The Rambler Club's
Ball Nine
BY W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD
AUTHOR OF
"THE RAMBLER CLUB AFLOAT"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB'S WINTER CAMP"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB IN THE MOUNTAINS"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB ON CIRCLE T RANCH"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB AMONG THE LUMBERJACKS"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB'S GOLD MINE"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB'S AEROPLANE"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB'S HOUSE-BOAT"
"THE RAMBLER CLUB'S MOTOR CAR"
Illustrated by the Author
THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY
PHILADELPHIA
MCMXIII
COPYRIGHT
1913 BY
THE PENN
PUBLISHING
COMPANY
Introduction
The Rambler Club of Kingswood, Wisconsin, formed by Bob Somers and his
friends, Dave Brandon, Tom Clifton, Dick Travers and Sam Randall, after
having numerous adventures in their own state, visit Oregon, Wyoming,
Washington and New York. In the mountains, on the plains, or deep
amidst the forest the five lads taste the joys, and also the trials,
of outdoor life, and in most unexpected or thrilling situations manage
to acquit themselves with credit. In the East, a house-boat trip up
the Hudson furnishes the club an eventful journey, while on a motoring
trip from Chicago to Kingswood another series of surprising and unusual
events befall them.
The adventures of the Rambler Club are told in the following books:
"The Rambler Club Afloat," "The Rambler Club's Winter Camp," "The
Rambler Club in the Mountains," "The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch,"
"The Rambler Club Among the Lumberjacks," "The Rambler Club's Gold
Mine," "The Rambler Club's Aeroplane," "The Rambler Club's House-Boat"
and "The Rambler Club's Motor Car."
Now the lads are back at the Kingswood High School, from which they
will graduate at the end of the term. Fired with an ambition to put
new life into the athletic affairs of the school, Bob Somers and his
friends take a hand and work some surprising changes. Their zeal and
enthusiasm are further aroused by a certain offer made to the school by
the town's most wealthy citizen, Mr. Rupert Barry.
"The Rambler Club's Ball Nine," however, greatly to the boys'
astonishment, becomes the means of plunging the entire school into the
most turbulent period of its existence. No one can foresee the outcome
of the factional struggle until it is ended in a manner quite as
surprising as the disturbance itself.
When the atmosphere finally clears observing students of the "High"
feel that they have learned many valuable lessons.
W. CRISPIN SHEPPARD.
Contents
I. THE NEW BALL FIELD
II. MR. BARRY
III. THE "RETREAT"
IV. THE LIST OF PLAYERS
V. THE GRUMBLERS
VI. THE FIRST GAME
VII. FOUR TO NOTHING
VIII. DISCOURAGEMENT
IX. MR. BARRY ASKS QUESTIONS
X. THE "FEARLESS" ARRIVES
XI. GOOD BASEBALL WEATHER
XII. "FOR THE GOOD OF THE SCHOOL"
XIII. THE CHALLENGE
XIV. REBELLION
XV. A DECISION
XVI. TOM IS "RATTLED"
XVII. BENNY WINS A NOTE-BOOK
XVIII. THE PRESIDENT SPEAKS
XIX. THE VERDICT OF THE SCHOOL
XX. THE WISH OF THE MAJORITY
XXI. ROCKVILLE IS PUZZLED
XXII. PLAIN TALK
XXIII. BOB SCORES AT LAST
XXIV. THE "HOPES" ARE BLASTED
Illustrations
"GET RIGHT BACK TO YOUR PLACE"
"IT'S FOR THE GOOD OF THE SCHOOL"
"WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH THE BALL NINE?"
"I KNOW YOUR GAME"
THE SOAP BOX WAS SHOVED VIOLENTLY
The Rambler Club's Ball Nine
CHAPTER I
THE NEW BALL FIELD
"Great Scott! Maybe that chap can't run!"
"You're right, Earl. But it will take more than running to beat the
Stars and Goose Hill fellows, to say nothing of Rockville Academy. That
crowd over there certainly has a corking team. Say, Roycroft, you ought
to be on Bob Somers' nine."
Earl Roycroft, a six-foot boy weighing almost two hundred pounds,
settled his big frame in a more comfortable position on the rail fence.
His eyes mechanically followed the runners speeding one after another
around a lot used by the Kingswood High School students as a baseball
and training field.
"Why, it isn't Bob Somers' team; it's the school's, Nat," he protested,
mildly.
Nat Wingate, a handsome, dark-haired boy with flashing brown eyes,
smiled.
"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.
"My crowd is going to get the first whack at the Rambler Club's ball
nine, Roy," he exclaimed.
A peculiarly sarcastic expression came over his face as Roy flung back:
"Cut that out, Nat. You mean the school team."
"Last season we trimmed the Goose Hill bunch," went on Wingate. "You
know what a husky lot they are. Tony Tippen was in the box for us.
If any of the scouts from the big leagues ever get to this burg I
shouldn't wonder a bit if they'd snap him up."
"I'd be satisfied with the minors," laughed Earl. "Whew! The air is
kind of chilly to-day, Nat. Roger Steele didn't think he'd have the
boys practicing outside of the gym until next week. Great Scott, but
that fellow can sprint!"
"Wonder if he learned the trick by having wildcats chase him out of the
woods," laughed Nat. "Ha, ha! We met one once. John Hackett and our
crowd ran across the Ramblers on their first trip, and----"
A salvo of cheers suddenly interrupted his sentence, and upon looking
up to see the cause of it the captain of the Kingswood Stars saw a
stout, round-faced boy advancing leisurely to the home plate.
"Ha, ha! We're going to see the new editor of the high school
'Reflector' in action. Did you read the last copy of that sheet, Earl?"
Roycroft nodded.
"Sure thing, Nat. Dave has written a history of the Rambler Club. The
first instalment appears in the 'Reflector's' next issue. Guess there
isn't a fellow in the school who won't dive into his pocket for a
nickel. Hello, Spearman!"
A boy almost as tall as himself, but of a lighter build, stepped from
among a crowd of noisy students and walked toward them. Harry Spearman
had prominent aquiline features and a manner which suggested a nervous,
high-strung disposition.
"I tell you, Roycroft, these fellows are going to give a good account
of themselves," he began. "Steele and Somers have just the right idea
of training. Don't push your men too hard, they say, but keep them
always on the move. Roger Steele'll soon have a crowd of base-runners
that will make some of the fellows on the other teams look as slow as
so many ice wagons."
A shade crossed Earl's face. Bob Somers had often expressed the opinion
that if the big fellow only possessed a little more speed he would
make one of the best players in the school. But, while Roycroft was
good at almost every other angle of the game, he was sometimes apt to
slip up when quick action was absolutely necessary.
"Better not boast too much, Harry," grinned Nat. "Wait until the
Ramblers stack up against the Stars. We expect to pull off a few plays
that may make 'em seem like never-wassers. The Rockville football
eleven came over last fall, you know, and Bob Somers' crowd didn't cut
any great figure in the game."
Harry Spearman's eyes snapped scornfully.
"Suppose they did beat us? That isn't much to brag about," he retorted.
"When the Ramblers got back to school this term there was no athletic
association; everything was disorganized--you know that, Wingate----"
"Gee! Another dandy hit," broke in Roycroft. "Dave Brandon certainly
smacked the ball that time. Look at it--still sailing. I'll bet it's
bound for Rockville."
"Of course you do, Nat," went on Harry, paying no attention to this
interruption. "Before, it was all hit or miss--mostly miss; and nobody
seemed to care."
"Correct," added Earl. "Bob plunged right in, and, with
up-to-the-minute plans, got the athletic association started, football
and baseball committees formed, and made arrangements with all the
various schools around to play a regular schedule of games."
"Oh, I suppose he has your big colleges beaten to a frazzle on the fine
points of the game," exclaimed Nat, with a barely perceptible sneer.
Earl Roycroft laughed softly. He knew that it wouldn't take much to
start a lively wrangle between Wingate and Spearman, as Nat was of a
highly impetuous nature, while the latter's principal characteristics
were nervousness and excitability. But he found it easy to stem the
tide of belligerency which seemed on the point of beginning.
Freshmen, sophomores, juniors and seniors, mingling in a fraternal
spirit, formed scattered groups all over the lot, occasionally
yelling with as much vigor and enthusiasm as though about to witness
a championship game. Many wore purple and white sweaters, and these
garments added a touch of bright color to the still barren landscape.
"There's 'Jack Frost' in the box, fellows," remarked Earl. "He has a
slow ball that will puzzle the Rockville boys. I've been up against it,
and I know. Comes so slow that you almost fall asleep waiting for it to
pass over the plate."
William Frost was the name of the player in question, though, of
course, his schoolmates generally called him "Jack."
"And Tony Tippen has an inshoot that would make the Cannon Ball Express
look like a slow freighter," laughed Nat. "Gee, I wish the next two
weeks would roll around fast. I guess you high school fellows are in
for a pretty hard jolt. We hate to do it, too, for this is a mighty
poor ball field, and a few lambastings will probably knock all that
fine Rupert Barry business in the head."
"Oh, it will, eh?" sniffed Spearman. "Next season the Purple and White
team will be using that new ball park, and we'll have a grand stand,
besides."
"Sorry to have to put that happy train of thought off the track,"
chuckled Nat. "Have you forgotten the Goose Hill crowd and a few
others?"
"It wouldn't faze us if they were major leaguers."
"Hello, you 'Pie-eaters'; hello! Where's the rest of the 'Doughnut'
crowd?"
This hail, coming in very gruff tones from the tall sprinter who had
excited Earl Roycroft's admiration, made Nat Wingate's eyes glitter
ominously.
"The nerve of that Tom Clifton is getting my nerve," he commented, in a
low tone. "It beats me how some of the chaps are willing to swallow all
he hands out."
"He doesn't seem to like the idea of us swallowing pie," laughed
Roycroft.
By this time the tallest senior in the school had almost reached
the group. Tom Clifton, bubbling over with good spirits, eyed Nat
quizzically.
"Still making the pies over at Guffin's do the disappearing act?" he
asked.
"Yes! And the doughnuts are following the same route."
"How is it that Kirk Talbot didn't come over to see us practicing?"
"Kirk had something more important on hand. He went to a moving picture
show instead."
"I'll bet it was a nickel one," snickered Tom. "We're getting ready for
your crowd, Nat. Thanks, Roycroft! I can go some. I'll do better yet.
Wait till you see me making the circuit of the bases. And when we get
that new field--well! We'll make some of the 'Pie-eaters and doughnut
crowd' lose their appetites."
Tom Clifton's gaze roved over the rather uneven field, which was
situated some distance from the rear of the Kingswood High School.
Great patches of weeds and small saplings had been leveled to the
ground and hollow places filled in by the willing hands of the boys.
But even all the zeal and enthusiasm with which they had worked could
not make the result of their labor a joy and delight. This particular
field seemed to have a grudge against all athletic sports. Treacherous
little bumps or depressions, as well as other irregularities, had often
spoiled what might have been brilliant plays.
And now, Tom reflected, after a whole winter of neglect, conditions
looked more unpromising than ever. It did not at all fit in with his
ideas of what the Kingswood High School boys deserved, especially when
he considered the new lease of life which Bob Somers, ably assisted by
his friends, had injected into the athletic affairs of the school.
To the north, the three story stone building of the school, the center
of which was surmounted by a cupola, shone brightly in the afternoon
sun. Beyond the residences which hemmed in the large lot on all sides
several towers and domes indicated the business portion of Kingswood.
It all made a very pleasing picture.
But Tom Clifton did not allow his thoughts to stray very long from the
actual work in hand. He was too anxious to get in the thick of the
fray again, and pull down some of the "sky-scrapers" which little Joe
Rodgers was batting out with remarkable precision.
"Say, Nat, that chap is a corker," he declared. "Stand wherever you
please, and he'll put the horse-hide right into your hands. Gee--see
that!"
"What?" asked Nat.
"Why, the way Blake picked up Dave's grounder--one handed, too! By
Jove, it was a scorcher! Where are you going, Roycroft?"
"To bat," answered Earl, with a laugh. "Come on, Spearman."
"Good! Try to knock me down. I'll show you a few fancy stunts, Nat."
"We are reserving ours until Saturday week," returned Wingate. "That's
right, Tom. Snicker all you want. But it's the snickers which come
after the game that count."
Tom's reply was not audible, as there was too much noise. Some hundred
schoolboys, whose vocal organs were in excellent condition, seemed to
be desirous of learning just how much sound they could produce at a
given moment.
Bob Somers had pulled down one of Joe Rodgers' drives after a long,
hard run, and although the force of the impact had sent him rolling
over and over on the ground, the sphere was safe in his hands.
"Bully--bully!" cried Tom, as the shouts subsided. "See you later, Nat."
"Hold on, Tommy," said Wingate. A quizzical smile was playing about
his lips. A restraining hand seized Tom Clifton's wrist. "Anything the
matter with your optics to-day, son?"
"Why?" queried Tom, in surprise.
"Haven't they lighted on anything yet, eh?"
"Yes; a whole lot of dandy plays."
"That isn't what I mean."
The earnest manner of his companion made Tom eagerly scan the field.
He saw a dozen balls flying about in all directions, students in
purple and white sweaters dashing from place to place, and "Jack
Frost" engaged in sending in a variety of curves to Phil Brentall, the
backstop. He also saw the ball being snapped from first to third and
back again with great rapidity.
But the fact that he was not looking in the right direction was
speedily impressed upon his mind when Nat shoved him around in a most
unceremonious fashion.
"Now what do you see?" demanded Nat.
"Gee whiz--goodness gracious!" cried Tom--"Mr. Rupert Barry."