And now, Tom reflected, after a whole winter of neglect, conditions looked more unpromising than ever. It did not at all fit in with his ideas of what the Kingswood High School boys deserved, especially when he considered the new lease of life which Bob Somers, ably assisted by his friends, had injected into the athletic affairs of the school. To the north, the three story stone building of the school, the center of which was surmounted by a cupola, shone brightly in the afternoon sun. Beyond the residences which hemmed in the large lot on all sides several towers and domes indicated the business portion of Kingswood. It all made a very pleasing picture. But Tom Clifton did not allow his thoughts to stray very long from the actual work in hand. He was too anxious to get in the thick of the fray again, and pull down some of the "sky-scrapers" which little Joe Rodgers was batting out with remarkable precision. "Say, Nat, that chap is a corker," he declared. "Stand wherever you please, and he'll put the horse-hide right into your hands. Gee--see that!" "What?" asked Nat. "Why, the way Blake picked up Dave's grounder--one handed, too! By Jove, it was a scorcher! Where are you going, Roycroft?" "To bat," answered Earl, with a laugh. "Come on, Spearman." "Good! Try to knock me down. I'll show you a few fancy stunts, Nat." "We are reserving ours until Saturday week," returned Wingate. "That's right, Tom. Snicker all you want. But it's the snickers which come after the game that count." Tom's reply was not audible, as there was too much noise. Some hundred schoolboys, whose vocal organs were in excellent condition, seemed to be desirous of learning just how much sound they could produce at a given moment. Bob Somers had pulled down one of Joe Rodgers' drives after a long, hard run, and although the force of the impact had sent him rolling over and over on the ground, the sphere was safe in his hands. "Bully--bully!" cried Tom, as the shouts subsided. "See you later, Nat." "Hold on, Tommy," said Wingate. A quizzical smile was playing about his lips. A restraining hand seized Tom Clifton's wrist. "Anything the matter with your optics to-day, son?" "Why?" queried Tom, in surprise. "Haven't they lighted on anything yet, eh?" "Yes; a whole lot of dandy plays." "That isn't what I mean." The earnest manner of his companion made Tom eagerly scan the field. He saw a dozen balls flying about in all directions, students in purple and white sweaters dashing from place to place, and "Jack Frost" engaged in sending in a variety of curves to Phil Brentall, the backstop. He also saw the ball being snapped from first to third and back again with great rapidity. But the fact that he was not looking in the right direction was speedily impressed upon his mind when Nat shoved him around in a most unceremonious fashion. "Now what do you see?" demanded Nat. "Gee whiz--goodness gracious!" cried Tom--"Mr. Rupert Barry."