"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."