"No!" snorted Mr. Barry. "The baseball nine."
"Dear me—extraordinary!" murmured the elderly professor, in puzzled tones. "Doubtless it is another of those preposterous expressions connected with baseball parlance. Is it, I might ask, a—a general custom to refer——"
"I fear it will be whenever these boys play the Stars," said Mr. Barry, grimly.
It was a disastrous inning for the school team. Before big Bill Steevers' pop fly fell into the hands of "Jack Frost" the Stars had three runs to their credit.
"Never mind, fellows," said Bob Somers, cheerily. "It's a part of the game."
"Of course," laughed Dave. "If it weren't for Tony Tippen we'd probably have twice that many runs ourselves."
"A game's never lost until it's over," said Coach Steele. "You're playing against a pitcher of unusual ability. But don't let that discourage you for a moment."
The end of the eighth inning found the score four to nothing in favor of the Stars.
"We'll simply have to do something now," growled Tom Clifton. "Just listen to Nat Wingate howling. If we don't, maybe he and Hackett won't go strutting around town proud as peacocks."
"Roycroft, if you'd been in this game there might be a different story to tell," grumbled "Crackers"—"eh, Earl?"