BENNY WINS A NOTE-BOOK
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!"