THE RUSHTON BOYS AT RALLY HALL
Or
Great Days in School and Out
by
SPENCER DAVENPORT
Author of "The Rushton Boys in the Saddle," "The Rushton Boys at
Treasure Cove," etc.
Whitman Publishing Co.
Racine, Wisconsin
* * * * *
BOOKS FOR BOYS
BY
SPENCER DAVENPORT
THE RUSHTON BOYS SERIES
THE RUSHTON BOYS AT RALLY HALL
_Or, Great Days in School and Out_
THE RUSHTON BOYS IN THE SADDLE
_Or, The Ghost of the Plains_
THE RUSHTON BOYS AT TREASURE COVE
_Or, The Missing Chest of Gold_
* * * * *
Copyright, 1916
George Sully & Company
Printed by
Western Printing & Lithographing Co.
Racine, Wisconsin
Printed in U. S. A.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. A RASH IMPULSE 1
II. THE RUNAWAY 8
III. A NARROW ESCAPE 15
IV. FACING THE MUSIC 22
V. UNCLE AARON RAGES 30
VI. TEDDY'S BANISHMENT 38
VII. THE MISSING PAPERS 45
VIII. A FRUITLESS SEARCH 53
IX. CHASING THE TRAMPS 60
X. BUNK GOES CRAZY 68
XI. THE ROBBERY 76
XII. OFF FOR RALLY HALL 85
XIII. ANDY SHANKS, BULLY 91
XIV. "HARDTACK" RALLY 98
XV. LEARNING THE ROPES 104
XVI. A JOLLY CROWD 111
XVII. TEDDY'S JOKE 118
XVIII. KICKING THE PIGSKIN 125
XIX. THE MAN WITH THE SCAR 133
XX. A RATTLING GAME 147
XXI. A DESPERATE STRUGGLE 155
XXII. ANDY SHANKS GETS BUSY 162
XXIII. THE BLOW FALLS 168
XXIV. A PUZZLING CASE 175
XXV. TO THE RESCUE 182
XXVI. SID WILTON TELLS 190
XXVII. THE BASEBALL TEAM 196
XXVIII. AN EXCITING BATTLE 202
XXIX. ANDY SHANKS "GETS HIS" 218
XXX. THE CAPTURE--CONCLUSION 231
THE RUSHTON BOYS AT RALLY HALL
CHAPTER I
A RASH IMPULSE
"Get back, Jim. It's over your head."
The ball had left the bat with a ringing crack that made it soar high
into the air toward left field.
Jim Dabney, who was playing left, made a hard run for it, but stumbled
over a clump of grass, and the ball just touched the end of his fingers.
"Wow!" he yelled, wringing his hand, "there's another nail gone."
"Never mind your hand, Jim!" yelled the second baseman. "Put it in here.
Quick!"
Fred Rushton, who had hit the ball, was streaking it for second, and
Jim, forgetting his injured hand, picked up the ball and threw it in.
Fred saw that it was going to be a tight squeeze and made a slide for
the base. The ball got there at almost the same time, and for a moment
there was a flying tangle of arms and legs. Then Fred rose to his feet
and brushed the dust from his clothes.
"Never touched me," he remarked, with a slight grin.
"No," agreed Tom Benton, the second baseman. "It was a pretty close call
though."
He threw the ball to the pitcher and Fred danced about between second
and third.
"Bring me in now, Jack!" he shouted to Jack Youmans, the batter. "Hit it
right on the trademark."
Jack made a savage swing but met only the empty air.
"Never mind, Jack," called Fred cheerfully. "Better luck next time. What
did I tell you?" he added, as the ball, meeting the bat squarely, went
whizzing past just inside third.
Jim Dabney, who was playing close up, made a clever pick-up and threw it
straight as a die for home. Fred had passed third and was legging it for
the plate with all his might. But this time the ball had a shade the
better of it, and Fred was nabbed just as he slid over the rubber.
"Good try, old boy, but you just didn't make it," cried Bob Ellis, the
catcher, as he clapped the ball on him.
"Sure thing," admitted Fred, "but it was worth taking a chance."
There were three out, and the other side came in for its inning. Jim
Dabney was all smiles, as he came over to Fred.
"How was that for a throw, Fred?" he asked. "Pretty nifty, I call it."
"It was a peach," assented Fred. "You got me good and proper and I'm not
saying a word. That wing of yours is certainly all right. How's the
hand? Did you hurt it badly?"
"Only started another nail," answered Jim. "I suppose that will turn
black now and begin to come off. That'll make the third I've lost this
year. Lucky it was on the left hand, though."
"Cheer up, Jim," laughed Bob, "you've got seven nails left."
But, obviously, Jim did not need cheering up. His good-natured face was
aglow with satisfaction. He had made a good stop and had thrown his man
out at the plate. Then, too, he rather gloated over his scars in secret,
and would exhibit them on occasion with all the pride of a soldier
showing his wounds received in battle. They were so many proofs of his
prowess on the diamond.
It would be straining a point, perhaps, to call the field on which the
boys were playing a "diamond." At the best it was a "diamond in the
rough." Half a mile away, on the other side of the village of Oldtown,
there was a real baseball field, well laid out and kept in good
condition. There was a fine turf infield, a spacious and closely cut
outfield and the base lines were clearly marked. The townspeople took
considerable pride in the grounds, that were much above the average for
villages of that size, and, on Saturday afternoons, almost the whole
male population of the town was to be found watching the game and
"rooting" for the home team.
But on this day the boys were practicing on a lot directly behind the
home of Fred Rushton, who was the captain of their school nine. Big
stones marked the position of the bases, and the "rubber" at the home
plate was a sheet of tin. Although the infield was fairly smooth, the
lot further out was rough and clumpy, and it was risky work running for
high flies, as Jim had proved to his cost. But it was good practice, and
the enthusiasm and high spirits of the boys made up for all defects in
the playing field. It is safe to say that no highly paid athlete,
prancing over the velvet sward of major league grounds, got so much real
fun out of the game as these lads with their makeshift diamond.
Most of the boys playing were members of the Oldtown school team, but
enough others had been picked up to make a scrub game of seven on a
side. Two players had to cover the whole outfield, and each side was
minus a shortstop. Even with this handicap, the game had been a good
one, and, after one more inning had been played, Fred's side had come
out two runs ahead. It was getting late in the afternoon, and the boys,
flushed and dusty, had begun to draw on their coats.
"Oh, don't go yet, fellows," urged Teddy Rushton, Fred's younger
brother. "I haven't had half enough baseball yet. I'm as full of pep as
when I began."
"Oh, come off," retorted Bob Ellis. "Don't you see where the sun is?
It's getting near supper time. It's too late to start another game."
"Who said anything about another game?" replied Teddy. "I'm going to do
some fungo hitting. Get out there, you fellows, and I'll knock you some
flies. Go along, Jim, and I'll take off another nail."
"You'd better not," grinned Jim, but scampered out just the same,
followed by three or four others, whose appetite for the game, like
Teddy's own, had not been fully satisfied.
Teddy had a keen eye and a good arm, and there were few boys of his age
who could hit the ball harder or send it further. Usually, too, he could
gauge the distance and knock a fly so that it would fall almost in the
fielder's hands. But to-day the ball seemed to take a perverse delight
in falling either too short or too far out, and the boys were kept on
the run, with only an occasional catch to reward their efforts.
"Have a heart, Teddy!" shouted Jim, red and perspiring. "Put 'em where a
fellow can get 'em."
"Get a move on, why don't you?" called Teddy in return. "I can't help it
if you run like ice wagons. I hit them all right."
"Hit!" snorted Jim wrathfully. "You couldn't hit the water, if you fell
overboard."
A little nettled by the taunt, Teddy looked about him. He caught sight
of a stage, drawn by two horses, jogging along the road that ran beside
the field. A glint of mischief came into his eyes and he gripped his bat
tightly. Here was a chance to prove that Jim was wrong.
The stage coach was coming from the railroad station at Carlette, a mile
away, where it had been to meet the five-thirty P. M. train. Business
had not been very brisk, judging from the fact that the ramshackle old
vehicle carried only one passenger, a rather elderly man dressed in
black, who sat on one of the side seats with his back toward the boys. A
bag of mail was on the front seat alongside the driver, a lank,
slab-sided individual, in a linen duster that had evidently seen better
days. He held the reins listlessly over the horses, who moved slowly
along, as though they were half asleep. Coach and horses and driver were
so dead and alive, so Rip Van Winkle-like, that the temptation was
almost irresistible to stir them up, to wake them out of their dream. To
Teddy, with his native love of mischief, it proved wholly irresistible.
"Can't hit anything, eh?" he yelled to Jim. "Just watch me."
He took careful aim, caught the ball full on the end of the bat and sent
it straight as a bullet toward the coach. Even as he swung, he heard the
startled cry of his brother:
"Don't, Teddy, don't!"
But it was too late.
The ball struck the gray horse a glancing blow on the flank and caromed
off into the coach, catching the solitary passenger full in the back of
the neck. He fell over toward the opposite side, grasping at the seat to
steady himself.
The effect was electric. If Teddy had wanted action, he got it--got it
beyond his wildest dream.
The gray horse, stung and frightened by the sudden blow, reared high in
the air and threw himself against his companion. The sorrel, catching
the contagion, plunged forward. The startled driver tried to hold them
in, but they had gotten beyond him. The frenzied brutes rushed on down
the hill, the old coach bumping and swaying wildly behind them.
Dazed and scared, the author of the mischief dropped his bat. Horror
stole into his eyes and his face showed white beneath its coat of tan.
The horses were running away!