“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.