“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.