Introduction

The Rambler Club of Kingswood, Wisconsin, formed by Bob Somers and his friends, Dave Brandon, Tom Clifton, Dick Travers and Sam Randall, after having numerous adventures in their own state, visit Oregon, Wyoming, Washington and New York. In the mountains, on the plains, or deep amidst the forest the five lads taste the joys, and also the trials, of outdoor life, and in most unexpected or thrilling situations manage to acquit themselves with credit. In the East, a house-boat trip up the Hudson furnishes the club an eventful journey, while on a motoring trip from Chicago to Kingswood another series of surprising and unusual events befall them.

The adventures of the Rambler Club are told in the following books: "The Rambler Club Afloat," "The Rambler Club's Winter Camp," "The Rambler Club in the Mountains," "The Rambler Club on Circle T Ranch," "The Rambler Club Among the Lumberjacks," "The Rambler Club's Gold Mine," "The Rambler Club's Aeroplane," "The Rambler Club's House-Boat" and "The Rambler Club's Motor Car."

Now the lads are back at the Kingswood High School, from which they will graduate at the end of the term. Fired with an ambition to put new life into the athletic affairs of the school, Bob Somers and his friends take a hand and work some surprising changes. Their zeal and enthusiasm are further aroused by a certain offer made to the school by the town's most wealthy citizen, Mr. Rupert Barry.

"The Rambler Club's Ball Nine," however, greatly to the boys' astonishment, becomes the means of plunging the entire school into the most turbulent period of its existence. No one can foresee the outcome of the factional struggle until it is ended in a manner quite as surprising as the disturbance itself.

When the atmosphere finally clears observing students of the "High" feel that they have learned many valuable lessons.

W. Crispin Sheppard.

CHAPTER I

THE NEW BALL FIELD

"Great Scott! Maybe that chap can't run!"

"You're right, Earl. But it will take more than running to beat the Stars and Goose Hill fellows, to say nothing of Rockville Academy. That crowd over there certainly has a corking team. Say, Roycroft, you ought to be on Bob Somers' nine."

Earl Roycroft, a six-foot boy weighing almost two hundred pounds, settled his big frame in a more comfortable position on the rail fence. His eyes mechanically followed the runners speeding one after another around a lot used by the Kingswood High School students as a baseball and training field.

"Why, it isn't Bob Somers' team; it's the school's, Nat," he protested, mildly.

Nat Wingate, a handsome, dark-haired boy with flashing brown eyes, smiled.

"Well, Somers seems to be having things pretty much his own way," he answered. "When I was captain, last year, it was mighty different. Stand up for your rights, Roycroft. The team needs a great big chap like you, and——"

"Great Scott, but he can sprint!"

"Well, it would be mighty funny if a fellow who has such long legs as Tom Clifton couldn't sprint," returned Nat, dryly.

The crisp crack of a bat suddenly attracted his attention. Then he caught sight of the ball describing a long, graceful curve. He watched the sphere flashing against the blue sky until it had reached such a height as to appear but the merest speck, and then as it swiftly dropped and was plucked from space by a slender boy in the outfield.

"Good catch for Charlie Blake," exclaimed Roycroft.

"And there was some class to the hit, too," commented Nat. "I don't think any of the Rambler fellows swung the stick on that one. Whoever he is, I wouldn't mind having him on my team."

"Humph! Don't you recognize that chap? It's Joe Rodgers."

"Gee whiz! The young fellow the Ramblers brought back with 'em on their motor car trip last fall?"

"Exactly!" laughed Earl. "Dave Brandon has been looking out for Joe, and got him a job on Mr. Miles' farm. He goes to school every day with a lot of little chaps about half his age. But Mr. Miles says, from the way Joe's learning, he'll soon put all us high school fellows in the has-been class. Come on, Nat. I want to get a whack at that ball myself."

Nat Wingate eased himself off the fence, flecked a few spots of dust from his clothes, and followed the big form of Earl Roycroft.

"My crowd is going to get the first whack at the Rambler Club's ball nine, Roy," he exclaimed.

A peculiarly sarcastic expression came over his face as Roy flung back:

"Cut that out, Nat. You mean the school team."

"Last season we trimmed the Goose Hill bunch," went on Wingate. "You know what a husky lot they are. Tony Tippen was in the box for us. If any of the scouts from the big leagues ever get to this burg I shouldn't wonder a bit if they'd snap him up."

"I'd be satisfied with the minors," laughed Earl. "Whew! The air is kind of chilly to-day, Nat. Roger Steele didn't think he'd have the boys practicing outside of the gym until next week. Great Scott, but that fellow can sprint!"

"Wonder if he learned the trick by having wildcats chase him out of the woods," laughed Nat. "Ha, ha! We met one once. John Hackett and our crowd ran across the Ramblers on their first trip, and——"

A salvo of cheers suddenly interrupted his sentence, and upon looking up to see the cause of it the captain of the Kingswood Stars saw a stout, round-faced boy advancing leisurely to the home plate.

"Ha, ha! We're going to see the new editor of the high school 'Reflector' in action. Did you read the last copy of that sheet, Earl?"

Roycroft nodded.

"Sure thing, Nat. Dave has written a history of the Rambler Club. The first instalment appears in the 'Reflector's' next issue. Guess there isn't a fellow in the school who won't dive into his pocket for a nickel. Hello, Spearman!"

A boy almost as tall as himself, but of a lighter build, stepped from among a crowd of noisy students and walked toward them. Harry Spearman had prominent aquiline features and a manner which suggested a nervous, high-strung disposition.

"I tell you, Roycroft, these fellows are going to give a good account of themselves," he began. "Steele and Somers have just the right idea of training. Don't push your men too hard, they say, but keep them always on the move. Roger Steele'll soon have a crowd of base-runners that will make some of the fellows on the other teams look as slow as so many ice wagons."

A shade crossed Earl's face. Bob Somers had often expressed the opinion that if the big fellow only possessed a little more speed he would make one of the best players in the school. But, while Roycroft was good at almost every other angle of the game, he was sometimes apt to slip up when quick action was absolutely necessary.

"Better not boast too much, Harry," grinned Nat. "Wait until the Ramblers stack up against the Stars. We expect to pull off a few plays that may make 'em seem like never-wassers. The Rockville football eleven came over last fall, you know, and Bob Somers' crowd didn't cut any great figure in the game."

Harry Spearman's eyes snapped scornfully.

"Suppose they did beat us? That isn't much to brag about," he retorted. "When the Ramblers got back to school this term there was no athletic association; everything was disorganized—you know that, Wingate——"

"Gee! Another dandy hit," broke in Roycroft. "Dave Brandon certainly smacked the ball that time. Look at it—still sailing. I'll bet it's bound for Rockville."

"Of course you do, Nat," went on Harry, paying no attention to this interruption. "Before, it was all hit or miss—mostly miss; and nobody seemed to care."

"Correct," added Earl. "Bob plunged right in, and, with up-to-the-minute plans, got the athletic association started, football and baseball committees formed, and made arrangements with all the various schools around to play a regular schedule of games."

"Oh, I suppose he has your big colleges beaten to a frazzle on the fine points of the game," exclaimed Nat, with a barely perceptible sneer.

Earl Roycroft laughed softly. He knew that it wouldn't take much to start a lively wrangle between Wingate and Spearman, as Nat was of a highly impetuous nature, while the latter's principal characteristics were nervousness and excitability. But he found it easy to stem the tide of belligerency which seemed on the point of beginning.

Freshmen, sophomores, juniors and seniors, mingling in a fraternal spirit, formed scattered groups all over the lot, occasionally yelling with as much vigor and enthusiasm as though about to witness a championship game. Many wore purple and white sweaters, and these garments added a touch of bright color to the still barren landscape.

"There's 'Jack Frost' in the box, fellows," remarked Earl. "He has a slow ball that will puzzle the Rockville boys. I've been up against it, and I know. Comes so slow that you almost fall asleep waiting for it to pass over the plate."

William Frost was the name of the player in question, though, of course, his schoolmates generally called him "Jack."

"And Tony Tippen has an inshoot that would make the Cannon Ball Express look like a slow freighter," laughed Nat. "Gee, I wish the next two weeks would roll around fast. I guess you high school fellows are in for a pretty hard jolt. We hate to do it, too, for this is a mighty poor ball field, and a few lambastings will probably knock all that fine Rupert Barry business in the head."

"Oh, it will, eh?" sniffed Spearman. "Next season the Purple and White team will be using that new ball park, and we'll have a grand stand, besides."

"Sorry to have to put that happy train of thought off the track," chuckled Nat. "Have you forgotten the Goose Hill crowd and a few others?"

"It wouldn't faze us if they were major leaguers."

"Hello, you 'Pie-eaters'; hello! Where's the rest of the 'Doughnut' crowd?"

This hail, coming in very gruff tones from the tall sprinter who had excited Earl Roycroft's admiration, made Nat Wingate's eyes glitter ominously.

"The nerve of that Tom Clifton is getting my nerve," he commented, in a low tone. "It beats me how some of the chaps are willing to swallow all he hands out."

"He doesn't seem to like the idea of us swallowing pie," laughed Roycroft.

By this time the tallest senior in the school had almost reached the group. Tom Clifton, bubbling over with good spirits, eyed Nat quizzically.

"Still making the pies over at Guffin's do the disappearing act?" he asked.

"Yes! And the doughnuts are following the same route."

"How is it that Kirk Talbot didn't come over to see us practicing?"

"Kirk had something more important on hand. He went to a moving picture show instead."

"I'll bet it was a nickel one," snickered Tom. "We're getting ready for your crowd, Nat. Thanks, Roycroft! I can go some. I'll do better yet. Wait till you see me making the circuit of the bases. And when we get that new field—well! We'll make some of the 'Pie-eaters and doughnut crowd' lose their appetites."

Tom Clifton's gaze roved over the rather uneven field, which was situated some distance from the rear of the Kingswood High School. Great patches of weeds and small saplings had been leveled to the ground and hollow places filled in by the willing hands of the boys. But even all the zeal and enthusiasm with which they had worked could not make the result of their labor a joy and delight. This particular field seemed to have a grudge against all athletic sports. Treacherous little bumps or depressions, as well as other irregularities, had often spoiled what might have been brilliant plays.

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."

CHAPTER II

MR. BARRY

A tall, thin man, who, although somewhat elderly, seemed to walk with all the alertness of youth, was directing his course toward the players. He wore a long, faded, dusty-looking black coat and a derby hat of an equally old appearance.

Mr. Rupert Barry, one of the best known and wealthiest citizens of Kingswood, had retired from active business many years before, and, with only a man and wife who acted as housekeepers, resided in a stately mansion which crowned the summit of a hill. Mr. Barry was not partial to visitors. Only a select few had entered his doors. Those who did spoke enthusiastically of a collection of bric-à-brac and paintings which his house contained.

None of the present generation remembered having ever seen Mr. Barry in other than his old-fashioned coat and derby hat. It was a standing puzzle whether the coat and hat refused to be worn out, or whether, by some mysterious process, he was able, year in and year out, to procure garments of exactly the same color and texture.

Mr. Barry seldom appeared without a dog to keep him company. And these animals, which had succeeded one another up to the present time, generally possessed but little beauty.

On this occasion the dog which kept close to the elderly gentleman's heels was a large, shaggy creature of a yellowish hue, with a quarrelsome look in his eye.

"Now it's time to get out on the field and pull off some of those pretty stunts, Tom," advised Nat Wingate. "It may make him take down a few of those no-trespassing signs on that lot of his."

"That's right," laughed Tom. "It fairly bristles with 'em. 'Trespassers dealt with according to law'; 'Private property'; 'No thoroughfare'; 'Keep out'; 'Any one found depositing ashes or refuse on this lot will be prosecuted.' Have I missed any, Nat?"

"Just one," chuckled Wingate, "over on the northeast corner: 'Intruders will be promptly ejected.' It's a wonder he hasn't a few Gatling guns planted around."

"And just to think," mused Tom, "he's going to give that field to us!"

"Well, I like your cheek," blazed out Nat. "You must think you're the whole show. Do you know what my idea is?"

"Guess I will in a minute."

"Mr. Barry knows it's such a safe proposition that you fellows will get trimmed all around——"

"Oh, get out, you 'Pie-eater'!" howled Tom. "Take a doughnut. It looks like a cipher—meaning nothing for you!"

"We can eat up lots of things besides doughnuts," said Nat, sarcastically. "I'm going to trail Mr. Rupert Barry."

"So am I."

As they walked briskly toward the scene of action the noise and the cracks of the bats seemed to be greater than ever.

By this time Mr. Barry had almost reached the high board fence which served as a backstop and score-board.

It was at once observed that Dave Brandon had stopped practicing and was coming forward to meet their visitor. Bob Somers, too, was walking in from the outfield.

"By Jupiter, they're almost falling over themselves," jeered Nat. "I want to hear some of the soft stuff they hand out. Bet they'll have a tremolo in their voices."

Nat Wingate had the ability to provoke a wrangle at almost any moment. A hot flush mounted to Tom's face. He was too eager, however, to learn the reason for Mr. Barry's descent upon the ball field to reply.

In and out through the noisy groups he led the way, soon hearing above the medley of sound the harsh, rasping voice of Kingswood's eccentric citizen.

"I never could understand why boys have to make such a confounded racket while they're playing ball," he jerked out, impatiently. "Good energy all gone to waste. Lie down, Canis!"

The yellow dog seemed to have taken a great dislike to the proceedings going on all about him, and was giving voice to this feeling by a series of savage snarls and barks.

"Long distance conversation for me," laughed Wingate. "His ivories seem to be in good working condition."

"I'll bet he's as yellow inside as out," chuckled Tom. "One good kick——"

"And any hope for your ball field would be gone forever."

"Don't stop for me, Somers." Mr. Barry was speaking. He waved a large, knotty cane peremptorily in the direction of the outfield. "Get right back to your place." His stick struck sharply against the wooden fence. "Here, here, you boys over there: quit that howling; quit it, I say!"

"GET RIGHT BACK TO YOUR PLACE"

The students who had been applauding a difficult pick-up by Charlie Blake obeyed his authoritative command.

"That's better. What's the use of howling like a pack of young pirates?"

"If it ain't any use, it's lots of fun, mister." A stocky, freckle-faced boy, handling a very large bat, gave this answer. "And sometimes it puts a whole lot of ginger into the crowd," he added.

"What's your name?"

"Joe Rodgers."

"Do you go to the high school? Keep quiet, Canis!"

"Not yet, sir."

"Then why are you practicing on this field?"

"'Cause they let me."

"As bold as brass," murmured Mr. Barry, in audible tones. "Somers, I believe I requested you to keep right on with your playing."

Mr. Barry looked at the captain of the nine as sternly as though he were some culprit caught trespassing on his field. The afternoon sun played on an angular, smooth-shaven face and a pair of cold gray eyes. There was nothing in his expression to indicate any great sympathy with youth or their pastimes. But it was observable that, even as he spoke, his gaze was continually shifting from one group to another.

"This is the first day we have practiced outside of the gym, Mr. Barry," began Bob. "You see it was such a bully day——"

"I must request that you eliminate such words as 'bully' when addressing me," interrupted the visitor, stiffly.