"Then you'll have to grow some. Gee! There's been an awful lot of near-scraps to-day. In about a week I guess you'll be fighting all over the field. Rah, rah, rah for Somers! How does that strike you, Sourface? If it isn't strong enough I'll blow a bugle call." An irritatingly long blast immediately sounded. "Ta, ta! I go! 'Crackers' has a buttermilk voice. Got that from Clifton. Ta, ta!" "He's a nice specimen for you," growled Parks, as Victor's small form mingled with the crowd. "Wow--look at that hit! Who cracked out that one?" "Bush. And he's a likely one for pitcher. If anything, he's stronger than Roycroft." As the afternoon progressed the shouts constantly swelled out into a greater volume. Little processions of Somers adherents moved recklessly through the enemy's camp, yelling lustily for their favorites. "If we only win from Engleton," remarked Sam Randall, as they gathered in the gym on the day of the game, "it may stop some of that foolish fussing." "Whatever happens I suppose I'll get another eight-column article from Benny Wilkins," sighed the editor of the "Reflector." "Still, I've adopted one of his suggestions. The 'Note-Book' page will hereafter be a feature of the paper." "Goodness gracious!" murmured Tom. "Now maybe he won't do some strutting around." "Say, Bob," put in Charlie Blake, "I've been thinking pretty hard over matters--can't help hearing a lot of things the fellows say, you know"--he glanced toward Roger Steele--"and this affair has been getting on my nerves. Now, I'm willing to step out for Roycroft, Lawrence, or anybody else who----" "What! And be labeled a quitter?" howled Tom. "I didn't expect it of you, Charlie--not this time." The emphasis laid on the last words brought a flush to Blake's face. "If there weren't so much at stake maybe I shouldn't be talking of such a thing," he retorted. "But when a chap has it dinned into his ears every day that he isn't doing the right thing by the school, why----" "Oh, you make me tired!" scoffed Tom. "Who wants you to get off the team? No one but a lot of soreheads." Blake gloomily picked his favorite bat from the rack. "I don't know, Tom," he sighed. "Some of the boys who used to be pretty good shouters for our crowd have flopped over to the other side." "A lot of weaklings!" jeered Tom. "Just go about your work as though nothing had happened," advised Steele. "Now's the time to show what you're made of. I know a good player when I see one. Don't let this noisy Brown crowd get your nerve--that's all." Charlie Blake cast a grateful look at the coach. "I'm glad to hear you speak that way," he said. "But--but--somehow----" Steele slapped him heartily on the shoulder. "A little self-consciousness, Blake, is your only trouble," he interrupted. "Get in the way of paying no attention to any one. And if you do happen to make an error just remember that the highest salaried player in the big leagues is occasionally bound to do the same."