MR. BARRY
A tall, thin man, who, although somewhat elderly, seemed to walk with all the alertness of youth, was directing his course toward the players. He wore a long, faded, dusty-looking black coat and a derby hat of an equally old appearance.
Mr. Rupert Barry, one of the best known and wealthiest citizens of Kingswood, had retired from active business many years before, and, with only a man and wife who acted as housekeepers, resided in a stately mansion which crowned the summit of a hill. Mr. Barry was not partial to visitors. Only a select few had entered his doors. Those who did spoke enthusiastically of a collection of bric-à-brac and paintings which his house contained.
None of the present generation remembered having ever seen Mr. Barry in other than his old-fashioned coat and derby hat. It was a standing puzzle whether the coat and hat refused to be worn out, or whether, by some mysterious process, he was able, year in and year out, to procure garments of exactly the same color and texture.
Mr. Barry seldom appeared without a dog to keep him company. And these animals, which had succeeded one another up to the present time, generally possessed but little beauty.
On this occasion the dog which kept close to the elderly gentleman's heels was a large, shaggy creature of a yellowish hue, with a quarrelsome look in his eye.
"Now it's time to get out on the field and pull off some of those pretty stunts, Tom," advised Nat Wingate. "It may make him take down a few of those no-trespassing signs on that lot of his."
"That's right," laughed Tom. "It fairly bristles with 'em. 'Trespassers dealt with according to law'; 'Private property'; 'No thoroughfare'; 'Keep out'; 'Any one found depositing ashes or refuse on this lot will be prosecuted.' Have I missed any, Nat?"
"Just one," chuckled Wingate, "over on the northeast corner: 'Intruders will be promptly ejected.' It's a wonder he hasn't a few Gatling guns planted around."
"And just to think," mused Tom, "he's going to give that field to us!"
"Well, I like your cheek," blazed out Nat. "You must think you're the whole show. Do you know what my idea is?"
"Guess I will in a minute."
"Mr. Barry knows it's such a safe proposition that you fellows will get trimmed all around——"
"Oh, get out, you 'Pie-eater'!" howled Tom. "Take a doughnut. It looks like a cipher—meaning nothing for you!"
"We can eat up lots of things besides doughnuts," said Nat, sarcastically. "I'm going to trail Mr. Rupert Barry."
"So am I."
As they walked briskly toward the scene of action the noise and the cracks of the bats seemed to be greater than ever.
By this time Mr. Barry had almost reached the high board fence which served as a backstop and score-board.
It was at once observed that Dave Brandon had stopped practicing and was coming forward to meet their visitor. Bob Somers, too, was walking in from the outfield.
"By Jupiter, they're almost falling over themselves," jeered Nat. "I want to hear some of the soft stuff they hand out. Bet they'll have a tremolo in their voices."
Nat Wingate had the ability to provoke a wrangle at almost any moment. A hot flush mounted to Tom's face. He was too eager, however, to learn the reason for Mr. Barry's descent upon the ball field to reply.
In and out through the noisy groups he led the way, soon hearing above the medley of sound the harsh, rasping voice of Kingswood's eccentric citizen.
"I never could understand why boys have to make such a confounded racket while they're playing ball," he jerked out, impatiently. "Good energy all gone to waste. Lie down, Canis!"
The yellow dog seemed to have taken a great dislike to the proceedings going on all about him, and was giving voice to this feeling by a series of savage snarls and barks.
"Long distance conversation for me," laughed Wingate. "His ivories seem to be in good working condition."
"I'll bet he's as yellow inside as out," chuckled Tom. "One good kick——"
"And any hope for your ball field would be gone forever."
"Don't stop for me, Somers." Mr. Barry was speaking. He waved a large, knotty cane peremptorily in the direction of the outfield. "Get right back to your place." His stick struck sharply against the wooden fence. "Here, here, you boys over there: quit that howling; quit it, I say!"
"GET RIGHT BACK TO YOUR PLACE"
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.