THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH
ON THE DIAMOND

FRANK GAVE NO SIGN OF THE EXCITEMENT THAT THRILLED HIS EVERY NERVE.—Frontispiece.
Columbia High on the Diamond Page [32].

THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA
HIGH ON THE DIAMOND

OR

Winning Out by Pluck

BY
GRAHAM B. FORBES
AUTHOR OF “THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH,” “THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH
ON THE DIAMOND,” ETC.

ILLUSTRATED

NEW YORK
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS

The Boys of Columbia High Series

BY GRAHAM B. FORBES

12mo. Cloth. Illustrated. Price, per volume,
50 cents, postpaid.

THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH
Or The All Around Rivals of the School

THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE DIAMOND
Or Winning Out by Pluck

THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE RIVER
Or The Boat Race Plot That Failed

THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE GRIDIRON
Or The Struggle for the Silver Cup

THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH ON THE ICE
Or Out for the Hockey Championship

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS NEW YORK

Copyright, 1911, by
GROSSET & DUNLAP

The Boys of Columbia High on the Diamond

CONTENTS

THE BOYS OF COLUMBIA HIGH
ON THE DIAMOND

CHAPTER I
ON THE WAY TO THE GAME

“Give it again, fellows! For the honor of old Columbia—now, once more, with a will!” shouted the cheer captain, Herman Hooker.

“Ho! ho! ho! hi! hi! hi! veni, vidi, vici! Columbia!”

“Cast off there, somebody.”

“Start your engine, Frank, old boy!”

“Hurrah! we’re afloat on the raging Harrapin at last!”

“Got any life preservers aboard, fellows?”

Amid all this uproar and confusion Frank Allen, cool and collected, gave a whirl to the crank to turn his engine over; and immediately a succession of rattling reports testified to the fact that as master of ceremonies he had given the expedition a good send-off.

Then he handed over the engine to the charge of Abner Gould, the man employed regularly by Commodore Adams, to whom the launch belonged.

The Geraldine had been loaned to the members of the Columbia High School baseball team for this special occasion, by the owner, just then away on business.

Accompanied by several members of the Columbia band, they were now on their way down the Harrapin river, to play their first game with the Bellport High School nine, and enthusiasm waxed furious over the prospect ahead.

A peculiar condition of the weather had sadly disarranged the schedule of the Harrapin River League. Three clubs composed the organization, representing Bellport, Clifford and Columbia; and it had been agreed that each was to play a trio of games with both opposing teams. The one who came out ahead would, of course, be given the pennant, and hailed as the champion for the year, an honor greatly coveted, since the three towns were keen rivals in all athletic matters.

While Columbia and Bellport had each played three games thus far, they had all been with the third member of the league, Clifford.

What seemed still more singular was the fact that in each of these series Clifford had won one game and lost two. Consequently, Columbia and Bellport were now tied for first place, with three games to be played, while Clifford was out of the race completely.

To-day was to see the first game between these two giants. And the choice of ground had fallen upon Bellport.

As this enterprising town lay quite a number of miles down the river, it had been suggested that the Columbia nine journey that way by means of Commodore Adams’ launch, which, with the services of his man, had been gladly offered for the day.

Of course the two towns were connected by a trolley, owned principally by the father of Lef Seller, a junior in the school, and just now in bad odor on account of some pranks he had played a short time before. Special cars had been brought into use on this gala day to accommodate the crowds desiring to witness the struggle that must accompany the first meeting of the rival nines.

With the flags of the Harrapin River Boat Club floating from stem and stern, and the band tooting away gaily, the little launch left the float, and started merrily down-stream.

A roar from the crowd on the bank testified to the fact that, while all Columbia could not journey over to Bellport to witness this impending game, the sympathies of those compelled to remain at home were with the boys who represented the honor of the High School on this occasion.

“Say, this is what I call going to battle in style,” said Lanky Wallace, the tall first baseman, as he shoved alongside Frank on the crowded seat, and threw an arm around the other with the air of a chum.

“I was just speculating on how we will return—with shouts and cheers, or dolefully telling each other just how it happened,” remarked Frank; but his smiling face was evidence of the fact that he had little fears on that score as he looked around at the enthusiastic countenances of his comrades.

“If your arm’s in prime condition, as you say, I’m not worrying any on that score, Frank. Coddling may be a wonder, just as they claim, but once we get on to his curves there’s going to be some smashing work done. I feel that I’m in for business at the old stand myself, to-day,” returned Lanky, with a positive shake of his head.

“Glad to hear you say it. A pitcher needs confidence in the ability of his men to get runs, as well as field like a machine. We’ve just got to do that crowd up to-day, and that’s all there is to it.”

“And we will, never fear, Frank,” observed Roderic Seymour, who, leading senior though he was, considered it an honor to serve as captain, and play second with the snappy nine Columbia had put into the field this year.

“Are we on time?” demanded Buster Billings, always afraid of getting left, although worrying did not seem to reduce his abundant flesh so that it could be noticed.

“Yes, with a margin to spare, if the boat shoves along as she is doing right now,” replied Lanky Wallace.

Lanky, of course, covered first, and few balls ever passed through his territory when he was feeling fit.

Lef Seller was aboard the boat, since he was a member of the team, though under a cloud temporarily, and forbidden by the faculty from taking part in any baseball game during the season. This severe punishment sprung from his action in playing an unusually mean prank upon Frank, whom he chose to regard as his mortal enemy; and which circumstance, together with many other interesting events, has been set forth in full in the preceding volume of this series, called: “The Boys of Columbia High; or, The All Around Rivals of the School.”

Lef tried to join with his mates and appear jolly, but it was a great effort, when his heart was sore on account of being listed as the black sheep of the flock, to be shunned by self-respecting fellows.

He had his own followers, who toadied to him on account of the money he spent so freely; but none of them happened to be aboard the boat, so Lef felt that he was in one sense out of his element.

The beautiful home town faded out of sight up the river, and all eyes began to be turned toward the bow, as they anticipated catching a distant glimpse of Bellport at any moment.

“Better save your wind until later, Herman!” called out Tom Budd, the lithe shortstop, and a fellow who was a natural acrobat, doing stunts in and out of season; so that no one was ever surprised to see him spring into the air, catch a liner, turn completely over, and come up smiling, with the ball held up for the umpire to take notice.

“Plenty more left,” laughed the “best yeller Columbia ever had,” as he waved his megaphone in the air, and led the boys in another song.

It was a glorious day in June, and not one aboard that boat but felt the inspiration of the magical sunshine and soft air.

Half of the distance separating the rival towns had been covered by this time, and the gallant little launch was making fine speed down the current.

“Looks like Clifford meant to be represented at the game, too,” remarked one of the boys, pointing to the shore.

Clifford was above Columbia, and on the other bank of the river. A road led down to the vicinity of Bellport, where a ferry took farm wagons across. And on this road a cloud of dust told that all sorts of vehicles had been impressed into service to carry the baseball-mad people to the scene.

Fine cars shot along, blowing their horns, and steady-going farm horses trotted evenly by the side of the road, all heading in the one direction. It was enough to thrill the boys belonging to the team to realize that all this excitement in the county was caused by their crossing bats with the Bellport High nine.

“Poor old Clifford never got a peep in this year,” mocked Jack Comfort, said to be the best chaser after flies the school had ever known, and who guarded center field.

“Well, they had hard luck. The game they won from us showed that there was cracking good stuff on the team. I never saw a better game in my life, with the score tied in the ninth. Wow! that was some exciting!” exclaimed Lanky, his eyes sparkling at the recollection.

“It would have been our game if Ben Allison could have held that fly out in left. He made a big effort, but dropped the ball,” remarked Captain Seymour, sadly.

“Well, I reckon that failure just knocked poor Ben out. He’s been no good to the team ever since, and here we have to put our extra pitcher in right garden just to fill in, because he’s a crackerjack pinch hitter!” grumbled Buster.

“That’s all right, boys, and I’m only too glad of the chance to play at all. A freshman doesn’t often get on the team, and it’s mighty fine for you to boost me up this way,” Ralph West hastened to remark.

Ralph did not live in Columbia, being one of the pay students. He was anxious for an education, and a fortunate chance had allowed him to come to the thriving river town at the beginning of the school year. He and Frank had become good friends, and the latter was deeply interested in certain strange features connected with Ralph’s fortunes.

“I think it’s a poor rule that keeps freshmen off the team so much. They are better fitted to take part in sports then than later on, when filled with ambition to excel in their studies,” said Jack Eastwick, one of the juniors, and a substitute on the team.

At this there was a universal howl, for Jack was notoriously averse to studying under any and all circumstances, and depended upon a system of “cramming” just before examinations to carry him through.

“Now, there’s a wide difference of opinion on that question. For my part, I fully agree with Coach Willoughby, who says——” but Buster was seldom allowed to tell what this wonderful instructor, whom the boys really believed existed only in the imagination of the fat right fielder, had to say.

As usual, a shout cut him short, and with an injured stare at the laughing group, he relapsed into disdainful silence.

“Where are their grounds located?” asked Ralph, who had never as yet had an opportunity for visiting the Bellport field.

“Half a mile below the town. Bellport is something of a manufacturing place, and there’s going to be more or less of a rough element at the game, for the factories have shut down for a half holiday, beginning this Saturday, and the hands are sure to be out in force.”

Frank looked a trifle anxious as he spoke, for truth to tell he had more than once wondered whether a sense of fairness would animate that rough element, or the desire to see Bellport win at any cost.

“Listen! I thought I heard a roar just then. The wind is coming up the river, and it must have been shouts from the ball field,” and Seymour held up his hand to ask for silence.

It was while they were thus straining their ears to catch the sounds from below that all at once the familiar “pop-pop” of the exhaust connected with the motor boat ceased, and soon their rapid progress fell off.

Immediately everybody started to shout at once, wanting to know what had gone wrong. Frank sprang over to where Abner Gould bent over the little motor. The man lifted a troubled face toward him.

Every eye was glued on Frank as he started to examine the engine, for they knew he had more of a practical knowledge of such things than any one aboard, unless it might be the man hired by Commodore Adams to run his launch.

“What ails the thing, Frank?” demanded Buster, as the other raised up.

“Yes, this isn’t the time for playing pranks. We’re nearly due now on the field, and don’t want to be called shirks!” exclaimed Lanky, warmly.

“Boys, I’ve got some bad news for you,” announced Frank.

“What is it? Don’t keep us in suspense, old warhorse!” cried “Bones” Shadduck, who played third on the team.

“The motor has broken down, and we’re in a bad box!” declared Frank, seriously.

CHAPTER II
A WARM BEGINNING FOR CODDLING

A groan went up from full twenty throats, at this dismal announcement.

“What shall we do? We can’t just float down like this. It would look as if we were whipped before we began to play!” sang out Jack Comfort, almost in a whine.

“We’ve just got to swim for it, that’s all! Me for the cool drink!” said Lanky, pretending to poise on the bow of the boat as if for a plunge.

Frank looked serious indeed, but it was something more than the fact of the breakdown that worried him. He had reason for suspecting that Abner Gould must have done something to bring about this condition of affairs!

Still, he said nothing about it, not being sure. But he could not help remembering that this man had a brother who was known as something of a sport, and made himself conspicuous at many of the baseball games by his disposition to bet upon the result, something that the faculty of the several schools very much objected to, though unable to stop fully.

Dimly Frank could see how there might be some connection between this circumstance and their sudden delay. If Watkins Gould had been wagering heavily against the Columbia team winning, everything that helped disconcert them, and make them unduly anxious, was to his credit. And Abner did not have a face that Frank thought could be trusted.

“Don’t worry, boys,” he said, as the others crowded around, “there are more ways than one for getting to Bellport. If necessary we could go ashore and take the trolley.”

“You might if they let us climb on the roof, for every car is loaded down with people,” observed Paul Bird, Frank’s chum and catcher.

“All right. Here comes Mr. Garabrant in his launch. Possibly he may be glad to give us a tow.”

Frank, as he spoke, kept his eyes on the face of the man who had charge of the motor. He felt positive he saw a sudden look of keen disappointment come upon it, though Abner, upon noticing that he was being observed, tried to look pleased.

“He did it, I’m dead certain!” was what Frank was saying to himself, as a thrill of indignation passed over his frame.

He could stand honest defeat, but when trickery was brought into play it made him angry. At the same time he did not dream for a moment that any one on the opposing team could have had a hand in this mess.

Herman Hooker immediately got his megaphone into service.

“Ahoy there, Mr. Garrabrant! Will you kindly head this way?” he shouted.

The other launch immediately changed its course and approached. There was quite a little company aboard, and evidently the party was headed for the athletic field of Bellport, to witness the great game.

“What’s wrong here?” asked the gentlemanly owner, as he stood up, the better to see.

“A breakdown, and we have really no time to monkey with repairs. Could you give us a tow, sir?” asked Frank.

“Only too glad, boys. It’s very evident that unless I do there would be small chance for a game to-day. Hand us a painter, and we’ll make fast to a cleat at our stern,” replied the Columbia business man, readily.

This being quickly adjusted, progress was once more resumed. Perhaps they did not move quite so fast as before, but that was a matter of small moment. Once more the cheer captain led in vigorous shouts that rang over the water, and brought answering cries from either shore.

“There’s Bellport!” said Frank, directing the attention of Ralph to the numerous tall chimneys that marked the manufacturing town; but they were belching out no smoke this afternoon, for the plants lay idle, with the vast majority of the busy workers in holiday attire heading toward the athletic field.

A landing was made, and jumping ashore, the boys gathered their material of war, after which the march was taken up for the scene of battle.

And when they turned a bend in the road, with the fine field spread before them, every fellow was thrilled to note the tremendous throng that had gathered to see the game, and shout for their respective team.

“Whew! where did they all come from?” gasped Lanky, as he gaped at the host of waving handkerchiefs and hats that greeted their arrival.

“The whole country is baseball mad, that’s what,” remarked Paul, as he strode along at the side of the pitcher.

“It’s a grand sight, and ought to spur every fellow to doing his level best,” remarked the other, drawing in a big breath, for he had never before known such a gathering to greet the Columbia High team, at home or abroad.

As usual, some of the boys began to pass balls as they moved across the diamond. This was done to wear away any nervousness that the sight of the immense crowd might have aroused.

The Bellport team had been practicing for some time now, and were ready to give up the diamond to the visitors. As the time for the commencement of the game was not far away, Captain Seymour sent his men out, and started Frank to warming up.

The grandstand fairly swarmed with people, and the bleachers were packed. Indeed, ropes had to be used to keep the crowd off the diamond, and hundreds sat beyond the right field, where there happened to be some shade.

It sounded like Bedlam broke loose, what with the various school yells, the cat-calls and shouts, and now and then a song breaking above the clamor. Herman Hooker had hurried over to where his shouting clan awaited him. They had kept a seat for him in the front row, where he could jump up at the proper time, and lead the cheering with that astounding foghorn voice of his.

Frank noticed as he passed the ball in to Paul that Watkins Gould was present, and apparently boldly seeking bets on the game. The bleachers were occupied for the most part with the factory workers, a rough crowd, and many of them ready to take a chance on their favorite team.

When finally the Columbia boys came in after a strenuous practice covering about a quarter of an hour, the many-colored flags fluttered from the hands of those in the grandstand until the structure looked like a great bunch of flowers; while from hundreds of lusty throats rose the various class and school cries, blending in a surge of sound.

Then Bellport took the field, their going out being the signal for a tremendous ovation, for they had the full support of their town.

Roderic Seymour had changed the batting list somewhat since the last game played with Clifford. To Ralph was given the honor of leading off, since he was playing in place of Ben Allison. The order ran in this fashion:

Ralph West—Left field.
“Bones” Shaddock—Third base.
Jack Comfort—Center field.
Lanky Wallace—First base.
Buster Billings—Right field.
Tom Budd—Shortstop.
Roderic Seymour—Second base.
Paul Bird—Catcher.
Frank Allen—Pitcher.

Ralph was a fair batter, but a better waiter. For this latter reason he had been given orders to take his time, and as he faced the opposing pitcher, Coddling, who was said to be the best twirler Bellport had ever turned out, he assumed a position of eagerness and expectancy, as though burning with anxiety to strike.

Coddling had never played against any of these fellows before. He was therefore forced to depend entirely on what his catcher signaled. And Clay, while on the team the preceding year, knew nothing about the weaknesses of this new batter.

Consequently Ralph got his base, after two strikes had been called on him, one of which was really a miss at an outcurve.

Of course the excitement began at once. A hum went around the field, and Columbia stock arose, with mocking cries hurled at the local adherents.

Shaddock was a good hitter as rule. He had made something of a record on the team the preceding year. The best he could do now, after knocking three fouls, was to send one into the hands of the shortstop, who failed, however, to double Ralph at second on account of a fumble.

Intense interest was taken in the coming to bat of Jack Comfort.

“Lace one out, old boy!” howled the Columbia bunch in the center of the bleachers, where they had gathered to fairly split the atmosphere with their shouts.

“You can do it if you try! Over Lacy’s head, Jack!”

Jack thereupon did try. Three times he swung on the ball, and as often it came with a dull, sickening thud in the catcher’s big mitt, while the grin on the face of Smith, Sr., the tall first baseman, was most exasperating.

A roar went up as Jack walked back to the bench shaking his head. Those elusive “spit” balls of Coddling had him guessing, and silently he stared at the slim pitcher who had proved his right to the name of wizard, as if trying to fathom where his own efforts fell short.

Now came Lanky Wallace. He was warmly greeted by friend and foe alike, for somehow everybody knew the elongated Columbia first baseman always did his level best, and played a clean, square game.

Lanky was more fortunate than Jack, for he hit the second ball Coddling floated up, hit it with a vim that sent the sphere whistling out toward left, much to the surprise of the pitcher, and the delight of the crowd.

As a man the entire mass swung to their feet to follow the course of the ball. Smith, Jr., so called to distinguish him from his brother, was covering ground at a great rate, in the hope of getting his hands upon the flying horsehide ere it went past.

“He’s got it!” whooped the Bellport enthusiasts, as the left fielder made a fine leap in the air, and apparently snatched the ball down.

“Not much he has! Go it, both of you! He knocked the ball down, but never held it! Run, you lazybones. Make a homer of it, Lanky!”

It seemed as though two thousand people were madly shrieking as the runners sped around the bases. Smith, Jr., had recovered the ball, and was relaying it home in the effort to catch Ralph at the plate. A great slide, however, allowed the Columbia man to get his run. Meanwhile, Lanky had reached third, and was held on that bag by the coach.

With two out and a man on third Buster Billings swung his bat as if ready to put the ball over the head of Snodgrass in right field.

“Give me an easy one, Mr. Pitcher. I’m only learning how to swing on ’em. Coach Willoughby says——” and then Buster hit it!

The ball took an awkward turn, so that although both the pitcher and second baseman made a dive at it neither was fortunate enough to fork the elusive sphere. Amid a frightful clamor the fat Columbia student managed to get to first, where he presently stood, wiping his red face with a bandana.

Of course Lanky easily came in, and the score had been raised to two, which was an encouraging start for the visitors, considering who was doing the pitching.

Tom Budd proved an easy victim, however. Coddling took a brace, and although the Columbia shortstop certainly tried his best to connect with one of the bewildering drops which were handed up to him, he never touched the ball.

So the inning ended for Columbia, and they took the field. Confidence had, however, been installed in their hearts, for it seemed as if the terrible Coddling might after all not be so very hard to get at.

Frank had been up against most of these fellows before. He knew that they had a reputation as heavy hitters, and once started were hard to stop.

Snodgrass, the first man up, usually managed to draw his base. His very attitude at the plate bothered a pitcher, which was just what he meant it to do.

But Frank was determined that he should strike, and sent swift balls directly over until he had managed to get the other just where he wanted him. Then a well directed outcurve deceived Snodgrass. He went back to the bench amid the groans of the crowd.

Then up rose Hough, the doughty second baseman, who was playing in place of Captain Cuthbert Lee, on the sick list, with his trusty bat. He knocked imaginary dirt from the soles of his shoes and took his place. Hough had a good batting eye, and could pick one out all right.

Two balls and one strike had been called when he swung viciously. The sound of the connection was like a rifle report, and instantaneously the immense crowd gave a howl of delight.

Again was there an upheaval, as every eye tried to follow the flight of the rapidly shooting ball.

It was headed for the territory of Buster, and the fat fielder was straining every nerve to get within reaching distance of the flying sphere!

CHAPTER III
A GAME WORTH SEEING

“See the ice wagon move!”

“It’s got an engine attached to it somewhere, fellows!”

“Will he get it—maybe, maybe not!” whooped Jack Eastwick.

“It’s a balloon, that’s what it is!” howled one Bellport enthusiast.

They saw Buster glancing over his shoulder once or twice as he ran. It was a perfect wonder that he did not stumble and fall flat, for on more than one former occasion that was what had happened to the apparently clumsy fielder.

But Frank had high hopes. He knew that Buster could rise to an emergency, and really accomplish the impossible—for such stockily built fellows of his class. He held his breath as the fielder turned squarely around and threw up one of his hands. Hough was already shooting down toward second in wild haste. If Buster made a mess of it the hit was likely to count a home run, for it had enough steam behind it to carry far afield.

“He did it, Buster did it!” cried dozens of voices, as though the speakers had considerable difficulty in believing their own eyes.

Then a fierce wave of sound went surging over the field. It was a fine play that appealed to the sportsmanlike spirit of an American crowd, so that even the warmest adherents of Bellport High joined in the tremendous cheer that awoke the echoes in the hills near by.

And Hough walked in from second, shaking his head, and looking back toward the plump fielder as though he felt that he had been robbed.

Two out! It was a splendid beginning, and nerved Frank to keep up the good work. If the balance of the boys only did their duty as Buster had shown how, the game would turn out to be a one-sided affair at best.

But Frank knew the vagaries that attach to baseball, which serve to give it its greatest charm. No game is won until the last man is put out. A rally can cause a winning team to go all to pieces, so that their opponents fairly “shoot holes through their ranks.”

“Banghardt next!”

“He’s the boy who can do it, else why his name?”

“Watch him knock the cover off the ball! See the fielders move out. Oh! Allen knows this chap. He’s the swift bunch, all right!”

After all this boasting it must have been a bit humiliating to the Bellport boosters to see their idol strike out; but that was what the mighty Banghardt did. Three separate times did he send that wagon-tongue bat of his whistling through the air, each occasion being marked with a distinct grunt as it met only vacant space, for the ball was not where he believed it to be.

“Better luck next time, Tony! Taking his measure are you?” yelled a Columbia boy, derisively, as the fielder threw his bat savagely away, and started out to attend to his territory, for the inning was over.

Coddling took a brace after that first unfortunate affair, and the next three visitors who faced him were mowed down in regular order. His curves were most exasperating, his speed terrific, and he could mix a few fadeaway balls with the others in a fashion that kept the batter guessing all the time.

So once more Frank went into the box to face the hard-hitting Bellport men.

“Promises to be a warm game,” remarked a man who happened to be sitting beside Lef Seller on the bleachers.

“Oh! I don’t know,” replied the disgruntled Columbia student, a pitcher of no mean merit himself, and who, but for his own misconduct, might have been serving on the team as a substitute. “That Coddling is a marvel sure, and they say he gets better right along, finishing strong. It’s different, with Frank. You see he starts well, but any little thing is apt to rattle him badly, so that he goes to pieces.”

This was not so, as Lef well knew, but he could never resist the temptation to give the boy he hated a sly and underhand dig.

The gentleman looked at his hat-band curiously.

“You’re from Columbia, too, I believe, judging from the purple and gold ribbon you wear?” he remarked, with a slight sneer.

“Oh! yes, I used to pitch for them last year, but the faculty jumped on me for some foolish little thing I did, and refused to let me take part this season. Frank does his best, we all know, but he isn’t just as steady as he might be,” continued Lef, brazenly.

“That’s queer. I had an idea Frank was about as cool a player as I had ever seen in my old days at Princeton. If that’s the reputation he has then I’ve made the poorest play of my life, and I used to be considered a judge. Buster gave me to understand differently.”

“Then you know Buster Billings?” asked Lef, quickly and uneasily.

“Why, I’m stopping at his house just now,” came the reply.

“Oh! then I can understand how it comes you think so highly of Frank, because he has a few chums always ready to sneeze when he takes snuff. There are some others in Columbia, and I own that I’m one of the gang, who believe Frank Allen to be a greatly overrated athlete. There! did you see him pass that man. He never pitched near the plate. I told you he could be easily rattled!”

“Wait, my boy. Many a pitcher, as you know, does that, when he feels it in his bones that the batter is able to hit the ball. Besides, perhaps he knows that the next man is an easy mark for him,” remarked the gentleman, who seemed to be quite at home with regard to the fine points of the game.

“That Smith, Jr., is the left fielder, and I have seen him send the ball out of sight. But his brother is no pie either, and if Frank thinks he’s going to mow him down he has another guess coming,” muttered Lef, eagerly watching, and ready to howl should the batter connect.

“One strike!” announced the umpire, though the man had not swung at all.

With the next ball he did strike viciously, but the merry plunk as the horsehide sphere settled comfortably in the big mitt of Paul Bird told that he had failed to properly gauge the line of its rifleball flight.

After that came a foul and two balls. Frank believed he had his measure taken, and it was with the utmost confidence that he sent in one of his tantalizing out-curves.

“You’re out!” shouted the umpire.

The man on first had not dared run down, for he knew Frank’s battery mate was a remarkably accurate thrower to second; and that only on rare occasions had any opposing player purloined that sack while Paul Bird stood behind the plate.

“Only one down!” shouted the coach near first, dancing about in an effort to divert the pitcher’s attention from his business; but Frank was up to all such stale tricks, and paid no attention to Snodgrass, his eye being on Lacy at the bat, and Smith, Jr., on the initial sack.

Lacy was reckoned the dude of Bellport High. He always seemed as though “walking on eggs,” as some of the Columbia fellows said, and his manner of dressing in the very latest style had gained him the name of being a dandy. But when it came to covering that short field he had few peers among the school teams in that part of the country.

He could also lace them out on occasion, too, having that very desirable quality in a successful player, called a “batting eye.”

Frank knew him of old, and played him cautiously. In spite of his care, however, Herb reached out and tapped one of his outshoots. The ball went plunging in the direction of short, and the crowd gasped to see how that acrobatic Tom Budd did his part of the business.

He threw himself headlong at the passing ball, as though his legs were unable to carry him fast enough. They saw him turn a complete somersault and land on his feet like an acrobat in the circus.

“Wow!” howled the amazed Bellport players, as Tom whirled and sent the ball to Seymour on second, who instantly relayed it to Lanky just in time to cut off the leaping Lacy while he was yet in the air.

“A double! What do you think of that for playing?” shrieked the Columbia crowd, standing on their feet, and waving the colors of their school as if frenzied.

“What sort of a human hinge have you got out there in short?” asked the gentleman alongside Lef; “I’ve seen some clever plays in my time, but that certainly beat them all out. Can that chap play baseball standing on his head?”

“Oh! that’s Tom Budd, and he’s always doing stunts. Sometimes he succeeds, but more often makes a muss of it,” grunted Lef, who had felt disgusted to see Bellport mowed down so easily when things looked bright for a run.

“I’m glad I happened to see him when he succeeded, then. That was worth ten times the price of the admission. I came to see a baseball match, but this is as good as a circus,” laughed the other.

Lef moved away. Somehow or other he felt that he would be in more congenial atmosphere among some of the Bellport rooters, and listening to derogatory remarks concerning the fellow he detested.

It was Ralph at the bat again, and this time he went out on a fly that Snodgrass captured after a hard run. Shadduck fanned after knocking about seven fouls that gave Clay a number of hard runs without any success at corraling one. And while Jack Comfort managed to lift one that landed him on first, he perished on the way to second, owing to Clay’s straight shoot to the bag.

In their half of the third, Bellport managed to put one run over. Shaddock fumbled a hot liner that came his way, allowing the stout Bardwell to gallop to first. Then Clay lifted a fly that, while caught, gave the other a chance to land on second.

“Play the game, fellows!” shouted the eager watchers, as the pitcher took his place to bat.

Coddling bunted, and while out at first the chance was given Bardwell to settle himself comfortably on third.

This compelled Snodgrass to hit, something he seldom did, preferring to get his base on balls. With a lucky little pop fly that neither Lanky nor Buster could reach before it fell, he brought his man in.

Hough went out on a long fly to Comfort, so that the score was now two to one in favor of Columbia.

Frank, when coming in, glanced up toward the grandstand. He knew very well just where his sister and Minnie Cuthbert were seated, and nodded his head with a smile in answer to the furious waving of the little purple and gold banners both girls carried. It was an inspiration to him to know that they were watching his work.

Then he looked up at the beautiful pennant that floated over the field, offered by the same Mr. Garabrant who had towed their disabled launch, to the club winning the greater number of games in this tri-school league series of battles on the diamond.

“You’ll get it, Frank, never fear!” shouted some one from the bleachers, seeing that look he gave.

“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” jeered a Bellport rooter.

“It’s a bully good fight, all right,” admitted a Clifford man, “and we’re only sorry to be out of it up our way. But most of our people want Columbia to win.”

Three more innings saw no change in the score. Several hits were made off each pitcher, but good fielding, and a tightening up all around, prevented any damage resulting from such isolated cases.

So the seventh commenced, with the strain greater than ever.

“Hold them down, Frank! You’ve got it, if you do!”

“But do some little batting yourselves, boys. Get at him! Coddling’s easy when you just know how!” jeered the other side.

When Paul Bird stepped up to the plate to take his turn at the beginning of the seventh some one started to sing, “Columbia, the Gem of the Ocean.” A score of voices instantly joined in, followed by hundreds of others, until there was so much noise that the decisions of the umpire could not be heard above it, and he had to depend on gestures entirely.

And while the uproar was at its height Paul was sent to first on balls!

“Coddling is getting rattled, boys! Keep it up!” shrieked a dozen frantic Columbia fellows, waving their ribbon bedecked hats wildly.

“Watch Frank bring him in with a three-bagger! He can do it, all right!” sang the crowd, as the pitcher stepped quietly up to the plate.

CHAPTER IV
THE RALLY THAT CAME TOO LATE

Frank gave no sign of the excitement that thrilled his every nerve. He realized that possibly a fortunate hit on his part right then and there would eventually win the game.

Despite the furious racket that kept up on every hand, he faced Coddling, and prepared to do his very best to at least advance the runner.

As a rule pitchers are not reckoned good batters, but Frank Allen had always been known to hit well. Coddling therefore tightened up, and determined to put his rival out of the running by tempting him with some of his astonishing assortment of curves and drops, for his swift ball had already cost him dear, so that he was afraid to use it often.

Frank even allowed a strike to be called on him before he picked out one that seemed to his liking. What he did to that ball was a caution. It sailed away out in right, and Snodgrass had the run of his life to chase after it.

Paul, reaching second, paused, an instant, for if the ball were caught, he would have some difficulty getting back to first in time.

“Go on, Paul!” bellowed the coach through his hands.

The noise had broken out worse than ever, so that each player had to be a law unto himself just then.

“He muffed it! Run! run! run!” whooped everybody who had the interest of Columbia at heart, while the Bellport adherents looked dismal enough.

It was an excusable error, for the fielder had fallen headlong at the instant his fingers touched the ball. He was up like a flash and chasing after it. Paul circled the bases and easily came home, but the coach held Frank at third, as the ball was coming in when he reached there.

Nevertheless, it had been a three-bagger, despite the mess Snodgrass had made of his effort to capture the fly, and a run had resulted. Frank had reason to feel satisfied with himself as he crouched there and panted for breath.

He knew that the chances were he would be a little off in his work unless this inning lasted for some time. That was one reason why his fellow players tried to delay matters as best they could within reason. Ralph tied his shoe, and then knocked three fouls, finally going out on one that Clay managed to get after a furious rush among the crowd to the right, and which brought him much hand-clapping.

Then Bones Shadduck tried his hand. He wanted to bring Frank in, and struck savagely at what he considered fair balls; but Coddling had him guessing, and finally put him to sleep with a fadeaway that had not even reached the plate when the batter tried to knock it out of sight, and “fell all over himself,” as Lanky said, while doing so.

In their half of this inning the Bellport boys seemed to awaken from the trance that had been binding them. There was a hustle and an energy to their play that told Frank he had better take care, or a batting rally would set in under which Bellport would speed to victory as on former occasions.

Bardwell opened with a hit that bounded off the shins of Seymour. When the captain and second baseman of Columbia managed to snatch up the ball it was too late to head the runner off, though Bardwell was a clumsy man on bases.

He pretended to limp around as though he had been spiked or something. The trick is, of course, as old as the hills. It only happens when a better runner is wanted on the initial bag. Seymour nodded his head when the Bellport captain called out, and accordingly Lacy was substituted for the elephantine Bardwell.

Clay tried to bring him in with a big hit away out in center, but Comfort was on his job in that territory, and managed to corral the ball after backing out, even though he could not keep Lacy from taking second.

Then came Coddling. He was no great batter, but there are times when baseball is full of surprises, and Frank was taking no chances.

“Fan him, Frank!” shouted an excited rooter from the grandstand.

“Let him hit it! Encourage a hard-working man a little!” called another.

Coddling tried his level best, but that did not seem good enough, for he presently walked back to the bench, with three strikes marked against his record.

Snodgrass waited, and got his base, though Frank considered that the umpire was unusually severe with him in calling balls, when he cut the plate with at least one of those that counted against him.

“Now, Hough, you know what to do!”

“Yes, Hough, lam it good and hard over old Billings’ head. He’ll never get another like he did that first one. That was an accident!”

“You’ve got him up in the air, boys! Lead that horse into the stable!”

Dozens of like cries sounded everywhere. It is a part of the game to try and rattle the pitcher when such an emergency arises.

Still, that faint smile remained on the face of Frank Allen, as he prepared to take the measure of this hard-hitting Bellport player, who had broken the reputation of at least one promising pitcher.

With two out, and men on first and third, Hough certainly had reason to do everything in his power to make a hit. Then came the sharp shock as the bat met one of Frank’s curves on the nose, and the ball went shooting down toward third.

Shadduck stopped the speedy one as best he could, but it was coming like a comet, and he could not hold it. Jumping after the ball, he snatched it up. The chances of getting it to Paul were rather meagre, but it was his business to try, and he shot it for home.

No doubt the very rapidity of the play unsettled him, so that he failed to send the ball exactly where it would have cut the runner off. Paul had to reach out after it, and then tag the sliding runner.

“Safe!” shouted the umpire, who was there on the spot to see.

Meanwhile Paul had tossed the ball back to Shadduck, for there was danger of Snodgrass coming down from second while all this was going on; in fact, he had to be driven back with threatening gestures.

With two men on bases and two out, the inning still had possibilities, and loud waxed the exultant cries of the Bellport rooters as they sang their school song and made a great demonstration.

“Got him up in a balloon! He’s ascending, all right, boys! Give him another push, Tony!”

Banghardt stepped up full of confidence, and faced the pitcher with determination in his eye. Just two minutes later he dropped his bat and trotted out toward center, for the umpire had said that three balls which sailed past him were along the strike order—and the umpire belonged to Bellport, too, so that there could be little doubt but what he was right.

So the eighth began with Columbia still one run to the good, and Bellport just as positive as ever that they could not only make the lone tally necessary to tie, but add a few more for good measure.

Comfort, Lanky Wallace and Billings tried to accomplish something while they remained for a fleeting space of time on deck, but Coddling seemed to have taken a new lease of life, and they were unable to connect with a single one of his elusive benders.

Frank shut his teeth hard as he went into the box in turn. He was not given to weakening, despite all that the envious Lef had declared; and his arm felt just as good at that minute as in the second inning.

All Smiths looked alike to him, judging from the way he struck the two brothers out, one after the other.

Herb Lacy managed to work him for a free pass to first, but after all it did him little good, for the next batter, Bardwell, lifted a foul that Paul gathered in against the grandstand, to the accompanying cheers of the occupants.

This brought affairs down to the ninth, and all over the field there was intense excitement.

“This is the lucky Bellport inning!” shouted one fellow, encouragingly.

“Watch them run the game out right here!”

“Will they? Maybe, maybe not!” answered Jack Eastwick.

Herman Hooker had jumped to his feet as Columbia went to bat for the last time. Up to the present he had been content to play a minor part, but now his time had come.

“Give it to them, boys—give them the slogan we love, good and strong. Hi! hi! hi! ho! ho! ho! veni! vidi! vici! Columbia! Siss! boom! ah!”

Amid such a pandemonium Tom Budd struck out, though he died trying to find one of those balls which Coddling seemed to be twining around his neck. Seymour was somewhat more fortunate. He raised a fine fly, but unfortunately it landed in the outstretched hands of Smith, Junior, who did not seem to stir a yard.

Paul Bird made a lucky hit that should have been an out, but the players were so nervous by this time that Lacy actually fumbled the ball. Frank, with all the encouragement that might accompany such backing as could spring from the “best yeller Columbia ever had,” as he jumped up and down, and waved his megaphone violently, sent a hot liner straight at Hough on second that nearly took him off his feet, though he held it.

And then Bellport came to the bat. Every man looked grimly confident. Clay made a hit out of the first ball that came along, reaching out and stealing what was meant to be a wide one.

How those Bellport rooters did shriek and jump! It seemed as though they would go crazy as they begged and implored Coddling to win his own game by advancing the runner by a little bunt.

“He just can’t do it, boys!” called one fellow, after Coddling had twice thrust out his bat and failed to even touch the speeding ball.

“Give him a pair of smoke glasses; the sun’s in his eyes!”

“Three times and out, Coddling—take care, old hoss!”

This time Coddling, in despair, struck savagely, and perhaps to his own surprise, tapped the ball smartly toward second.

“Double ’em up!” arose the howl like a flash, for the average baseball rooter can see the possibilities of a play as soon as a player.

And that was just what happened. Seymour snatched the ball from the ground with one hand, leaped over to his sack, and as his foot touched the same he threw for Lanky on first. Coddling was caught ten feet away, and a mighty groan attested to the strain under which the Bellport crowd was resting.

Snodgrass again found that he just had to strike, for Frank was putting them over on purpose now, having full confidence in the men back of him. Smash! went the ball. Lanky fell over very much like a ten pin that has been caught by a rapidly moving ball, but as he sat there he held up his hand to prove that he had forked the sphere out of the air and gripped it tight!

The game was over, and it had been a heartbreaking one all around. Immediately the great crowd flooded the ground, and the players were swallowed up in groups of admiring rooters. Herman Hooker led his gallant band in another cheer, in which the defeated Bellport team came in for a share of the shouting; after which there was a wild rush for all means of transportation whereby the thousands could hope to reach their homes in the neighboring towns.

When the Columbia players reached the river they found that during their absence Abner Gould had succeeded in repairing the motor, so that it was now in condition to take them back home. Frank could not be sure that his suspicions were well founded, and hence he decided to say nothing about the matter. If the man had been hired by his sporting brother to delay the Columbia team, and annoy them so that they would go upon the field nervous and unstrung, he had been caught in his own trap.

Ralph West seemed anxious to speak to Frank in private. They were on the way up the river, and most of the boys had stretched out, talking over the various thrilling events of the great game, when Ralph dropped down beside Frank.

“I’ve been wanting to say a few words to you ever since we left Columbia, but couldn’t get the chance,” he said in a low tone.

Frank could see that he was unduly excited, and he did not believe that this came wholly from his clever work in the recent game.

“All right, Ralph; what is it?” he asked encouragingly, for they had been good friends for some time, and Frank knew all about certain strange events connected with the past life of the freshman who had made good on the Columbia nine.

“I went to the post-office just before we started out,” commenced Ralph.

Frank started, and looked at him eagerly.

“This is just after the first of the month, and that mysterious letter with the money enclosed used to always come at such a time. Well, what happened?” he asked.

“I got the letter,” replied Ralph, drawing a long breath.

“With the money in it?”

“Yes, just as before,” answered the freshman, gulping hard as something seemed to choke him; “and not a single word. Frank, it’s all opened up again, and I must know who is sending me this money. You promised to help me, and I’ll never rest easy until I learn who I am!”

CHAPTER V
A THUNDERBOLT IN THE SCHOOL

“Let me see the envelope, Ralph,” Frank said, soothingly.

“Here it is, and it comes from your uncle’s office, as before.”

“That’s a fact, and I’m going to ask Uncle Jim again to tell us what he knows of this queer arrangement. Somebody wants you to get an education, and takes this strange way of supplying the money. It’s been coming ever since last summer, hasn’t it, Ralph?”

“Yes. And you know that Mr. and Mrs. West, whom I always believed to be my parents, until lately, admitted that I was only adopted by them, taken from the poorhouse. Then there was that poor Ben Davis. It looked to me that he might be the one; but we saw him before he died, and he denied that he knew anything about me. Oh, this is a terrible fix for a fellow to be in!”

“Cheer up, old chap. Come around to-night, and I’ll get father to take a hand in the game. Perhaps he can induce Uncle Jim to explain who sends this money on the sly through him. He said he had promised not to tell, but dad may influence him some way. I wouldn’t say anything more about it now. The fellows are looking over this way, as though wondering.”

So Ralph tried to change his look of anxiety and gloom to one that corresponded more nearly with the uproarious delight that caused the others to break out in almost continuous cheering under the inspiring influence of Herman Hooker.

That energetic individual was as hoarse as a crow by this time, however, and had to give a rest to the “best yelling voice that Columbia ever knew,” taking it out in gestures that were almost tragic.

And so in the evening of that never-to-be-forgotten day they arrived home, to find the town gaily decked in bunting, and crowds of students parading the streets cheering and singing.

Columbia promised to be painted red that night of the great victory over the strong Bellport team. Even the girls joined in the cheering and singing; while an old cannon was made to do duty on the green, with a salute to the boys who had carried the colors of Columbia High to victory that day.