More than a dozen pairs of dilated eyes stared first at Buster and then toward the smiling and bowing gentleman with the athletic build, who began throwing off his coat as though anxious to get down to business. For a long time past Buster had been quoting Coach Willoughby as an authority on all manner of sports in the gymnasium and on the field. By degrees his comrades had grown to look upon this personage as an imaginary party, and it had of late become a regular habit with them to shout every time Buster started to quote what his patron saint would advise under such and such circumstances. Imagine their amazement, then, to have him not only prove the truth of this wonderful man’s existence, but to actually have him there on their humble athletic field to coach them in their work! “Hurrah! three cheers for Buster!” whooped Jack Comfort, as though by that means they might in some measure atone for all the indignities they had heaped upon the head of the fat student in times past. “And three for Coach Willoughby!” echoed Paul Bird, throwing up his catcher’s mitt. They were given with a will, while the object of the attention, Buster, assumed an attitude, and allowed a beautiful smile to light up his good-natured face. Ralph was to pitch for the scrub. Taken in all there was a pretty good set of players back of him, and Frank knew that he would have to do his best unless the regulars wanted to take chances of being beaten, which would have a demoralizing effect upon the team just at the threshold of their second struggle with Bellport. Ralph never pitched better. He had that wonderfully elusive ball of his working in a way that deceived the heaviest batters most alarmingly. Coach Willoughby proved his thorough knowledge of the game right from the start. He gave Paul several little pointers that opened the eyes of the catcher to some of his faults and weak places. More than this, he frequently called the players of the batting team about him and explained how certain plays could be made with far greater chances for success than by the older methods they were following. “Sure Coach Willoughby is right up to date,” grinned Buster, when one of his mates remarked that the old Princeton player must have kept track of the game ever since leaving college. When the fourth inning had ended, with just one more to play, for the afternoon was waning, the score was very close, being just five to four, in favor of the regulars, and most of these runs had been the result of errors rather than a weakness on the part of either pitcher. In this inning Frank put on every ounce of steam he could muster. The result was the complete discomfiture of the enemy, who could not even manage to connect with the ball. “Fine work, my boy!” complimented the coach and umpire; and Frank blushed, since it must mean something to be spoken to in this way by so old and experienced a Princeton graduate as Coach Willoughby.