At the crack of the bat Conway Fuller, with lowered head, started for home. The rousing cheers of the Stars rose to frantic heights; the purple and white rooters stood glum and silent. Tom Clifton sprang off his base to intercept the ball. The yells--the sight of the wildly-excited boys--made only an indistinct impression on his mind. For the moment, to him, nothing existed but the ball lashing viciously over the ground. It smacked resoundingly into his gloved hand. Without straightening up, Tom drove it unerringly home and sprang back to the sack. There was a different sound to the cheers which now reached his ears. They had a volume which made the preceding shouts fade into insignificance. Fuller was out at the plate, and Brentall had whipped the ball back to him. John Hackett was straining every muscle to reach the bag in safety. But, as an object whizzed past his head and a dull thud sounded, he realized that his effort had been in vain. In spite of a feeling of intense disappointment, he slapped Tom Clifton on the shoulder. "Good work, old boy; good work--a corking double play!" Tom's eyes sparkled. Volleys of cheers for Clifton rang pleasantly in his ears. "Thanks, Hackett," he replied. "I guess we can play a little when we try." Sam Manning on third, not discouraged by Fuller's failure to score, launched forward as Kirk Talbot singled. The followers of Nat Wingate went wild with glee. The first run for the Stars was marked down on the score-board, and there were two on bases. "Jack Frost" seemed to lose some of his control, while the high tension was evidently affecting several of the other players. Right Fielder Alf Boggs fumbled Jeff Wilber's hot liner. Once again the score-keeper made an entry. "And still two on bases," groaned Joe Rodgers. "The school team is going to be defeated, sir," Mr. Rupert Barry was saying to President Hopkins. "I've no doubt they will be white-washed." "Dear me--white-washed!" exclaimed Professor Ivins, somewhat startled. He looked around, as though half expecting to see colored men with pails and brushes. "White-washed!" he repeated. "Do you mean the fence?" "No!" snorted Mr. Barry. "The baseball nine." "Dear me--extraordinary!" murmured the elderly professor, in puzzled tones. "Doubtless it is another of those preposterous expressions connected with baseball parlance. Is it, I might ask, a--a general custom to refer----" "I fear it will be whenever these boys play the Stars," said Mr. Barry, grimly. It was a disastrous inning for the school team. Before big Bill Steevers' pop fly fell into the hands of "Jack Frost" the Stars had three runs to their credit. "Never mind, fellows," said Bob Somers, cheerily. "It's a part of the game." "Of course," laughed Dave. "If it weren't for Tony Tippen we'd probably have twice that many runs ourselves."