[Illustration: They slowly and sullenly handed over the contents of
their pockets.]
------------------------------------------------------------------------
BOBBY BLAKE ON
THE SCHOOL NINE
OR
THE CHAMPIONS OF THE MONATOOK
LAKE LEAGUE
BY
FRANK A. WARNER
AUTHOR OF "BOBBY BLAKE AT ROCKLEDGE SCHOOL,"
"BOBBY BLAKE ON A CRUISE," "BOBBY
BLAKE AND HIS SCHOOL CHUMS," ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY
R. EMMETT OWEN
PUBLISHERS
BARSE & CO.
NEW YORK, N. Y. NEWARK, N. J.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Copyright 1917
by
BARSE & CO.
Bobby Blake on the School Nine
Printed in the United States of America
------------------------------------------------------------------------
CONTENTS
I FLYING SNOWBALLS
II A FRIEND INTERFERES
III THE COMING STORM
IV HELD UP
V THE TRAMPS' RETREAT
VI HEAVY ODDS
VII PAYING AN OLD DEBT
VIII THE CLOUD BREAKS AWAY
IX A COWARDLY TRICK
X ROCKLEDGE SCHOOL
XI TOM HICKSLEY REAPPEARS
XII A NEW ENEMY
XIII THE MONATOOK LAKE LEAGUE
XIV GLOWING HOPES
XV SPOILING THE FUN
XVI WHO WAS GUILTY?
XVII ON THE TRAIL
XVIII A HARD HIT
XIX SPRING PRACTICE
XX THE SUGAR CAMP
XXI THE FIRST GAME
XXII TO THE RESCUE
XXIII THE EGG AND THE FAN
XXIV AN UNDESERVED PUNISHMENT
XXV OFF FOR A SWIM
XXVI THE SCAR AND THE LIMP
XXVII A GLEAM OF LIGHT
XXVIII TOM HICKSLEY GETS A THRASHING
XXIX A WILD CHASE
XXX WINNING THE PENNANT--CONCLUSION
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BOBBY BLAKE ON THE SCHOOL NINE
CHAPTER I
FLYING SNOWBALLS
"Ouch!"
"That was a dandy!"
"How's that for a straight shot?"
"Thought you could dodge it, did you?"
"Have a heart, fellows! I've got a ton of snow down my back already."
A tumult of shouts and laughter rose into the frosty air from a group of
boys, ranging in age from ten to twelve years, who were throwing and
dodging snowballs near the railroad station in the little town of
Clinton.
Even the fact that four of the group were on their way back to school
after the Christmas holidays was not sufficient to dampen their youthful
spirits, and the piles of snow heaped up back of the platform had been
too tempting to resist.
As though moved by a single spring they had dropped the bags they were
carrying, and the next instant the air was full of flying snowballs.
Most of them found their mark, though a few in the excitement of the
fray passed dangerously near the station windows.
Flushed and eager, the panting warriors advanced or retreated, until a
stray missile just grazed the ear of the baggage man, who was wheeling a
load of trunks along the platform. He gave a roar of protest, and the
boys thought it was time to stop. But they did it reluctantly.
"Too bad to stop right in the middle of the fun," said Bobby Blake, a
bright wholesome boy of about eleven years, with a frank face and merry
brown eyes.
"Bailey's got a grouch on this morning," remarked Fred Martin, better
known among the boys as "Ginger," because of his red hair and equally
fiery temper.
"I never saw him any other way," put in "Scat" Monroe, one of the
village boys, who had come down to the station to bid his friends
good-bye. "I don't believe Bailey ever was a boy."
"Oh, I guess he was--once," said Bobby, with the air of one making a
generous concession, "but it was so long ago that he's forgotten all
about it."
"Perhaps you'd be grouchy too if you came near being hit," ventured
Betty Martin, Fred's sister, "especially if you weren't getting any fun
out of it."
Betty formed one of a party of girls who bad accompanied the boys to the
station to see them off. With flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, these
girls had stood huddled together like a flock of snowbirds, watching the
friendly scuffle and giving a little squeal occasionally when a snowball
came too close to them.
Fred looked at his sister coldly. He was very fond of Betty, but as the
only boy in a large family of girls, he felt it was incumbent on him to
maintain the dignity of the male sex. He had pronounced ideas on the
necessity of keeping girls in their place, and Betty was something of a
trial to him because she refused to be squelched.
"Of course, girls feel that way," he said loftily. "They're afraid of
the least little thing. But men aren't such scare-cats."
"Men!" sniffed Betty scornfully. "You don't call yourself a man, do
you?"
"Well, I'm going to be some day," her brother retorted, "and that's more
than you can say."
This was undeniable, and Fred felt that he had scored a point.
Betty was reduced to the defensive.
"I wouldn't want to be," she rejoined rather feebly.
Fred cast a proud look around.
"Sour grapes!" he ejaculated.
Then, elated by his success, he sought rather imprudently to follow it
up.
"As for me," he declared, "I wouldn't care how hard I was hit. I'd only
laugh."
Betty saw an opening.
"You wouldn't dare let me throw one at you," she challenged, her eyes
dancing.
Fred went into pretended convulsions.
"You throw!" he jeered. "A girl throw! Why! you couldn't hit the--the
side of a house," he ended lamely, his invention failing.
"I couldn't, eh?" cried Betty, a little nettled. "Well, you just stand
up against that post and see if I can't."
Fred was somewhat startled by her prompt answer to his taunt, but it
would never do to show the white feather.
"All right," he responded, and took up his position, while Betty stood
some twenty feet away.
The laughing group of boys and girls gathered around her, and Bobby and
Scat began to make snowballs for Betty.
"No, you don't!" cried Fred. "I know you fellows. You'll make soakers.
Let Betty make her own snowballs."
"What do you care, if you're so sure she can't hit you?" said Bobby
slyly.
"Never you mind," replied Fred, ignoring the thrust. "You leave all that
to Betty."
The boys desisted and Betty made her own missiles.
"How many chances do I have?" she asked. "Will you give me three shots?"
"Three hundred if you like," replied her brother grandly. "It's all the
same to me."
He stiffened up sternly against the post. Somewhere he had seen a
picture of Ajax defying the lightning, and he hoped that he looked like
that.
Betty poised herself to throw, but at the last moment her tender heart
misgave her.
"I--I'm afraid I'll hurt you," she faltered.
"Aw, go ahead," urged "Mouser" Pryde, one of the four lads who were
leaving for school.
"Aim right at his head," added "Pee Wee" Wise, another schoolmate who
was to accompany Bobby and Fred to Rockledge.
"You can't miss that red mop of his," put in Scat heartlessly.
"N-no," said Betty, dropping her hand to her side. "I guess I don't want
to."
Fred scented an easy victory, but made a mistake by not being satisfied
to let well enough alone.
"She knows she can't hit me and she's afraid to try," he gibed.
The light of battle began to glow in Betty's eyes, but still she stood
irresolute.
"I'll give you a cent if you hit me," pursued Fred.
"My! isn't he reckless with his money?" mocked Pee Wee.
"He talks like a millionaire," added Mouser.
"A whole cent," mused Bobby.
Fred flushed.
"Make it a nickel, then," he said. "And if that isn't enough, I'll give
you a dime," he added, in a final burst of generosity.
"Have you got it?" Betty asked suspiciously. She knew that Fred was
usually in a state of bankruptcy.
"I've got it all right," retorted her brother, "and what's more I'm
going to keep it, because you couldn't hit anything in a thousand
years."
Whether it was the taunt or the dime or both, Betty was spurred to
action. She hesitated no longer, but picked up a snowball and threw it
at the fair mark that Fred presented.
It went wide and Fred laughed gleefully.
"Guess that dime stays right in my pocket," he chuckled.
"Never mind, Betty," encouraged Bobby. "You were just getting the range
then. Better luck next time."
But the next shot also failed, and Fred's mirth became uproarious.
"I might just as well have made it a dollar," he mocked.
But his smile suddenly faded when Betty's third throw caught him right
on the point of the nose.
Fortunately the ball was not very hard. It spread all over his face,
getting into his eyes and filling his mouth, and leaving him for the
moment blinded and sputtering.
The girls gave little shrieks and the boys doubled up with laughter,
which increased as the victim brushed away the snow and they caught
sight of his startled and sheepish face. Betty, in swift penitence, flew
to his side.
"Oh, Fred!" she wailed, "I hope I didn't hurt you!"
To do Fred justice, he was game, and after the first moment of
discomfiture he tried to smile, though the attempt was not much of a
success.
"That's all right, Betty," he said. "You're a better shot than I thought
you were. Here's your dime," he added, taking the coin from his pocket.
"I don't want it," replied Betty. "I'm sorry I won it."
But Fred insisted and she took it, although reluctantly.
"Too bad you didn't make it a dollar, Fred," joked Pee Wee.
"Couldn't hit you in a thousand years, eh?" chuckled Scat.
"Oh, cut it out, you fellows," protested Fred. "I didn't dodge anyway,
did I? You've got to give me credit for that."
"That was pretty good work for short distance shooting," remarked Bobby
Blake, molding a snowball. "But now watch me hit that rock on the other
side of the road."
"Look out that you don't hit that horse," cautioned Betty.
But the snowball had already left Bobby's hand. He had thought that it
would easily clear the scraggy old horse that was jogging along drawing
a sleigh. But the aim was too low, and the snowball hit the horse plump
in the neck.
The startled brute reared and plunged, and the driver, a big hulky boy
with pale eyes and a pasty complexion, had all he could do to quiet him.
He succeeded at last, and then, grasping his whip, jumped over the side
of the sleigh and came running up to the boys, his face convulsed with
rage.