THE NEW BALL FIELD
"Great Scott! Maybe that chap can't run!"
"You're right, Earl. But it will take more than running to beat the Stars and Goose Hill fellows, to say nothing of Rockville Academy. That crowd over there certainly has a corking team. Say, Roycroft, you ought to be on Bob Somers' nine."
Earl Roycroft, a six-foot boy weighing almost two hundred pounds, settled his big frame in a more comfortable position on the rail fence. His eyes mechanically followed the runners speeding one after another around a lot used by the Kingswood High School students as a baseball and training field.
"Why, it isn't Bob Somers' team; it's the school's, Nat," he protested, mildly.
Nat Wingate, a handsome, dark-haired boy with flashing brown eyes, smiled.
"Well, Somers seems to be having things pretty much his own way," he answered. "When I was captain, last year, it was mighty different. Stand up for your rights, Roycroft. The team needs a great big chap like you, and——"
"Great Scott, but he can sprint!"
"Well, it would be mighty funny if a fellow who has such long legs as Tom Clifton couldn't sprint," returned Nat, dryly.
The crisp crack of a bat suddenly attracted his attention. Then he caught sight of the ball describing a long, graceful curve. He watched the sphere flashing against the blue sky until it had reached such a height as to appear but the merest speck, and then as it swiftly dropped and was plucked from space by a slender boy in the outfield.
"Good catch for Charlie Blake," exclaimed Roycroft.
"And there was some class to the hit, too," commented Nat. "I don't think any of the Rambler fellows swung the stick on that one. Whoever he is, I wouldn't mind having him on my team."
"Humph! Don't you recognize that chap? It's Joe Rodgers."
"Gee whiz! The young fellow the Ramblers brought back with 'em on their motor car trip last fall?"
"Exactly!" laughed Earl. "Dave Brandon has been looking out for Joe, and got him a job on Mr. Miles' farm. He goes to school every day with a lot of little chaps about half his age. But Mr. Miles says, from the way Joe's learning, he'll soon put all us high school fellows in the has-been class. Come on, Nat. I want to get a whack at that ball myself."
Nat Wingate eased himself off the fence, flecked a few spots of dust from his clothes, and followed the big form of Earl Roycroft.
"My crowd is going to get the first whack at the Rambler Club's ball nine, Roy," he exclaimed.
A peculiarly sarcastic expression came over his face as Roy flung back:
"Cut that out, Nat. You mean the school team."
"Last season we trimmed the Goose Hill bunch," went on Wingate. "You know what a husky lot they are. Tony Tippen was in the box for us. If any of the scouts from the big leagues ever get to this burg I shouldn't wonder a bit if they'd snap him up."
"I'd be satisfied with the minors," laughed Earl. "Whew! The air is kind of chilly to-day, Nat. Roger Steele didn't think he'd have the boys practicing outside of the gym until next week. Great Scott, but that fellow can sprint!"
"Wonder if he learned the trick by having wildcats chase him out of the woods," laughed Nat. "Ha, ha! We met one once. John Hackett and our crowd ran across the Ramblers on their first trip, and——"
A salvo of cheers suddenly interrupted his sentence, and upon looking up to see the cause of it the captain of the Kingswood Stars saw a stout, round-faced boy advancing leisurely to the home plate.
"Ha, ha! We're going to see the new editor of the high school 'Reflector' in action. Did you read the last copy of that sheet, Earl?"
Roycroft nodded.
"Sure thing, Nat. Dave has written a history of the Rambler Club. The first instalment appears in the 'Reflector's' next issue. Guess there isn't a fellow in the school who won't dive into his pocket for a nickel. Hello, Spearman!"
A boy almost as tall as himself, but of a lighter build, stepped from among a crowd of noisy students and walked toward them. Harry Spearman had prominent aquiline features and a manner which suggested a nervous, high-strung disposition.
"I tell you, Roycroft, these fellows are going to give a good account of themselves," he began. "Steele and Somers have just the right idea of training. Don't push your men too hard, they say, but keep them always on the move. Roger Steele'll soon have a crowd of base-runners that will make some of the fellows on the other teams look as slow as so many ice wagons."
A shade crossed Earl's face. Bob Somers had often expressed the opinion that if the big fellow only possessed a little more speed he would make one of the best players in the school. But, while Roycroft was good at almost every other angle of the game, he was sometimes apt to slip up when quick action was absolutely necessary.
"Better not boast too much, Harry," grinned Nat. "Wait until the Ramblers stack up against the Stars. We expect to pull off a few plays that may make 'em seem like never-wassers. The Rockville football eleven came over last fall, you know, and Bob Somers' crowd didn't cut any great figure in the game."
Harry Spearman's eyes snapped scornfully.
"Suppose they did beat us? That isn't much to brag about," he retorted. "When the Ramblers got back to school this term there was no athletic association; everything was disorganized—you know that, Wingate——"
"Gee! Another dandy hit," broke in Roycroft. "Dave Brandon certainly smacked the ball that time. Look at it—still sailing. I'll bet it's bound for Rockville."
"Of course you do, Nat," went on Harry, paying no attention to this interruption. "Before, it was all hit or miss—mostly miss; and nobody seemed to care."
"Correct," added Earl. "Bob plunged right in, and, with up-to-the-minute plans, got the athletic association started, football and baseball committees formed, and made arrangements with all the various schools around to play a regular schedule of games."
"Oh, I suppose he has your big colleges beaten to a frazzle on the fine points of the game," exclaimed Nat, with a barely perceptible sneer.
Earl Roycroft laughed softly. He knew that it wouldn't take much to start a lively wrangle between Wingate and Spearman, as Nat was of a highly impetuous nature, while the latter's principal characteristics were nervousness and excitability. But he found it easy to stem the tide of belligerency which seemed on the point of beginning.
Freshmen, sophomores, juniors and seniors, mingling in a fraternal spirit, formed scattered groups all over the lot, occasionally yelling with as much vigor and enthusiasm as though about to witness a championship game. Many wore purple and white sweaters, and these garments added a touch of bright color to the still barren landscape.
"There's 'Jack Frost' in the box, fellows," remarked Earl. "He has a slow ball that will puzzle the Rockville boys. I've been up against it, and I know. Comes so slow that you almost fall asleep waiting for it to pass over the plate."
William Frost was the name of the player in question, though, of course, his schoolmates generally called him "Jack."
"And Tony Tippen has an inshoot that would make the Cannon Ball Express look like a slow freighter," laughed Nat. "Gee, I wish the next two weeks would roll around fast. I guess you high school fellows are in for a pretty hard jolt. We hate to do it, too, for this is a mighty poor ball field, and a few lambastings will probably knock all that fine Rupert Barry business in the head."
"Oh, it will, eh?" sniffed Spearman. "Next season the Purple and White team will be using that new ball park, and we'll have a grand stand, besides."
"Sorry to have to put that happy train of thought off the track," chuckled Nat. "Have you forgotten the Goose Hill crowd and a few others?"
"It wouldn't faze us if they were major leaguers."
"Hello, you 'Pie-eaters'; hello! Where's the rest of the 'Doughnut' crowd?"
This hail, coming in very gruff tones from the tall sprinter who had excited Earl Roycroft's admiration, made Nat Wingate's eyes glitter ominously.
"The nerve of that Tom Clifton is getting my nerve," he commented, in a low tone. "It beats me how some of the chaps are willing to swallow all he hands out."
"He doesn't seem to like the idea of us swallowing pie," laughed Roycroft.
By this time the tallest senior in the school had almost reached the group. Tom Clifton, bubbling over with good spirits, eyed Nat quizzically.
"Still making the pies over at Guffin's do the disappearing act?" he asked.
"Yes! And the doughnuts are following the same route."
"How is it that Kirk Talbot didn't come over to see us practicing?"
"Kirk had something more important on hand. He went to a moving picture show instead."
"I'll bet it was a nickel one," snickered Tom. "We're getting ready for your crowd, Nat. Thanks, Roycroft! I can go some. I'll do better yet. Wait till you see me making the circuit of the bases. And when we get that new field—well! We'll make some of the 'Pie-eaters and doughnut crowd' lose their appetites."
Tom Clifton's gaze roved over the rather uneven field, which was situated some distance from the rear of the Kingswood High School. Great patches of weeds and small saplings had been leveled to the ground and hollow places filled in by the willing hands of the boys. But even all the zeal and enthusiasm with which they had worked could not make the result of their labor a joy and delight. This particular field seemed to have a grudge against all athletic sports. Treacherous little bumps or depressions, as well as other irregularities, had often spoiled what might have been brilliant plays.
And now, Tom reflected, after a whole winter of neglect, conditions looked more unpromising than ever. It did not at all fit in with his ideas of what the Kingswood High School boys deserved, especially when he considered the new lease of life which Bob Somers, ably assisted by his friends, had injected into the athletic affairs of the school.
To the north, the three story stone building of the school, the center of which was surmounted by a cupola, shone brightly in the afternoon sun. Beyond the residences which hemmed in the large lot on all sides several towers and domes indicated the business portion of Kingswood. It all made a very pleasing picture.
But Tom Clifton did not allow his thoughts to stray very long from the actual work in hand. He was too anxious to get in the thick of the fray again, and pull down some of the "sky-scrapers" which little Joe Rodgers was batting out with remarkable precision.
"Say, Nat, that chap is a corker," he declared. "Stand wherever you please, and he'll put the horse-hide right into your hands. Gee—see that!"
"What?" asked Nat.
"Why, the way Blake picked up Dave's grounder—one handed, too! By Jove, it was a scorcher! Where are you going, Roycroft?"
"To bat," answered Earl, with a laugh. "Come on, Spearman."
"Good! Try to knock me down. I'll show you a few fancy stunts, Nat."
"We are reserving ours until Saturday week," returned Wingate. "That's right, Tom. Snicker all you want. But it's the snickers which come after the game that count."
Tom's reply was not audible, as there was too much noise. Some hundred schoolboys, whose vocal organs were in excellent condition, seemed to be desirous of learning just how much sound they could produce at a given moment.
Bob Somers had pulled down one of Joe Rodgers' drives after a long, hard run, and although the force of the impact had sent him rolling over and over on the ground, the sphere was safe in his hands.
"Bully—bully!" cried Tom, as the shouts subsided. "See you later, Nat."
"Hold on, Tommy," said Wingate. A quizzical smile was playing about his lips. A restraining hand seized Tom Clifton's wrist. "Anything the matter with your optics to-day, son?"
"Why?" queried Tom, in surprise.
"Haven't they lighted on anything yet, eh?"
"Yes; a whole lot of dandy plays."
"That isn't what I mean."
The earnest manner of his companion made Tom eagerly scan the field. He saw a dozen balls flying about in all directions, students in purple and white sweaters dashing from place to place, and "Jack Frost" engaged in sending in a variety of curves to Phil Brentall, the backstop. He also saw the ball being snapped from first to third and back again with great rapidity.
But the fact that he was not looking in the right direction was speedily impressed upon his mind when Nat shoved him around in a most unceremonious fashion.
"Now what do you see?" demanded Nat.
"Gee whiz—goodness gracious!" cried Tom—"Mr. Rupert Barry."