Goose Hill was situated on the outskirts of Kingswood, not far from Wolf River. The inhabitants of the Hill, for the most part, worked in the big mills which skirted the river for some distance. They were rough but honest people, living in neat little houses which generally stood in the midst of spacious yards. Many cultivated the ground, or directed their attention to the raising of poultry. The Hill owed its name to the fact that a majority of the bird fanciers chose geese as a means of adding to their incomes. There were some odd and picturesque corners on the Hill decidedly pleasing to those artistically inclined. Dave Brandon had often wandered about, sketch-book in hand, and, in this way, met Mr. Stephen Kimbole, proprietor of the general store which crowned the elevation. No one within the confines of the Hill was ever heard to call him Mr. Kimbole, however. To every man, woman and child he was "Uncle" Steve. "Uncle" Steve, though a little, dried-up man of uncertain age, still possessed plenty of life and energy. From his porch one could look down upon the river and the busy mills sending up clouds of smoke and steam. Not far from the base of the hill, and some distance in from the river, a large stretch of turf was given over to the mill workers for their sports. They had crack football and baseball teams, and had won notable victories. "Uncle" Steve seldom failed to attend the baseball games. He was regarded as a crank on the subject. Few knew more about the fine points of the game than the old storekeeper. The thought of the Goose Hillers having a series of games with the Kingswood High filled him with delight. "I'll be there," he exclaimed to Dave Brandon the day before the game. "I'd sooner lose a quarter's sales than miss it." So, on the next afternoon, "Uncle" Steve was a prominent figure among the great crowd which gathered to witness the contest. Most of the Nat Wingate contingent seemed to be on hand. On this occasion Nat's loyalty to the school made him a partisan of the "Ramblers," as many still persisted in calling them. When the players appeared on the scene a tremendous volley of shouts and blasts from megaphones assailed their ears. "Just listen to the mean bunch!" growled Tom Clifton. "You'd think they were all on our side. I guess Nat is going to try and rattle us." "Don't let him," counseled Benny Wilkins. "Oh, say, there's Mr. Rupert Barry already." "If I hear of any of our fellows saying mean things about the club this afternoon they'll find me down on 'em like a ton of red-hot bricks." Tom glared around sternly. "Think I know, now, who got off that silly jabber about the corn field." "Who?" asked Benny. "Owen Lawrence." "I--I don't think so," stammered Benny. "What do you know about it?" "I--I--that is--I just thought--er--er--that----" "Oh, of course, nobody said it was Lawrence. But he looks mighty funny every time I mention it." Benny changed the subject.