"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.