ROCKVILLE IS PUZZLED
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."