Neither Bob Somers nor Steele had ever visited the Barry mansion, so, as they followed the elderly gentleman along the path, they looked about them with the greatest interest. It was a beautiful, starlit night with enough illumination to show a profusion of shrubbery and flower beds. Here and there great pines, dark and forbidding, rose like grim sentinels against the sky. Above the stone coping of the wall which surrounded the grounds, masses of buildings and scattered lights faintly indicated the town. The stately mansion looked dull and gloomy, six heavy columns at the entrance alone showing in a lighter tone. All the windows but one were staring patches of dark, while from the exception rays of greenish light poured out, to streak across the veranda with weird effect. Mr. Barry immediately led the two boys into his study, brightly illuminated by an electric lamp with a green shade. In the center of the large room stood a table piled high with books. Everything indicated that the millionaire had been busy writing when disturbed by the barking of Canis. He motioned his visitors to seats near by, taking his own in the revolving chair before his writing materials. The green light brought out his angular features with uncompromising frankness, giving him the appearance of some inquisitor of old about to interrogate an unwilling subject. "Mr. Steele," he jerked out sharply, after his stern gaze had rested on their features for a moment, "what is the matter with the ball nine?" [Illustration: "WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH THE BALL NINE?"] "It has not shown its true worth yet," answered Steele, calmly. "Why so? You have played four games, and each time met defeat." His eyes shifted to Bob Somers. "It is not what I expected. You understand, of course, that in order to gain the field the nine must make a good showing--a very good showing?" "Yes, sir; we understand," said Steele. "I had hoped by the enthusiasm displayed in putting the athletic affairs of the school on a sound basis that the baseball team would have a corresponding strength. I'm disappointed." Roger Steele was not flustered by the manner or tone of his questioner. "You must remember this, Mr. Barry," he answered, quietly: "the nine has met two of the strongest amateur clubs in the vicinity. I'm not offering excuses--only explaining the facts." Mr. Barry's silver knife rattled vigorously on the table. "What kind of teams did you expect to play?" he demanded. Coach Steele ignored the thrust. "Tony Tippen is a pitcher of exceptional ability," he said, "and has good support. Without Tippen in the box I believe we could even now defeat the Stars. The Goose Hill lads are big, husky chaps whose players are much older and far more seasoned than ours." "Why didn't you select bigger boys--Earl Roycroft, for instance? As guard on the football eleven he played exceptionally well." The coach flushed slightly.