"Bully! That's a go. Now don't try to back out, Dave Brandon. You heard him say it, fellows." The team, headed by Coach Roger Steele, was already making for the door, followed by as enthusiastic and hopeful a band of rooters as ever backed up a school nine. Freshmen struggled for the honor of carrying bats, masks and other paraphernalia. It was an ideal day, cool and crisp, but not chilly enough to stiffen the players' muscles. A big crowd greeted the boys on the scene of the impending battle. Almost every student of the school seemed to be there, while numbers of the townspeople mingled with the groups. "Somers, Somers!" yelled the mob. The cry rose and fell in waves of sound, causing a flush to mantle the captain's cheek. "Rah, rah, rah! Boom!" Purple and white pennants flashed brightly in the sunlight. It certainly looked like a great day for the Kingswood High. By the fence behind home plate the players gathered around Coach Steele. "Don't get rattled," he cautioned. "Remember, quick thinking at a crucial point has won many a game. Feel 'em out in the early innings, and don't let a single chance for stealing a base slip by." "You bet we won't," laughed Tom. "When that crowd finds out what we have to show in the running line they'll open their eyes." "Get to work, boys," ordered the coach. "Hello, Lou Mercer!" He extended his hand toward a good-looking boy, manager of the club. "I hear Professor Hopkins is going to see the game." "That's so," said Mercer, gleefully; "and Mr. Rupert Barry'll be with him. And say, what do you think? Professor Ivins actually said he'd come, too." "What?" cried Tom. "Fact. Surprised me, I can tell you. Heard him say once he never could see anything in the game." "He'll see something in this game." Tom selected a bat from several which an exuberant freshman was lugging about. "Get out a bit further, Dave!" he yelled. "I'm going to knock some cloud swipers." "Hey! Who's seen the Stars practicin'?" asked one boy of another. "Not I. Struck me they did all of their practicing over at Guffin's." "That's where you're wrong, son. Leslie Glinn--he's one of their crowd--unloosened his tongue long enough to say they went through their little turns in a field about two miles out the pike. Oh, Nat's cute, all right; knows every trick of the game." "So does Bob Somers," growled the other. "Say, if we win this game won't the crowd give him a big hand to-night!" "Well, ra-ther!" Twenty minutes later a sound from a megaphone in the distance brought forth a wild cheer from the supporters of the Stars. All eyes seemed to be turned in the direction of the valiant team which, as usual, was headed by Nat Wingate and John Hackett. Following the players came a great crowd, the members of which were singing in half a dozen different keys a song that "Jack Frost" declared Nat had written himself. "Sounds like it," chuckled Benny. "Guess it's a first offense, though."