Wilkins slowly drew from his pocket the article in question, and, opening it, read:
"Four thirty-five P. M. Sized up the candidates for the ball team. No good. Four forty P. M. Tom Clifton received notification to that effect. Four forty-one P. M. Tom Clifton said so much in about three minutes that I left it all out. Four fifty P. M. Looked at a book containing logarithms, but decided that Terry Guffin's was better."
"There is hope for you yet, Benny," remarked "Crackers," solemnly.
Owen Lawrence paid but little attention to the boys outside of his immediate circle, for he quickly noticed that they were apparently but a chorus playing a very secondary part to the principal "stars" of the "Retreat."
"Say, fellows, who was that elderly gentleman who came over to the ball grounds this afternoon?" he inquired, presently.
Several started to answer at once. But Nat Wingate silenced them.
"Mr. Rupert Barry," he explained. "They say he's the oldest graduate of the high school. Has a great lot of the stuff everybody's scrapping for, too—money."
"Awful queer old chap," confided Ted Pollock.
"What's all the talk about a new ball field that Tom Clifton is getting off every day?" asked Owen.
"I was just about to tell you," answered Nat. "Hello, Terry"—he raised his voice—"are you baking that pie?"