beneath his feet, and the captain, obliged to jump, brought up violently against a group of yelling "outlaws."

---

---

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:

"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."

---

Other Stories in this Series are:

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
THE RAMBLER CLUB'S MOTOR CAR