CHAPTER I

ON THE WAY TO THE GAME

“Give it again, fellows! For the honor of old Columbia--now, once more, with a will!” shouted the cheer captain, Herman Hooker.

“Ho! ho! ho! hi! hi! hi! _veni, vidi, vici!_ Columbia!”

“Cast off there, somebody.”

“Start your engine, Frank, old boy!”

“Hurrah! we’re afloat on the raging Harrapin at last!”

“Got any life preservers aboard, fellows?”

Amid all this uproar and confusion Frank Allen, cool and collected, gave a whirl to the crank to turn his engine over; and immediately a succession of rattling reports testified to the fact that as master of ceremonies he had given the expedition a good send-off.

Then he handed over the engine to the charge of Abner Gould, the man employed regularly by Commodore Adams, to whom the launch belonged.

The _Geraldine_ had been loaned to the members of the Columbia High School baseball team for this special occasion, by the owner, just then away on business.

Accompanied by several members of the Columbia band, they were now on their way down the Harrapin river, to play their first game with the Bellport High School nine, and enthusiasm waxed furious over the prospect ahead.

A peculiar condition of the weather had sadly disarranged the schedule of the Harrapin River League. Three clubs composed the organization, representing Bellport, Clifford and Columbia; and it had been agreed that each was to play a trio of games with both opposing teams. The one who came out ahead would, of course, be given the pennant, and hailed as the champion for the year, an honor greatly coveted, since the three towns were keen rivals in all athletic matters.

While Columbia and Bellport had each played three games thus far, they had all been with the third member of the league, Clifford.

What seemed still more singular was the fact that in each of these series Clifford had won one game and lost two. Consequently, Columbia and Bellport were now _tied for first place_, with three games to be played, while Clifford was out of the race completely.

To-day was to see the first game between these two giants. And the choice of ground had fallen upon Bellport.

As this enterprising town lay quite a number of miles down the river, it had been suggested that the Columbia nine journey that way by means of Commodore Adams’ launch, which, with the services of his man, had been gladly offered for the day.

Of course the two towns were connected by a trolley, owned principally by the father of Lef Seller, a junior in the school, and just now in bad odor on account of some pranks he had played a short time before. Special cars had been brought into use on this gala day to accommodate the crowds desiring to witness the struggle that must accompany the first meeting of the rival nines.

With the flags of the Harrapin River Boat Club floating from stem and stern, and the band tooting away gaily, the little launch left the float, and started merrily down-stream.

A roar from the crowd on the bank testified to the fact that, while all Columbia could not journey over to Bellport to witness this impending game, the sympathies of those compelled to remain at home were with the boys who represented the honor of the High School on this occasion.

“Say, this is what I call going to battle in style,” said Lanky Wallace, the tall first baseman, as he shoved alongside Frank on the crowded seat, and threw an arm around the other with the air of a chum.

“I was just speculating on how we will return--with shouts and cheers, or dolefully telling each other just how it happened,” remarked Frank; but his smiling face was evidence of the fact that he had little fears on that score as he looked around at the enthusiastic countenances of his comrades.

“If your arm’s in prime condition, as you say, I’m not worrying any on that score, Frank. Coddling may be a wonder, just as they claim, but once we get on to his curves there’s going to be some smashing work done. I feel that I’m in for business at the old stand myself, to-day,” returned Lanky, with a positive shake of his head.

“Glad to hear you say it. A pitcher needs confidence in the ability of his men to get runs, as well as field like a machine. We’ve just _got_ to do that crowd up to-day, and that’s all there is to it.”

“And we will, never fear, Frank,” observed Roderic Seymour, who, leading senior though he was, considered it an honor to serve as captain, and play second with the snappy nine Columbia had put into the field this year.

“Are we on time?” demanded Buster Billings, always afraid of getting left, although worrying did not seem to reduce his abundant flesh so that it could be noticed.

“Yes, with a margin to spare, if the boat shoves along as she is doing right now,” replied Lanky Wallace.

Lanky, of course, covered first, and few balls ever passed through his territory when he was feeling fit.

Lef Seller was aboard the boat, since he was a member of the team, though under a cloud temporarily, and forbidden by the faculty from taking part in any baseball game during the season. This severe punishment sprung from his action in playing an unusually mean prank upon Frank, whom he chose to regard as his mortal enemy; and which circumstance, together with many other interesting events, has been set forth in full in the preceding volume of this series, called: “The Boys of Columbia High; or, The All Around Rivals of the School.”

Lef tried to join with his mates and appear jolly, but it was a great effort, when his heart was sore on account of being listed as the black sheep of the flock, to be shunned by self-respecting fellows.

He had his own followers, who toadied to him on account of the money he spent so freely; but none of them happened to be aboard the boat, so Lef felt that he was in one sense out of his element.

The beautiful home town faded out of sight up the river, and all eyes began to be turned toward the bow, as they anticipated catching a distant glimpse of Bellport at any moment.

“Better save your wind until later, Herman!” called out Tom Budd, the lithe shortstop, and a fellow who was a natural acrobat, doing stunts in and out of season; so that no one was ever surprised to see him spring into the air, catch a liner, turn completely over, and come up smiling, with the ball held up for the umpire to take notice.

“Plenty more left,” laughed the “best yeller Columbia ever had,” as he waved his megaphone in the air, and led the boys in another song.

It was a glorious day in June, and not one aboard that boat but felt the inspiration of the magical sunshine and soft air.

Half of the distance separating the rival towns had been covered by this time, and the gallant little launch was making fine speed down the current.

“Looks like Clifford meant to be represented at the game, too,” remarked one of the boys, pointing to the shore.

Clifford was above Columbia, and on the other bank of the river. A road led down to the vicinity of Bellport, where a ferry took farm wagons across. And on this road a cloud of dust told that all sorts of vehicles had been impressed into service to carry the baseball-mad people to the scene.

Fine cars shot along, blowing their horns, and steady-going farm horses trotted evenly by the side of the road, all heading in the one direction. It was enough to thrill the boys belonging to the team to realize that all this excitement in the county was caused by their crossing bats with the Bellport High nine.

“Poor old Clifford never got a peep in this year,” mocked Jack Comfort, said to be the best chaser after flies the school had ever known, and who guarded center field.

“Well, they had hard luck. The game they won from us showed that there was cracking good stuff on the team. I never saw a better game in my life, with the score tied in the ninth. Wow! that was some exciting!” exclaimed Lanky, his eyes sparkling at the recollection.

“It would have been our game if Ben Allison could have held that fly out in left. He made a big effort, but dropped the ball,” remarked Captain Seymour, sadly.

“Well, I reckon that failure just knocked poor Ben out. He’s been no good to the team ever since, and here we have to put our extra pitcher in right garden just to fill in, because he’s a crackerjack pinch hitter!” grumbled Buster.

“That’s all right, boys, and I’m only too glad of the chance to play at all. A freshman doesn’t often get on the team, and it’s mighty fine for you to boost me up this way,” Ralph West hastened to remark.

Ralph did not live in Columbia, being one of the pay students. He was anxious for an education, and a fortunate chance had allowed him to come to the thriving river town at the beginning of the school year. He and Frank had become good friends, and the latter was deeply interested in certain strange features connected with Ralph’s fortunes.

“I think it’s a poor rule that keeps freshmen off the team so much. They are better fitted to take part in sports then than later on, when filled with ambition to excel in their studies,” said Jack Eastwick, one of the juniors, and a substitute on the team.

At this there was a universal howl, for Jack was notoriously averse to studying under any and all circumstances, and depended upon a system of “cramming” just before examinations to carry him through.

“Now, there’s a wide difference of opinion on that question. For my part, I fully agree with Coach Willoughby, who says----” but Buster was seldom allowed to tell what this wonderful instructor, whom the boys really believed existed only in the imagination of the fat right fielder, had to say.

As usual, a shout cut him short, and with an injured stare at the laughing group, he relapsed into disdainful silence.

“Where are their grounds located?” asked Ralph, who had never as yet had an opportunity for visiting the Bellport field.

“Half a mile below the town. Bellport is something of a manufacturing place, and there’s going to be more or less of a rough element at the game, for the factories have shut down for a half holiday, beginning this Saturday, and the hands are sure to be out in force.”

Frank looked a trifle anxious as he spoke, for truth to tell he had more than once wondered whether a sense of fairness would animate that rough element, or the desire to see Bellport win at any cost.

“Listen! I thought I heard a roar just then. The wind is coming up the river, and it must have been shouts from the ball field,” and Seymour held up his hand to ask for silence.

It was while they were thus straining their ears to catch the sounds from below that all at once the familiar “pop-pop” of the exhaust connected with the motor boat ceased, and soon their rapid progress fell off.

Immediately everybody started to shout at once, wanting to know what had gone wrong. Frank sprang over to where Abner Gould bent over the little motor. The man lifted a troubled face toward him.

Every eye was glued on Frank as he started to examine the engine, for they knew he had more of a practical knowledge of such things than any one aboard, unless it might be the man hired by Commodore Adams to run his launch.

“What ails the thing, Frank?” demanded Buster, as the other raised up.

“Yes, this isn’t the time for playing pranks. We’re nearly due now on the field, and don’t want to be called shirks!” exclaimed Lanky, warmly.

“Boys, I’ve got some bad news for you,” announced Frank.

“What is it? Don’t keep us in suspense, old warhorse!” cried “Bones” Shadduck, who played third on the team.

“The motor has broken down, and we’re in a bad box!” declared Frank, seriously.