TOM IS "RATTLED" "The fourth straight," said Aleck Parks. "The 'Hopes' are mowing 'em down as easily as a scythe cuts grass. How's that for playing, Luke Phelps? Wasn't yesterday's game a peach? Nine to six against Willington. Roycroft cracked out a homer, a two-base hit and a single. Oh, yes; that's going some. I saw 'Vanitas' sneaking around in the crowd looking kind of pale." "If the Ramblers lose the next game they'll be yanked from their jobs as fast as a vacuum cleaner sucks up dust," remarked Phelps, complacently. "They go over to play the Engletons again to-morrow." "Another bucket of white stuff for the official record," growled Parks. "Let's get away. Here comes 'Checkered-Cap.'" "Afraid of him?" laughed Luke. "No! It's his own safety I'm thinking about. Ever since I met him I've had a hard time to keep from handing him something that might disturb his center of gravity." "Simply awful!" grinned Phelps. "Let's do the next worse thing--go over and see the Ramblers practicing." An ominous calm seemed to hover over the school. The "Hopes'" string of clean-cut victories was bringing more wavering Somers adherents into the "outlaw" camp. The quiet did not lull the fears of the staunch supporters of the regulars. It seemed to possess a deeper, more significant meaning than the noisy, wild demonstrations which had taken place on the campus. On the following afternoon the Engleton trolley did a flourishing business. Eager students and townspeople packed the cars to their fullest capacity. Engleton was a little town about five miles distant, nestling amidst an amphitheater of hills. The baseball field was situated in the northern part, hemmed in on three sides by steep, grass-covered slopes. At the extreme end of the open section an immense pile of ashes covered what was once a treacherous gully. Several ramshackle frame dwellings, surrounded by rickety or broken fences, with here and there great piles of rubbish, indicated that "Goatville" was not the most select part of the town. By the time the regulars arrived the ball field and grassy hills were crowded. "I hope you'll enjoy this game, Roycroft," said "Crackers" Brown. "I can't help feeling kind of sorry for Bob Somers. He's a pretty good sort. But I guess this is the last game the Ramblers will play as the school team." "Here, Dan Brown, you cut out calling it the Ramblers' team, or there'll be a whole lot of trouble!" cried a gruff voice so near at hand that the captain of the "Hopes" was startled. Tom Clifton, with flushed face, was striding forward. "Trouble?" echoed Brown. "Yes! And more than you can handle. I know your game, Brown. You've been sneaking around, trying to put it into everybody's head that the Rambler Club is running this team. Do you get me, Dan Brown?" [Illustration: "I KNOW YOUR GAME"] "I shall pretty soon," returned "Crackers," solemnly.