Project Gutenberg's Baseball Joe on the School Nine, by Lester Chadwick This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org Title: Baseball Joe on the School Nine or, Pitching for the Blue Banner Author: Lester Chadwick Release Date: February 16, 2012 [EBook #38897] Language: English Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 *** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE *** Produced by Donald Cummings and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive/American Libraries.) cover THE NEXT MOMENT THE HORSEHIDE WENT SPEEDING TOWARD THE PLATE. Baseball Joe on the School Nine OR Pitching for the Blue Banner By LESTER CHADWICK AUTHOR OF “BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS,” “THE RIVAL PITCHERS,” “A QUARTER-BACK’S PLUCK,” “BATTING TO WIN,” ETC. ILLUSTRATED logo NEW YORK CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY BOOKS BY LESTER CHADWICK THE BASEBALL JOE SERIES 12mo. Illustrated BASEBALL JOE OF THE SILVER STARS Or The Rivals of Riverside BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE Or Pitching for the Blue Banner (Other Volumes in Preparation) THE COLLEGE SPORTS SERIES 12mo. Illustrated THE RIVAL PITCHERS A Story of College Baseball A QUARTER-BACK’S PLUCK A Story of College Football BATTING TO WIN A Story of College Baseball THE WINNING TOUCHDOWN A Story of College Football (Other Volumes in Preparation) CUPPLES & LEON COMPANY, New York Copyright, 1912, by Cupples & Leon Company Baseball Joe on the School Nine CONTENTS CHAPTER PAGE I Hitting a Teacher 1 II Planning a Battle 12 III An Angry Bully 23 IV Joe Learns Something 31 V The Tables Turned 40 VI The Bully Sneers 52 VII A Clash with Luke 58 VIII “Who Will Pitch?” 68 IX Tom’s Plan Fails 74 X The Banner Parade 82 XI Joe Hopes and Fears 92 XII On the Scrub 98 XIII Joe’s Great Work 106 XIV The Game at Morningside 115 XV A Strange Discovery 124 XVI A Hot Meeting 130 XVII The Initiation 136 XVIII “Fire!” 143 XIX A Thrilling Rescue 150 XX The Warning 160 XXI Bad News 167 XXII Bitter Defeat 173 XXIII Hiram is Out 183 XXIV Two of a Kind 190 XXV By a Close Margin 198 XXVI The Overturned Statue 211 XXVII On Probation 218 XXVIII Luke’s Confession 224 XXIX A Glorious Victory 233 XXX Good News—Conclusion 240 LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS THE NEXT MOMENT THE HORSEHIDE WENT SPEEDING TOWARD THE PLATE. HIRAM SHELL WENT SLIPPING AND SLIDING DOWN THE OUTSIDE WALL OF THE SNOW FORT. AROUND THE MORNINGSIDE DIAMOND MARCHED THE SINGING, CHEERING AND YELLING LADS. THE WHITE BALL WAS PLAINLY VISIBLE AS IT SAILED THROUGH THE AIR. BASEBALL JOE ON THE SCHOOL NINE CHAPTER I HITTING A TEACHER “Look out now, fellows; here goes for a high one!” “Aw come off; you can’t throw high without dislocating your arm, Peaches. Don’t try it.” “You get off the earth; I can so, Teeter. Watch me.” “Let Joe Matson have a try. He can throw higher than you can, Peaches,” and the lad who had last spoken grasped the arm of a tall boy, with a very fair complexion which had gained him the nickname of “Peaches and Cream,” though it was usually shortened to “Peaches.” There was a crowd of lads on the school grounds, throwing snowballs, when the offer of “Peaches” or Dick Lantfeld was made. “Don’t let him throw, Teeter,” begged George Bland, jokingly. “I’ll not,” retorted “Teeter” Nelson, whose first name was Harry, but who had gained his appellation because of a habit he had of “teetering” on his tiptoes when reciting in class. “I’ve got Peaches all right,” and there was a struggle between the two lads, one trying to throw a snowball, and the other trying to prevent him. “Come on, Joe,” called Teeter, to a tall, good-looking, and rather quiet youth who stood beside a companion. “Let’s see you throw. You’re always good at it, and I’ll keep Peaches out of the way.” “Shall we try, Tom?” asked Joe Matson of his chum. [1] [2] “Might as well. Come on!” “Yes, let ‘Sister’ Davis have a whack at it too,” urged George Bland. Tom Davis, who was Joe Matson’s particular chum, was designated “Sister” because, in an incautious moment, when first coming to Excelsior Hall, he had shown a picture of his very pretty sister, Mabel. Tom and Joe, who had come upon the group of other pupils after the impromptu snowball throwing contest had started, advanced further toward their school companions. Peaches and Teeter were still engaged in their friendly struggle, until Peaches tripped over a stone, concealed under a blanket of snow, and both went down in a struggling heap. “Make it a touchdown!” yelled George Bland. “Yes, shove him over the line, Peaches!” cried Tom. “Hold him! Hold him!” implored Joe, and the little group of lads, which was increased by the addition of several other pupils, circled about the struggling ones, laughing at their plight. “D-d-down!” finally panted Peaches, when Teeter held his face in the soft snow. “Let me up, will you?” “Promise not to try to throw a high one?” asked Teeter, still maintaining his position astride of Peaches. “Yes—I—I guess so.” “That doesn’t go with me; you’ve got to be sure.” “All right, let a fellow up, will you? There’s a lot of snow down my neck.” “That’s what happened to me the last time you fired a high snowball, Peaches. That’s why I didn’t want you to try another while I’m around. You wait until I’m off the campus if you’ve got to indulge in high jinks. Come on now, fellows, since Peaches has promised to behave himself, let the merry dance go on. Have you tried a shot, Joe? Or you, Sister,” and Teeter looked at the newcomers. “Not yet,” answered Joe Matson with a smile. “Haven’t had a chance.” “That’s right,” put in Tom Davis. “You started a rough-house with Peaches as soon as we got here. What’s on, anyhow?” “Oh, we’re just seeing how straight we can aim with snowballs,” explained Teeter. “See if you can hit that barrel head down there,” and he pointed to the object in question, about forty yards away on the school campus. “See if you can hit the barrel, Joe,” urged George Bland. “A lot of us have missed it, including Peaches, who seems to think his particular stunt is high throwing.” “And so it is!” interrupted the lad with the clear complexion. “I can beat any one here at——” “Save that talk until the baseball season opens!” retorted Teeter. “Go ahead, Joe and Tom. And you other fellows can try if you like,” he added, for several more pupils had joined the group. It might seem easy to hit the head of a barrel at that distance, but either the lads were not expert enough or else the snowballs, being of irregular shapes and rather light, did not carry well. Whatever the cause, the fact remained that the barrel received only a few scattering shots and these on the outer edges of the head. “Now we’ll see what Sister Davis can do!” exclaimed Nat Pierson, as Joe’s chum stepped up to the firing line. “Oh, I’m not so much,” answered Tom with a half smile. “Joe will beat me all to pieces.” “Joe Matson sure can throw,” commented Teeter, in a low voice to George Bland. “I remember what straight aim he had the last time we built a fort, and had a snow fight.” “I should say yes,” agreed George. “And talk about speed!” he added. “Wow! One ball he threw soaked me in the ear. I can feel it yet!” and he rubbed the side of his head reflectively. The first ball that Tom threw just clipped the upper rim of the barrel head, and there were some exclamations of admiration. The second one was a clean miss, but not by a large margin. The third missile split into fragments on the rim of the head. “Good!” cried Peaches. “That’s the way to do it!” “Wait until you see Joe plug it,” retorted Tom with a smile. “Oh, I’m not such a wonder,” remarked our hero modestly, as he advanced to the line. In his hand he held three very hard and smooth snowballs, which he spent some time in making in anticipation of his turn to throw. “I haven’t had much practice lately,” he went on, “though I used to throw pretty straight when the baseball season was on.” Joe carefully measured with his eye the distance to the barrel. Then he swung his arm around a few times to “limber up.” “That fellow used to pitch on some nine, I’ll wager,” said Teeter in a whisper to Peaches. “Yes, I heard something about him being a star on some small country team,” was the retort. “But let’s watch him.” Joe threw. The ball left his hand with tremendous speed and, an instant later, had struck the head of the barrel with a [3] [4] [5] [6] resounding “ping!” “In the centre! In the centre!” yelled Peaches with enthusiasm as he capered about. “A mighty good shot!” complimented Teeter, doing his particular toe stunt. “Not exactly in the centre,” admitted Joe. “Here goes for another.” Once more he threw, and again the snowball hit the barrel head, close to the first, but not quite so near the middle. “You can do better than that, Joe,” spoke Tom in a low voice. “I’m going to try,” was all the thrower said. Again his arm was swung around with the peculiar motion used by many good baseball pitchers. Again the snowball shot forward, whizzing through the air. Again came that resounding thud on the hollow barrel, this time louder than before. “Right on the nose!” “A clean middle shot!” “A good plunk!” These cries greeted Joe’s last effort, and, sure enough, when several lads ran to get a closer view of the barrel, they came back to report that the ball was exactly in the centre of the head. “Say, you’re a wonder!” exclaimed Peaches, admiringly. “Who’s a wonder?” inquired a new voice, and a tall heavily-built lad, with rather a coarse and brutal face, sauntered up to the group. “Who’s been doing wonderful stunts, Peaches?” “Joe Matson here. He hit the barrel head three times out of three, and the best any of us could do was once. Besides, Joe poked it in the exact centre once, and nearly twice.” “That’s easy,” spoke the newcomer, with a sneer in his voice. “Let’s see you do it, Shell,” invited George Bland. “Go on, Hiram, show ’em what you can do,” urged Luke Fodick, who was a sort of toady to Hiram Shell, the school bully, if ever there was one. “Just watch me,” requested Hiram, and hastily taking some hard round snowballs away from a smaller lad who had made them for his own use, the bully threw. I must do him the credit to say that he was a good shot, and all three of his missiles hit the barrel head. But two of them clipped the outer edge, and only one was completely on, and that nowhere near the centre. “Joe Matson’s got you beat a mile!” exclaimed Peaches. “That’s all right,” answered Hiram with the easy superior air he generally assumed. “If I’d been practicing all day as you fellows have I could poke the centre every time, too.” As a matter of fact, those three balls were the first Joe had thrown that day, but he did not think it wise to say so, for Hiram had mean ways about him, and none of the pupils at Excelsior Hall cared to rouse his anger unnecessarily. “Well, I guess we’ve all had our turns,” spoke George Bland, after Hiram had thrown a few more balls so carelessly as to miss the barrel entirely. “I haven’t,” piped up Tommy Burton, one of the youngest lads. “Hiram took my snowballs.” “Aw, what of it, kid?” sneered the bully. “There’s lots more snow. Make yourself another set and see what you can do.” But Tommy was bashful, and the attention he had thus drawn upon himself made him blush. He was a timid lad and he shrank away now, evidently fearing Shell. “Never mind,” spoke Peaches kindly, “we’ll have another contest soon and you can be in it.” “Let’s see who can throw the farthest,” suggested Hiram. His great strength gave him a decided advantage in this, as he very well knew. The other boys also knew this, but did not like to refuse to enter the lists with him, so the long-distance throwing was started. Hiram did throw hard and far, but he met his match in Joe Matson, and the bully evidently did not like it. He sneered at Joe’s style and did his best to beat him, but could not. “I ate too much dinner to-day,” said Hiram finally, as an excuse, “so I can’t throw well,” and though there were covert smiles at this palpable excuse, no one said anything. Then came other contests, throwing at trees and different objects. Finally Hiram and Luke took themselves off, and everyone else was glad of it. “He’s only a bluff, Shell is!” murmured Peaches. “And mean,” added George. “Joe, I wonder if you can throw over those trees,” spoke Tom, pointing to a fringe of big maples which bordered a [7] [8] [9] [10] walk that ran around the school campus. “That’s something of a throw for height and distance. Want to try?” “Sure,” assented our hero, “though I don’t know as I can do it.” “Wait, I’m with you,” put in Peaches. “We’ll throw together.” They quickly made a couple of hard, smooth balls, and at the word from Tom, Joe and Peaches let go together, for it was to be a sort of contest in swiftness. The white missiles sailed through the air side by side, and not far apart. Higher and higher they went, until they both topped the trees, and began to go down on the other side. Joe’s was far in advance of the snowball of Peaches, however, and went higher. As the balls descended and went out of sight, there suddenly arose from the other side of the trees a series of expostulating yells. “Stop it! Stop that, I say! How dare you throw snowballs at me? I shall report you at once! Who are you? Don’t you dare to run!” “We—we hit some one,” faltered Peaches, his fair complexion blushing a bright red. “I—I guess we did,” admitted Joe. There was no doubt of it a moment later, for through the trees came running a figure whose tall hat was battered over his head by the snowballs, some fragments of the missiles still clinging to the tile. “You sure did,” added Teeter, stifling a laugh. “And of all persons in the school but Professor Rodd. Oh my! Oh wow! You’re in for it now! He won’t do a thing to you fellows! Look at his hat! Here he comes!” Professor Elias Rodd, one of the strictest and certainly the “fussiest” instructor at Excelsior, was hurrying toward the group of boys. CHAPTER II PLANNING A BATTLE Professor Elias Rodd was rather elderly, and, as he never took much exercise, his sprinting abilities were not pronounced. So it took him about a minute and a half to cross the campus to where the little group of lads awaited him —anxious waiting it was too, on the part of Joe and Peaches. And in that minute and a half, before the excitement begins, I want to take the opportunity to tell you something about Joe Matson, and his chum Tom Davis, and how they happened to be at Excelsior Hall. Those of you who have read the first volume of this series entitled, “Baseball Joe of the Silver Stars,” need no introduction to our hero. Sufficient to say that he was a lad who thought more of baseball than of any other sport. Joe was the son of Mr. and Mrs. John Matson, and he had a sister named Clara. Joe’s father was an inventor of farming machinery and other apparatus, and had been employed by the Royal Harvester Works of Riverside, which was located on the Appleby River, in one of our New England States. Joe lived in Riverside, his family having moved there from Bentville. In the previous story I told how Joe made the acquaintance of Tom Davis, who lived in the house back of him. Joe became interested in the Silver Stars, the Riverside amateur nine, and through doing a favor for Darrell Blackney, the manager, was given a position in the field. But Joe wanted to become a pitcher, and, in fact, had pitched for the Bentville Boosters. He longed to fill the box for the Stars, and was finally given a chance. But he had incurred the enmity of Sam Morton, the regular pitcher, and there were several clashes between them. Finally Joe displaced Sam and won many games for the Stars. Mr. Matson had some trouble with his inventions, for Isaac Benjamin, manager of the harvester works, and Rufus Holdney, the latter once a friend of the inventor, determined to get certain valuable patents away from Mr. Matson. How they nearly succeeded, and how Joe foiled the plans of the plotters once, is told in the first book. Though Joe aided his father considerably, the young pitcher never lost his interest in baseball, and when, at the last moment, word came that Mr. Matson had seemingly lost everything, Joe hid his own feelings and went off to pitch the deciding championship game against the Resolutes of Rocky Ford, the bitter rivals of the Silver Stars. Joe’s heart was heavy as he pitched, for he knew that if his father lost his money through the taking away of his patents there would be no chance of his going to boarding school, and Joe desired that above everything. But he pluckily pitched the game, which was a close and hot one. He won, making the Stars the champions of the county league; and then Joe hurried home. To his delight there was a message from his father, stating that at the last minute unexpected evidence had won the patent case for him, and he was now on the road to prosperity. [11] [12] [13] [14] So it was possible for Joe to go to boarding school after all, and, to his delight, Tom Davis prevailed upon his parents to send him. So Joe and Tom went off together to attend Excelsior Hall, just outside of Cedarhurst, and about a hundred miles from Riverside. Joe and Tom, who had each finished short courses in the Riverside High School, started for Excelsior Hall at the opening of the Fall term, and had spent the Winter, with the exception of the Christmas holidays, at the institution. They liked it very much, and made a number of friends as well as some enemies. Their chief foe, as well as that of nearly every other lad in Excelsior Hall, was Hiram Shell. The months passed, and with the waning of Winter, Joe began to feel the call of the baseball diamond. He and Tom got out some old gloves and balls and bats, and in the seclusion of their room they played over again, in imagination, some of the stirring games of the Silver Stars. As yet, however, there had been no baseball activity at Excelsior, and Joe was wondering what sort of team there would be, for that there must be one was a foregone conclusion. Joe knew that before he picked out Excelsior Hall as his particular boarding school. I might add that Dr. Wright Fillmore was the principal of Excelsior Hall. He was dubbed “Cæsar” because of his fondness for the character of that warrior, and because he was always holding him up as a pattern of some virtues to his pupils. Dr. Enos Rudden the mathematical teacher was one of the best-liked of all the instructors. He was fond of athletics, and acted as sort of head coach and trainer for the football and baseball teams. As much as Dr. Rudden was liked so was Professor Rodd disliked. Professor Rodd, who was privately termed “Sixteen and a Half” or “Sixteen” for short (because of the number of feet in a rod) was very exacting, fussy and a terror to the lads who failed to know their Latin lessons. And as we are at present immediately concerned with Professor Rodd, now I will go back to where we left him approaching the group of students, with wrath plainly written on his countenance. “Who—who threw that ball—that snowball?” the irate instructor cried. “I demand to know. Look at my hat! Look at it, I say!” and that there might be no difficulty in the boys seeing it Mr. Rodd endeavored to take off his head-piece. But he found this no easy matter, for the snowballs, hitting it with considerable force, had driven it down over his brow. He struggled to get it off and this only made him the more angry. “Who—who threw those balls at me?” again demanded Professor Rodd, and this time he managed to work off his hat. He held it out accusingly. “We—I—er—that is—we all were having a throwing contest,” explained Teeter Nelson, diffidently, “and—er——” “You certainly all didn’t throw at me,” interrupted the professor. “Only two balls struck me, and I demand to know who threw them. Or shall I report you all to Dr. Fillmore and have him keep you in bounds for a week; eh?” “Nobody meant to hit you, Professor,” put in Tom. “You see——” “Will you or will you not answer my question?” snapped the instructor, in the same tone of voice he used in the classroom, when some luckless lad was stuttering and stammering over the difference between the gerund and the gerundive. “Who threw the balls?” “I—I’m afraid I did,” faltered Joe. “I threw one, and—and——” “I threw the other,” popped out Peaches. “But it was an accident, Professor.” “An accident! Humph!” “Yes,” eagerly went on Peaches, who, having been longer at the school than Joe, knew better how to handle the irate instructor. “You see it was this way: We were having a contest, and wanted to see who could throw over the trees. Instead of throwing primus, secondus, and tertius as we might have done, Joe and I threw together—um—er—ah conjunctim so to speak,” and Peaches managed to keep a straight face even while struggling to find the right Latin word. “Yes, we threw conjunctim—together—and we both wanted to see who could do the best—er—supero—you know, and—er we—well, it was an accident—casus eventus. We are awfully sorry, and——” Professor Rodd gave an audible sniff, but there was a marked softening of the hard lines about his face. He was an enthusiastic Latin scholar, and the trial of his life was to know that most of his pupils hated the study—indeed as many boys do. So when the teacher found one who took the trouble in ordinary conversation to use a few Latin words, or phrases, the professor was correspondingly pleased. Peaches knew this. “It was a casus eventus—an accident,” the fair-cheeked lad repeated, very proud of his ability in the dead language. “We are very sorry,” put in Joe, “and I’ll pay for having your hat ironed.” “We threw in conjunctim,” murmured Peaches. “Ha! A very good attempt at the Latin—at least some of the words are,” admitted Professor Rodd. “They do credit to your studying, Lantfeld, but how in the world did you ever get casus eventus into accident?” “Why—er—it’s so in the dictionary, Professor,” pleaded Peaches. “Yes, but look up the substantive, and remember your endings. Here I’ll show you,” and, pulling from his pocket a Latin dictionary, which he was never without, Professor Rodd, sticking his battered hat back on his head, began to quote and translate and do all manner of things with the dead language, to show Peaches where he had made his errors. [15] [16] [17] [18] [19] And Peaches, sacrificing himself on the altar of friendship, stood there like a man, nodding his head and agreeing with everything the instructor said, whether he understood it or not. “Your conjunctim was not so bad,” complimented the professor, “but I could never pass casus eventus. However, I am glad to see that you take an interest in your studies. I wish more of the boys did. Now take the irregular conjugation for instance. We will begin with the indicative mood and——” The professor’s voice was droning off into his classroom tones. Peaches held his ground valiantly. “Come on, fellows, cut for it!” whispered Teeter hoarsely. “Leg it, Joe. Peaches will take care of him.” “But the hat—I damaged it—I want to pay for it,” objected our hero, who was square in everything. “Don’t worry about that. When Old Sixteen gets to spouting Latin or Greek he doesn’t know whether he’s on his head or his feet, and as for a hat—say, forget it and come on. He’ll never mention it again. Peaches knows how to handle him. Peaches is the best Latin lad in the whole school, and once Sixteen finds some one who will listen to his new theory about conjugating irregular verbs, he’ll talk until midnight. Come on!” “Poor Peaches!” murmured Tom Davis. “Never mind, Sister,” spoke George Bland, as he linked his arm in that of Joe. “Peaches seen his duty and he done it nobly, as the novels say. When Sixteen gets through with him we’ll blow him to a feed to make it up to him. Come on while the going’s good. He’ll never see us.” Thus the day—rather an eventful one as it was destined to become—came to an end. The boys filed into the big dining hall, and talk, which had begun to verge around to baseball, could scarcely be heard for the clatter of knives and forks and dishes. Some time later there came a cautious knock on the door of the room that Tom Davis and Joe Matson shared. The two lads were deep in their books. “Who’s there?” asked Joe sharply. “It’s me—Peaches,” was the quick if ungrammatical answer. “The coast is clear—open your oak,” and he rattled the knob of the door. Tom unlocked and swung wide the portal, and the hero of the Latin engagement entered. “Quick—anything to drink?” he demanded. “I’m a rag! Say, I never swallowed so much dry Latin in my life. My throat is parched. Don’t tell me that all that ginger ale you smuggled in the other day is gone—don’t you dare do it!” “Tom, see if there’s a bottle left for the gentleman of thirst,” directed Joe with a smile. Tom went to the window and pulled up a cord that was fastened to the sill. On the end of the string was a basket, and in it three bottles of ginger ale. “Our patent refrigerator,” explained Joe, with a wave of his hand. “Do the uncorking act, Tom, and we’ll get busy. You can go to sleep,”—this last to a book he had been studying, as he tossed it on a couch. “Oh, but that’s good!” murmured Peaches as he drained his glass. “Now I can talk. I came in, Joe and Tom, to see if you didn’t think it would be a good thing to have a fight.” “A fight! For cats’ sake, who with?” demanded Tom. “Are you spoiling for one?” asked Joe. “Oh, I mean a snowball fight. This is probably the last of the season, and I was thinking we could get a lot of fellows together, make a fort, and have a regular battle like we read about in Cæsar to-day. It would be no end of sport.” “I think so myself,” agreed Joe. “Bully!” exclaimed Tom sententiously, burying his nose in his ginger ale glass. “Go on, tell us some more.” “Well, I was thinking,” resumed Peaches, “that we——” He was interrupted by another tap on the door. In an instant Peaches had dived under the table. With one sweep of his arm Joe noiselessly collected the bottles, while Joe spread a paper over the glasses. The knock was repeated, and the two lads looked apprehensively at the door. CHAPTER III AN ANGRY BULLY “Well, why don’t one of you fellows open the door?” demanded Peaches in a hoarse whisper from his point of vantage under the table. “If it’s one of the ‘profs.’ or a monitor, he’ll get wise if you wait all this while.” It might be explained that there was a rule at Excelsior Hall against students visiting in their classmates’ rooms at [20] [21] [22] [23] certain hours of the day, unless permission had been secured from the professor or monitor in charge of the dormitory. Needless to say Peaches had not secured any such permission—the lads seldom did. “Aren’t you going to open it?” again demanded Peaches, from where he had taken refuge, so as to be out of sight, should the caller prove to be some one in authority. “Yes—certainly—of course,” replied Joe. “Tom, you open the door.” Once more came the knock. “Open it yourself,” insisted Tom. “It’s as much your room as it is mine. Go ahead.” But there was no need for any one to first encounter the stern gaze of some professor, if such the unannounced caller should prove to be. The knock was repeated and then a voice demanded: “Say, you fellows needn’t pretend not to be in there. I can hear you whispering. What’s up?” and with that the portal swung open and Teeter Nelson entered. He advanced to the middle of the room and stood moving up and down on his tiptoes. “I like your nerve!” he went on. “Having a spread and not tipping a fellow off. Is it all gone?” and with a sweep of his arm he sent the paper cover flying from over the half-emptied ginger ale glasses. “Where’s Peaches?” he demanded. “I know he’s out, for I was at his den, and there’s not a soul in. He’s got a ‘dummy’ in the bed, but it’s rank. Wouldn’t fool anybody.” “Then you must have spoiled it!” exclaimed Peaches, sticking his head out from beneath the table, the cloth draping itself around his neck like a lady’s scarf. “I made a dandy figure. It would fool even Sixteen himself; and then I sneaked out. I made it look as natural as could be. I’ll bet you did something to it.” “Only punched it a couple of times to see if it was you,” retorted Teeter. “But say, what’s going on? Why didn’t you open when I knocked?” “Thought it was a prof.,” replied Joe. “Why didn’t you give the code knock. Tat—rat-a-tat-tat—tat-tat—and the hiss.” “That’s right, I did forget it. But I got all excited when I found that Peaches had sneaked off without telling me. Say, what’s on, anyhow? Where’s the feed? Give me something good.” “Nothing going but ginger ale,” answered Joe, as Peaches crawled the rest of the way out from under the table. “And I don’t know as there’s any left.” “Gee, you fellows have nerve!” complained the newcomer. “There’s one bottle,” said Tom, who had charge of the improvised refrigerator, and forthwith he hauled up the basket, at the sight of which Teeter laughed joyously, and proceeded to get outside of his share of the refreshments. “What’s doing?” he demanded, after his thirst was quenched, and when they were all seated at the table. “We’re going to have a snow battle,” explained Peaches. “We were just talking about it when you gave us heart disease by pounding on the oak.” “Heart disease; my eye!” exclaimed Teeter. “You should have a clear conscience such as I have, and nothing would worry you. That’s good ale all right, Joe. Got any more?” and he finished his glass. “Nary a drop. But go on, Peaches. Tell us more about the snow fight.” Whereupon the lad did, waxing enthusiastic, and causing his chums to get into the same state of mind. “It will be no end of fun!” declared Teeter. “We’ll choose sides and see which one can capture the fort.” “When can we do it?” asked Tom. “The sooner the quicker,” was Joe’s opinion. “The snow won’t last long.” “Then we ought to start on the fort to-morrow and have the battle the next day,” was the opinion of Peaches. Permission to have the snow battle was obtained from Dr. Fillmore the next day, and the work of building the snow fort started soon after lessons were over. Fortunately the white flakes packed well, and with a foundation of a number of big snowballs the fort was shortly in process of construction. A better day for a snow battle could not have been desired. It was just warm enough so that the snow stuck, and yet cool enough so that the exertion would not be unpleasant. The fort was at the far end of the big school campus, and all about it the ground had been practically cleared of snow to build it. This made it necessary for the attacking party to carry their ammunition from afar. As for the defenders of the fort, they had plenty of snow inside, and, as a last resort they could use part of the walls of the structure itself to repel the enemy. The lads had made wooden shields for themselves, some using the heads of barrels, with leather loops for hand and arm. Others were content with something simpler, a mere board, or a barrel stave. Sides had been chosen, and, somewhat to his own surprise, Joe Matson was made captain of the attacking force. “We want you because you can throw straight and hard,” explained Teeter, who was a sort of lieutenant of the attacking army. [24] [25] [26] [27] “Soak those fellows good!” pleaded Peaches. “We’ve got to look out for icy balls,” cautioned Tom. “How so?” asked Joe, as he looked toward the fort where Frank Brown, as captain, was marshalling his lads. “I heard that Hiram Shell and Luke Fodick soaked a lot of snowballs in water last night, and let ’em freeze,” went on Tom. “They’re just mean enough to use them.” “That’s right,” agreed Peaches, “and we made it up not to throw that kind. Well, if we catch Hiram or Luke using ’em we’ll make a protest, that’s all.” “Say, are you fellows all ready?” asked Frank Brown at length, as he looked to see if he and his mates had a good supply of ammunition. “Sure,” answered Joe. “Yell when you want us to come at you.” “Any time now,” replied Frank. “Get on the job, fellows!” he called to his force. The snow battle began. Joe and his lads had boxes and baskets of snowballs piled where they could easily get them. They took them with them, up to the very walls of the fort, certain boys being designated as ammunition carriers. The fight was fast and furious. The air was thick with flying balls; and the yells, shouts, cries, and laughter of the lads could be heard afar. Up to the fort swarmed Joe and his mates, only to be driven back by a withering fire. Then they came once more to the attack, pouring in a destructive rain of white balls on the defenders of the snow fort. But this resulted partly in disaster for the attacking foe, as several of their number were captured. “At ’em again!” ordered Joe, after a slight repulse. “We can capture that place!” Once more they swarmed to the attack, and with very good effect, delivering such a rattling volley of balls, that the defenders were thrown into confusion, and could not send back an answering fire quickly enough. “Swarm the walls! Swarm the walls!” yelled Joe. He and his lads scrambled up, their pockets filled with balls. Down upon the hapless foe they threw them, and in another moment the fort would have been theirs. “Repel boarders! Repel boarders!” sang out Hiram. “Come on, fellows, give ’em an extra dose!” Joe saw the bully, and Luke, his crony, rush to a corner of the fort and take something from a wooden box. The next instant several lads uttered cries of real pain, as they felt the missiles of almost solid ice hit them. Joe understood at once. “The mean, sneaking coward!” he cried. In his hand he held a large snowball. It was hard packed, but did not equal the ice balls in any particular. Yet it was effective. Joe saw the chance he wanted. Hiram had drawn back his hand to throw one of the missiles he and Luke had secretly made, when, with a suddenness that was startling, Joe threw his large snowball full in the bully’s face. Hiram caught his breath. The ball he had intended throwing fell from his hand. He staggered back, his face a mass of snow. Then he recovered himself, cleared his eyes of the flakes and, with a yell of rage sprang forward. “I saw you throw that, Joe Matson!” he cried. “You had no right to pitch it with all your might at such close range.” “I had as much right as you and Luke have to use iceballs,” retorted our hero. “I—I’ll fix you for that!” threatened Hiram, boiling over with wrath, as he scrambled up the inner walls of the fort and stood before Joe. “I’ll knock you into the middle of next week! I’ll teach you how to behave. I’m going to lick you good,” and he drew back his fist, and aimed a mighty blow at our hero. CHAPTER IV JOE LEARNS SOMETHING Joe Matson had been in fights before. Some had been forced upon him, and he accepted the challenges for sufficient reasons, and had given a good account of himself in the battles. Other fistic encounters had been of his own seeking and for excellent reasons he had generally come out ahead. The prospective fight with the bully was very sudden. Joe had seen what he considered a mean trick on Hiram’s part and had thrown on the impulse of the moment. He rather regretted his hasty action, but it was too late for regrets now, and he was willing to accept the outcome. “I’m going to make you wish you’d never come to Excelsior Hall!” cried Hiram, and with that he expected the blow which he had aimed at Joe to land on the countenance of our hero. [28] [29] [30] [31] But, like the celebrated flea of history, who, as the Dutchman said, “ven you put your finger on him, dot flea he aind’t dere!” so it was with Joe. He cleverly ducked, and then waited for what would happen next. Something did happen with a vengeance. Hiram had rushed up the slippery, sloping, inner wall of the fort to get at Joe, and pummel him for sending the snowball smashing into his face, but when Joe turned aside, and Hiram’s fist went through the air like a batter fanning over a swift ball, the bully was unable to recover himself. He overbalanced, clawed vainly at the atmosphere, made a grab for Joe, who took good care to keep well out of reach, and then Hiram Shell went slipping and sliding down the outside wall of the snow fort, turning over several times ere he landed at the bottom, amid a pile of the white flakes. HIRAM SHELL WENT SLIPPING AND SLIDING DOWN THE OUTSIDE WALL OF THE SNOW FORT. In his descent he struck several lads who were swarming up to the attack, and these Hiram bowled over like tenpins, so that when he came to rest he was in the centre of a pile of heaving bodies, and of threshing and swaying arms and legs, like a football player downed after a long run. “Get off me, you fellows!” yelled Hiram, when he could get his breath. “I’ll punch some of you good and hard for this!” “And you’ll get punched yourself if you don’t take your feet out of my face!” retorted Peaches, who was one of the few pupils not afraid of the bully. “Where’s that Joe Matson? I’ve got a score to settle with him,” went on Hiram, as he struggled to his feet, and disentangled himself from the mass of snow-warriors. “You’ll have one to settle with me if you knock me down again!” cried Teeter Nelson, as he tried to shake some snow out from inside his collar. It was melting and running down his back in little cold streams. “What do you mean by playing that way?” demanded Teeter, who had not seen the impending fight between Joe and Hiram. “Why don’t you stay inside your own fort, and not make a human battering ram of yourself?” “You mind your own business!” snapped Hiram with an ugly look. “I slipped and fell, or else Joe Matson pushed me. Wait until I get hold of him.” With a look of anger on his face, Hiram turned and went swarming up the outer wall of the fort. At the top stood Joe, waiting, and the lad’s face showed no signs of fear, though he was a trifle pale. Though Hiram was larger, and evidently stronger than Joe, our hero was not afraid. He was debating in his mind whether it would not be better to rush to the ground below, where he would have a better chance if it came to an out-and-out-fight. Yet Joe had a certain advantage on top of the snow wall, for he could easily push Hiram down. Yet this was not his idea of a contest of that kind. [32] [33] [34] “I’ll fix you, Matson!” muttered the bully. “I’ll teach you to push me down! You might have broken my arm or leg,” he added in an injured tone. “I didn’t push you!” retorted our hero. “You tried to hit me and missed. Then you fell.” “That’s right!” chimed in Peaches, amid a silence, for the general snowball fight had ceased in anticipation of another kind of an encounter. Hiram balanced himself half way up the white wall. “What did you smash me in the face with a snowball for?” he demanded. “We made it up that no one was to aim at another fellow’s face at close range, and you know it.” “Of course I know it,” answered Joe. “But that rule applied to hard balls, and I didn’t use one. I threw a soft ball at you, and you know why I did it, too. I’ll let Luke Fodick have one, too, if he does it again.” “Does what again?” sneered the bully’s crony. “Use icy balls. I saw you and Hiram take some frozen ones from that box,” and Joe pointed to the secret supply of ammunition. “Some of our fellows were hit and that’s why I threw in your face, Hiram. Now, if you want to fight I’m ready for you,” and Joe stood well balanced on top of the wall, awaiting the approach of his enemy. Somehow the fighting spirit was oozing out of Hiram. He felt sure that he could whip Joe in a battle on level ground, but when his opponent stood above him, and when it was evident that Joe could deliver a blow before Hiram could, with the probability that it would send the attacker sliding down the wall again, the bully began to see that discretion was the better part of valor. “Do you want to fight?” demanded Hiram, in that tone which sometimes means that the questioner would be glad to get a negative answer. “I’m not aching for it,” replied Joe slowly. “But I’m not going to run away. If you like I’ll come down, but you can come up if you want to,” and he smiled at Hiram. “You only got what you deserved, you know.” “That’s right,” chimed in Teeter. “You hadn’t any right to use frozen balls, Hiram.” “Sure not!” came in a menacing chorus from Joe’s crowd of lads. “Well, they weren’t frozen very hard,” mumbled Hiram. “I only threw a few, anyhow, and you’ve got more fellows than we have.” “Because we captured some of yours—yes,” admitted Joe. “Well, all right then,” answered the bully with no good grace. “But if you throw at my face again, at such close range, Joe Matson, I’ll give you the best licking you ever had.” “Two can play at that game,” was Joe’s retort. “I’m ready any time you are.” “Why don’t you go at him now, and clean him up?” asked Luke Fodick, making his way to where Hiram stood. “If you don’t he’ll be saying he backed you to a standstill. Go at him, Hiram.” “I’ve a good notion to,” muttered the bully. He measured with his eye the distance between himself and Joe, and wondered if he could cover it in a rush, carry his opponent off his feet, and batter and pummel him as they rolled down the fort wall together. “Go on!” urged Luke. “I—I guess I will!” spoke Hiram desperately. Then from the outer fringe of the attacking crowd there arose a cautious warning. “Cheese it! Here comes old Sixteen!” Professor Rodd was approaching and the lads well knew that he was bitterly opposed to fights, and would at once report any who engaged in them. “Come on! Let’s finish the snow fight!” cried Teeter. “Get back in your fort, Hiram, and the rest of you, and we’ll soon capture it.” “All right,” said the bully in a low voice. Then looking at Joe he said: “This isn’t the end of it; not by a long shot, Matson. I’ll get square with you yet.” “Just as you choose,” answered Joe, as he rallied his lads to the attack again. Then the snow ball fight went on, with Professor Rodd an interested onlooker. Joe’s boys finally won, capturing the fort; but the real zest had been taken out of the battle by the unpleasant incident, and the boys no longer fought with jolly good-will. “Ah, that is what I like to see,” remarked the Latin professor, as the lads, having finished the game, strolled away from the fort which had been sadly battered and disrupted by the attack on it. “Nothing like good, healthy out-door exercise to fit the mind for the classics. I’m sure you will all do better in Latin and Greek for this little diversion.” “He’s got another think coming as far as I’m concerned,” whispered Teeter to Joe. “I haven’t got a line of my [35] [36] [37] [38] Cæsar.” “This is certainly what I like to see,” went on the instructor. “No hard feelings, yet I venture to say you all fought well, and hard. It is most delightful.” “It wouldn’t have been quite so delightful if you’d have come along a few minutes later and seen a real fight,” murmured Peaches. “Would you have stood up to Hiram, Joe?” “I sure would. I was ready for him, though I don’t want to be unfriendly to any of the fellows here. But I couldn’t stand for what he did. Oh, I’d have fought him all right, even at the risk of a whipping, or of beating him, and having him down on me all the while I’m here.” “I guess he’s down on you all right as it is,” ventured George Bland. “And it’s too bad, too.” “Oh, I don’t know as I care particularly,” spoke Joe. “I thought I heard you say you wanted to play ball when the Spring season opened,” said George. “So I do, but what has Hiram Shell got to do with it?” “Lots, as you’ll very soon learn,” put in Teeter. “Hiram is the head of the ball club—the manager—I guess you forgot that, and he runs things. If he doesn’t want a fellow to play—why, that fellow doesn’t play—that’s all. That’s what George means.” “Yes,” assented George. “And Hiram is sure down on you after what you did to him to-day, Joe.” The young pitcher stood still. Many thoughts came to him. He felt a strange sinking sensation, as if he had suddenly lost hope. He dwelt for a moment on his great ambition, to be the star pitcher on the school nine, as he had been on the nine at home. “Well, I guess it’s too late to worry about it now,” remarked Joe after a bit. “I’m sorry—no; I’m not either!” he cried, with sudden energy. “I’d do the same thing over again if I had to, and if Hiram Shell wants to keep me off the nine he can do it!” “That’s the way to talk!” cried Teeter, clapping Joe on the back. CHAPTER V THE TABLES TURNED “Well, Joe, what do you think about it?” Tom Davis glanced at his chum across the room as he asked this question. It was several hours after the snow battle, and the two lads were studying, or making a pretense at it. “Think about what, Tom?” “Oh, you know what I mean—what happened to-day, and how it’s going to affect your chances for the nine. They look rather slim, don’t they?” “Well, Tom, I don’t mind admitting that they do. I didn’t know Hiram was such a high-mucky-muck in baseball here. But there’s no use crying over spilled milk. He and I would have had a clash sooner or later, anyhow, and it might as well be first as last.” “It’s too blamed bad though,” went on Tom. “Yes,” agreed Joe, “especially as I picked out Excelsior Hall because their nine had so many victories to its credit, and because it had a good reputation. That’s what partly induced you to come here, too, I guess.” “Well, yes, in a way. Of course I like baseball, but I’m not so crazy after it as you are. Maybe that’s why I’m not such a good player. If I can hold down first, or play out in the field, it suits me; but you——” “I want to be pitcher or nothing,” interrupted Joe with a smile, “but I’m afraid I’m a long way from the box now.” “Yes, from what I can hear, Hiram has the inside track in the baseball game. He’s manager chiefly because he puts up a lot of money for the team, and because his friends, what few he has, are officers in the organization.” “Who’s captain?” asked Joe. “Maybe I could induce him to let me play even if Hiram is down on me.” “Nothing doing there,” replied Tom quickly. “Luke Fodick is captain, or, rather he was last year, I hear, and he’s slated for the same position this season. Luke and Hiram are as thick as such fellows always are. When Hiram is hit Luke does the boo-hoo act for him. No, Luke will be down on you as much as his crony is. But maybe we can get up a second nine, and play some games on our own hook!” “None of that!” Joe exclaimed quickly. “I’m not an insurgent. I play with the regulars or not at all. They’d be saying all sorts of things against me if you and I tried to start an opposition team.” “That’s so. Still it mightn’t be a bad idea, under the circumstances, to have another team, if it wasn’t for what the school would say.” [39] [40] [41] [42] “What do you mean?” “Why, Excelsior got dumped in the interscholastic league last season. They play for the blue banner you know—a sort of prize trophy—and it was won by Morningside Academy, which now holds it. That’s why I say it might be a good thing to have some more ginger in the team here. I know you could put it in, after the way you pitched on the Silver Stars when they licked the Resolutes.” “Well, it can’t be done I’m afraid,” Joe rejoined. “There can only be one first team in a school, and I don’t want to disrupt things or play second fiddle. If I can’t get on the nine I’ll have to stay off, that’s all. But it’s going to be mighty tough to sit still and watch the other fellows play, and all the while just itching to get hold of the ball—mighty tough,” and Joe gazed abstractedly about the room. “I wish I could help you, old man, but I can’t,” said Tom. “I suppose this clash with Hiram had to come but I do wish it had held off until after the season opened. Once you were on the nine you could show the fellows what stuff you had in your pitching arm, and then Hiram and Luke could do their worst, but they couldn’t get you off the team.” “That’s nice of you to say, but I don’t know about it,” remarked Joe. “Well, I’m about done studying. I wish——” But he did not finish the sentence, for there came a knock on the door—a pre-arranged signal in a certain code of raps, showing that one of their classmates stood without. “Wait a minute,” called Tom, as he went to open the door. His quick view through the crack showed the smiling faces of Teeter and Peaches, and there was an audible sigh of relief from Joe’s roommate. For Tom had fallen behind in his studies of late, and had been warned that any infractions of the rules might mean his suspension for a week or two. “Gee, you took long enough to open the door,” complained Teeter, “especially considering what we have with us.” “Don’t you mean ‘whom’ you have with you?” asked Joe, nodding toward Peaches. “No, I mean ‘what,’” insisted Teeter with a grin as he unbuttoned his coat and brought into view several pies, and a couple of packages done up in paper. “Oh, that’s the game, is it?” asked Joe with a laugh. “And there’s more to it,” added Peaches, as he produced two bottles from the legs of his trousers. “This is the best...