THE FIRST GAME
"I declare, Bob Somers, I feel a bit nervous about this thing."
Charlie Blake, the most studious boy in the Kingswood High, often
referred to as the "grind," paced a corner of the gymnasium floor.
"Oh, forget it!" laughed Bob. "Pull yourself together, Charlie."
"Oh, I think I can play the game all right--even if I didn't make good
while Nat was captain. But there's going to be an awful big crowd on
that field, Bob; the whole town seems to be talking about it. And Mr.
Barry will have his eagle eye on every move we make."
"So much the better."
"Maybe you're right," assented Charlie. "Wish I had Dave Brandon's
nerve. Bet he could take a nap right before the game."
There was an undercurrent of excitement in the gymnasium. Each of the
players, in a new and spotless uniform, resplendent purple shirt and
striped stockings, found himself the center of a little group of eager
enthusiasts.
"For the good of the school, boys, do your best!" bawled "Crackers"
Brown. "Nat Wingate is a dandy fellow; but I hope you'll beat his crowd
so badly they'll never wind off any of their megaphone stunts here
again."
"Oh, what an awful bluff, 'Crackers'!" chirped Benny Wilkins. "You know
you want him to win."
"There's a big mob on the field already, fellows." This announcement,
coming from Tom Clifton, added to the pleasurable excitement.
"Well, it's most time to be getting over," said Bob. "Everybody ready?"
A rousing chorus of assenting voices answered.
"Oh, I say--I say--who's going to report this game for the
'Reflector'?" cried Benny. "Mr. Editor, may I?"
"Write it up and submit your stuff," laughed Dave. "If it's good I'll
slip it in."
"Bully! That's a go. Now don't try to back out, Dave Brandon. You heard
him say it, fellows."
The team, headed by Coach Roger Steele, was already making for the
door, followed by as enthusiastic and hopeful a band of rooters as
ever backed up a school nine.
Freshmen struggled for the honor of carrying bats, masks and other
paraphernalia.
It was an ideal day, cool and crisp, but not chilly enough to stiffen
the players' muscles.
A big crowd greeted the boys on the scene of the impending battle.
Almost every student of the school seemed to be there, while numbers of
the townspeople mingled with the groups.
"Somers, Somers!" yelled the mob. The cry rose and fell in waves of
sound, causing a flush to mantle the captain's cheek. "Rah, rah, rah!
Boom!"
Purple and white pennants flashed brightly in the sunlight. It
certainly looked like a great day for the Kingswood High.
By the fence behind home plate the players gathered around Coach Steele.
"Don't get rattled," he cautioned. "Remember, quick thinking at a
crucial point has won many a game. Feel 'em out in the early innings,
and don't let a single chance for stealing a base slip by."
"You bet we won't," laughed Tom. "When that crowd finds out what we
have to show in the running line they'll open their eyes."
"Get to work, boys," ordered the coach. "Hello, Lou Mercer!" He
extended his hand toward a good-looking boy, manager of the club. "I
hear Professor Hopkins is going to see the game."
"That's so," said Mercer, gleefully; "and Mr. Rupert Barry'll be with
him. And say, what do you think? Professor Ivins actually said he'd
come, too."
"What?" cried Tom.
"Fact. Surprised me, I can tell you. Heard him say once he never could
see anything in the game."
"He'll see something in this game." Tom selected a bat from several
which an exuberant freshman was lugging about. "Get out a bit further,
Dave!" he yelled. "I'm going to knock some cloud swipers."
"Hey! Who's seen the Stars practicin'?" asked one boy of another.
"Not I. Struck me they did all of their practicing over at Guffin's."
"That's where you're wrong, son. Leslie Glinn--he's one of their
crowd--unloosened his tongue long enough to say they went through their
little turns in a field about two miles out the pike. Oh, Nat's cute,
all right; knows every trick of the game."
"So does Bob Somers," growled the other. "Say, if we win this game
won't the crowd give him a big hand to-night!"
"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.
Quiet settled over the crowd. The boys were too much interested in
getting a line on the opponents of the "High" to make any noise. They
presently had to confess that the visitors had a dash and vim about
their practice which promised an exciting contest.