"Well, ra-ther!"
Twenty minutes later a sound from a megaphone in the distance brought forth a wild cheer from the supporters of the Stars. All eyes seemed to be turned in the direction of the valiant team which, as usual, was headed by Nat Wingate and John Hackett.
Following the players came a great crowd, the members of which were singing in half a dozen different keys a song that "Jack Frost" declared Nat had written himself.
"Sounds like it," chuckled Benny. "Guess it's a first offense, though."
The rooters of the visiting team did their best. But the fans who swore allegiance to Bob Somers drowned their efforts in a turbulent roar.
The Stars didn't present the neat appearance of the Kingswood team, their uniforms, no two of which were alike, bearing unmistakable evidence of hard usage.
The eyes of many were centered upon Tony Tippen, the crack pitcher of whom so much had been heard. Tony was a farmer's son, tall, gaunt, and angular of frame. His face, burnt to almost a coppery hue, indicated that much of his time was spent out in the open. Tony had the reputation of being a cool, imperturbable chap whom nature seemed to have forgotten to supply with nerves.
"Have you fellows done practicing?" sang out Nat. "Good! Our boys'll wade right in."
"We'll need only ten minutes," yelled John Hackett.
"That's right. Let's get the ball rolling in earnest," said Tony Tippen, in a deep bass voice.