"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."