"Get those glum looks off your faces, fellows," admonished Coach Steele. "I'll admit Tippen is a mighty good lad; but, remember, they haven't put a run across the plate yet." "And won't, either!" cried Tom. The team eagerly watched "Jack Frost," as he faced his rival. The Star crowd still kept up their yells and quips. Frost, however, scarcely heard them. He had a burning ambition to send a "grass-cutter" safely out of reach of the shortstop. "Gee, if I only get half a chance!" he murmured. With every nerve at high tension he waited. Striking vigorously at the first pitched ball, an electrifying crack filled his heart with glee. But the sphere, instead of taking the course he had hoped, launched itself fiercely upward and in the direction of the three gentlemen on the bench. The catcher, dashing his mask to the ground, sprinted hard. "Foul ball! Batter out!" told the story. As Jack threw his bat spitefully aside he observed a small body of freshmen dragging the bench into safer territory, with three dignified gentlemen following close behind. "If he only drives them away it would be worth losing the game," chuckled Benny Wilkins. "I hope it gave 'em a jolly good scare," observed "Crackers" Brown, sourly. "They haven't any business to be watching a game like this." "Ha, ha! That's so," laughed Benny. "When is a game not a game?" "When the Kingswood Stars play the Ramblers?" "Oh, you rude thing. No; when it's punk. Isn't the way our chaps play ball enough to make Barry plant corn on his lot?" "Get out, you croakers!" snapped Harry Spearman. "The game isn't over yet," put in little Joe Rodgers, whose generally smiling face looked grave. "Just wait till Dave Brandon gets another chance at bat." "We've been doing nothing else but wait," growled "Crackers." "So far, it's been a sad, sad spectacle." "Oh, cheer up," said Benny. "Who grabs the stick now?" "Con Fuller." The Stars were swooping in from the field. "Hurry up, fellows; crack out a few runs, and finish the game!" sang out Nat. "Tippen can't win it all alone." "I need just one more chance," said John Hackett. "When it's my turn to bat if I don't knock down one of those out-fielders I won't eat any more pie until to-night." Con Fuller, a big, aggressive-looking boy, smiled grimly. "Just watch me, Hackett!" he called. "Here's where the cover gets knocked off the ball." "Oh, my, a good dollar and a quarter ball gone to waste," grinned Benny. "Don't do that, Con. Just dent it. Say, have you noticed how fierce Roycroft and Lawrence look? I wonder if it's Guffin's or----" "Rah, rah, rah! Boom!" A furious blast rising from hundreds of throats made it evident that Con Fuller's boast had almost come true. The cover was still on the ball, and it probably wasn't even dented, but those who had been looking in the right direction saw the sphere sailing far over the left fielder's head and stout Dave Brandon making a wild effort to overtake it.