Bill Krag refused to regard Larry’s disappointment over being debarred from the Cascade College team as a professional as a serious matter. He listened to Larry’s long tale of his wrongs with a smiling face, and when the story was done he threw back his great head and roared with laughter. Larry, who had just arrived from college for the long vacation, was hurt and sought refuge in sullen silence.

“Buck up, Larry boy,” he counseled. “I know it’s tough, but ten years from now you’ll sit down and wonder why you thought it amounted to anything.”

“I expected you, at least, to sympathize with me,” pouted Larry.

“Say,” laughed Krag, “if it’s sympathy you’re looking for you’ll find it a scarce article. As a matter of fact, I’m glad it happened.”

Larry stiffened angrily and bit his lip.

“I’ll tell you why,” said Krag more seriously. “It’s what you need. You’re getting better experience at college than most boys do. The experience is better than the honors you could win playing ball. You’d forget the honors in three or four years, and you’ll never forget this experience. You’re learning in school what you’ll get up against as soon as you get out”——

“But it isn’t square,” protested Larry.

“If you’re going to kick on everything that isn’t square in this world you’ll go through life kicking,” retorted Krag, grinning. “The thing to do is to get proof that you’re not a professional, then go back and show them you are all right by taking your medicine and still remaining loyal.”

But Major Lawrence, on his return home, did not view the matter from Krag’s viewpoint. He flared into hot rage at the injustice of the attack upon his ward, and declared he would withdraw all his donations from Cascade, and teach that faculty a lesson. When he heard that Harry Baldwin was suspected of furnishing the Golden University committee, through Wallace, with the information, he grew purple in the face, and stormed around the bungalow, declaring war on the entire tribe of Baldwins. His outburst against Barney Baldwin and his son made Larry Kirkland squirm uneasily, for he had an engagement to call upon Helen Baldwin at Rogue River ranch that evening and he had hesitated to mention that fact to Major Lawrence, fearing an outburst.

Larry felt that it was his duty to speak to Major Lawrence of his intention, but the fierce denunciation of the Baldwins by the major had caused him to delay the announcement and when, after dinner, he had completed his toilet, while Krag rolled upon the bed and made facetious remarks and guesses as to the identity of his inamorata, the major had driven away to a distant part of the ranch, Larry, taking a light runabout wagon drove straight toward Rogue River ranch, secretly relieved at having escaped the ordeal.

He had expected, and rather dreaded, meeting Harry Baldwin or his father, but after the brown boy had taken charge of his horse, he was greeted by Helen Baldwin, who invited him to sit with her on the wide veranda of the rather pretentious house.

“I invited you to come this evening,” she laughed, “because Uncle Barney and Cousin Harry have gone to Portland and I feared it might be embarrassing to you to meet them.”

“That was thoughtful,” he replied, smiling. “I’m afraid I might not be considered a welcome guest.”

“I was thinking of myself, too,” she laughed. “Harry would be furious if he knew you were calling on me. He seems to think he is my guardian.”

They chatted for a time of school, of the events of commencement week, and finally the conversation turned to athletics.

“I was so disappointed at not seeing you play with Cascade,” she said brightly. “I was there with a crowd of the academy girls. I told them I had a friend on the team, and we all wore Cascade colors, excepting Sue. She knows a man who plays on Golden, so she wore his colors. We looked all over the field for you. Why didn’t you play?”

“I am off the team,” he remarked, striving to avoid the subject. “I was sitting in the stands. I saw you, but you were way across the field and there was such a jam I could not reach you to speak to you.”

“I don’t understand,” she persisted. “Harry said you would not play, but you said you would. Did you let him play because I asked you to do it?”

“No,” he said. “I intended to play, but they would not let me.”

“Harry was right then?” she exclaimed. “He said they wouldn’t”——

“When did he say that?”

“Oh, some time before the game. You know I told you he had invited a girl to see him play, and he said he had to play because she was coming.”

“Did he say how he would keep me from playing?” Larry’s tone was strained, as he strove to control his rising anger.

“No—yes—I didn’t understand, but he said something about some rule, only he was afraid Mr. Lawrence would come down and deny what he said.”

“Did you happen to tell him that Mr. Lawrence was going away?” he inquired, striving to make the question sound innocent.

“Why, yes—I believe I did tell him. Yes—I remember now. He said that was good, and that the old crank could not make any more trouble.”

Larry flushed at hearing Major Lawrence called an old crank, but concealed his indignation. He had not as yet secured all the information he wanted.

“By the way,” he remarked presently, “is Harry still friendly with Wallace, the Golden pitcher?”

“Oh, yes, they are great friends. I thought it was mean of Mr. Wallace not to let Harry hit the ball, didn’t you? I was so excited. Harry was mad at Mr. Wallace after the game, and he growled at all of us during dinner. He was mad at Mr. Haxton, too.”

“I thought he and Haxton were great friends,” remarked Larry, who was getting more information than he expected.

“They were, but Mr. Haxton was just hateful to Harry, Harry says. He loaned Mr. Haxton a lot of money—and then Mr. Haxton turned against him.”

“Thank you,” said Larry quietly. “Let’s change the subject and talk of pleasanter things.”

Half an hour later, as he drove away from the lights of the Baldwin ranch house, he was so deeply engrossed in patching together the circumstances of his expulsion from the team with the things the girl, in her ignorance of the game, had revealed, that he roused himself just in time to jerk the horse to one side of the road as a big touring car flashed past. In that flash he recognized Harry Baldwin at the wheel. He smiled bitterly.

“I just escaped in time,” he muttered to himself. “If I had met him”——

He whistled softly to himself as he hastened the gait of the horse and turned toward Shasta View.

“Hello, Larry, where have you been?” shouted Major Lawrence from the shadows of the piazza as Larry tossed the reins to the waiting Chinese boy and leaped from the runabout.

“I’ve been over to Baldwin’s ranch,” Larry replied quickly, determined to have it over with.

“I thought you would,” replied the Major, chuckling.

Larry, who had expected an outburst of wrath, was taken aback.

“Did you see the cub?” asked Major Lawrence.

“He wasn’t at home,” replied Larry. “He nearly ran me down on the road as I came home.”

“See Barney Baldwin?”

“No; he and Harry have been in Portland.”

“Then you didn’t get any satisfaction from them?”

“No, Uncle Jim. I didn’t go to see them in the first place. But I found out enough—more than enough.”

He quickly related what he had learned from Helen Baldwin, how Harry Baldwin had timed his attack and planned to strike when proof could not be obtained; how he had used Wallace in preferring the charges, and how, by loaning money to Haxton, he had placed the coach in a position where he was compelled to aid in the scheme, or at least could not oppose Baldwin.

“I’ll see about this,” stormed the Major. “I’ll clean out the whole kit and caboodle of them. That whelp Baldwin cannot run things to suit himself.”

He trailed off into a spasm of denunciation of the Baldwins. Larry realized that, in his anger, Major Lawrence had entirely overlooked the significant fact that Larry had gone to the Baldwins to call upon Helen and he felt guilty, as he had deceived his friend and benefactor.

The meeting of the Board of Athletic Control of Cascade College had been uneventful. The two faculty members, the two student representatives, and Coach Haxton, comprising the board, had transacted the routine business, discussed informally the plans for the baseball campaign, and were preparing to adjourn when a request was received from “Paw” Lattiser that he be permitted to present a matter of importance to the board when unfinished business was reached. After a brief consultation the board invited Lattiser to appear and state his business.

The veteran student, peering owl-like above the rims of his glasses, entered, his inevitable book under one arm and a bundle of impressive-looking papers under the other. He bowed awkwardly to each of the professors, advanced to the center of the room and stood there as if embarrassed.

“What’s the case, Paw?” inquired Shelley, one of the “sporty” crowd, who was regarded as the representative of the fraternities on the Athletic Board. “Hustle up—I’ve got some boning to do.”

“Gentlemen,” said Lattiser quietly, “I have here, under my arm, the papers in the case of James Lawrence Kirkland, who, as you will recall, was suspended and barred from participating in athletic sports on the ground that he is a professional.”

“Oh, that was settled last spring,” said Shelley lightly. “Professor Terbush decided Kirkland didn’t belong.”

“Mr. Shelley is correct,” remarked Professor Terbush pompously. “As I recall it, the young man was found to have played ball for money.”

“Your recollection is a bit at fault,” retorted Lattiser. “You probably will recall that you said you would be glad to reopen the case, and expressed a hope that Kirkland could produce proof of what he said. Here is the proof.”

He passed a sheaf of folded documents to Professor Terbush, who received them, and held them while hesitating.

“What’s it all about, Lattiser?” asked Shelley. “I haven’t got time to spend all night here reading documents.”

“I have there,” replied Lattiser, “the affidavit of Mr. James Lawrence Kirkland, denying each and all of the charges made against him by—or rather through—(he stopped and glanced over the top of his glasses at the circle about him)—the athletic authorities of Golden University. I have the affidavit of his guardian, Mr. James Lawrence, denying utterly each and every charge. I have the affidavit of Mr. William Krag, denying having had any part in the matter, as charged.”

“Ahem—m,” said Professor Terbush. “You are sure, are you, Lattiser, that this is not a scheme to whitewash the young man?”

“That is what I am trying to avoid,” replied Lattiser easily. “We do not want any whitewashing—nor do we want any fortune dictating the Cascade.”

The others nodded approval.

“Professor Terbush appears to consider Kirkland guilty,” Lattiser continued. “Naturally he fears that Mr. James Lawrence, being rich, will strive to overcome all objections by using money, or the power his money gives him. Isn’t that the situation?”

“Exactly,” said Professor Terbush, nodding. “No fortune I hope, is large enough to dominate this institution.”

“I’m glad you take that view,” said Lattiser, grinning. “If you gentlemen have studied those affadavits, I have more to offer.”

He fumbled through the papers under his arm a moment and brought forth another folded sheet.

“I was convinced last spring,” he remarked, as he unfolded the paper, “that injustice had been done. I decided to take an interest in the case. Knowing that Wallace was quitting Golden University, I sought him, and secured from him this confession.”

“What’s this all about?” demanded Haxton, who had maintained silence. “You seem to have proved Kirkland innocent—let him try for the team if he wants to.”

“The confession of Wallace,” continued Lattiser, refusing to notice the interruption, “bears upon the case. Wallace has written and signed this statement. Briefly, he admits that more than a week before the game between Golden and Cascade, he received a letter from a member of the Cascade team containing the charges against Kirkland, asserting they were true. The letter further stated that although the charges were true, Kirkland’s guardian was extremely wealthy and would use his wealth and power to keep Kirkland on the team. It therefore suggested that the protest be filed at the last minute.”

“Is it possible?” inquired Professor Terbush, horrified. “Can such things be?”

“They not only can, but be,” replied Lattiser, grinning; “but that is not the worst—I have proof that Mr. Haxton, a member of this board, and athletic director and coach, knew of the plan to protest Kirkland”——

“I was told he was a professional—I believed he had no right”—— Haxton, flushing scarlet, had half arisen—“I still believe he got money for playing.”

The members of the board gasped.

“I have learned also,” said Lattiser, suddenly arousing and shaking his finger at the confused coach, “that you at first threatened to expose the entire thing; but that when told you needn’t pay the $300, you had borrowed, if you kept still—you kept still.”

“It’s a lie!” shouted Haxton. “Baldwin lies if he”——

He stopped, realizing that Baldwin’s name had not been mentioned, and that he had betrayed himself.

“The money had nothing to do with it,” he shouted angrily. “I thought Kirkland had no right on the team”——

“Gentlemen,” said Professor Terbush severely, “gentlemen—let us not indulge in personalities, but continue the business. As chairman of the board, I now call for a vote on the acceptance of Mr. Haxton’s resignation.”

“But I haven’t resigned”—— Haxton turned, amazed and confounded by the sudden change of front by the professor.

“All in favor of accepting Mr. Haxton’s resignation say aye,” persisted the professor.

“Aye,” said Moulton.

“Aye,” quickly echoed Clark.

“No,” shouted Haxton.

“No,” screamed Shelley, who had been striving to get an opportunity to protest. “I object to this sort of thing—you have no right.”

Rap, rap, rap went Professor Terbush’s gavel.

“The gentleman is out of order,” he ruled. “The chair votes aye. The ayes have it. Mr. Haxton, having resigned and his resignation being accepted, automatically ceases to be a member of this board. Mr. Haxton will please retire. Is there any further business?”

Professor Terbush had risen to the occasion and his rulings seemed to take the breath away from Haxton and his ally. Haxton, protesting and angry, seized his hat and departed; and a few moments later adjournment was taken.

Half an hour afterward Larry Kirkland and Winans were engaged in the highly intellectual sport of striving to put Big Trumbull under his bed. The sounds of their terrific struggle had brought youths in all stages of semi-undress, racing from their rooms to witness the long-delayed battle, which had been threatened if Trumbull persisted in practicing on his piccolo during study hours. Paw Lattiser’s entrance was unnoticed and he stood grinning silently until Trumbull, exhausted, surrendered and was pushed, a limp and helpless mass, under his own bed; while Winans and Kirkland danced a war dance of victory.

“Hello, Paw, what’s the good word?” demanded Winans, still breathing heavily.

“Big news,” said the veteran. “Kirkland is reinstated and exonerated from the charges of professionalism by the Athletic Board.”

“Whoop, hurray,” yelled Winans, leaping to shake Larry’s hand.

“Wake up, you boob and thank Paw for restoring your good name.”

Larry, stunned by the unexpected news, stammered his thanks. “That’s only part of it,” said Lattiser, who was enjoying the sensation he was creating, although maintaining his careless drawl. “Haxton has resigned as coach”——

“Whoopee-e-e,” yelled Winans, leaping onto a table. “Three cheers for Paw Lattiser.”

The cheers were given with a spirit that aroused the matron and startled the students.

“Come on, all of you,” yelled Winans. “I’m going to drag Paw down to Bob’s and buy all the best seats in the house, while he tells us about it.”

“Hold on, you fellows,” came a muffled voice from under the bed. “Half a dozen of you drag me out of here, so I can join the celebration.”

The resignation of Coach Haxton created a condition of athletic chaos at Cascade College. Some hint of what had transpired at the meeting of the Athletic Board had spread through the student body, and although it was garbled and colored by repetition, Larry Kirkland suddenly found himself a campus idol. The certain knowledge that he had been unjustly accused, added to the discontent among the undergraduates over the defeat at the hands of Golden University, and the startling rumors as to how Haxton had wrecked the team by favoritism, all combined to center the sympathy of the students around Larry—and those others who, according to rumor, had been unfairly treated.

There were rumors that the Athletic Board was planning a startling change in the coaching system of the school and that, because of Haxton’s failure, it was decided to return to the system of student management. The meeting of the board was awaited with great interest. During the first few weeks after the Christmas holidays no move was made by the board. The basket-ball team played its scheduled games under the direction of its captain, but, although the weather was favorable, no call came for the candidates for the baseball team. It was known that the faculty, aroused by the Haxton incident, was in consultation with the athletic leaders, and striving to evolve a system of handling all sports.

One bright morning, when the early trade-winds were sweeping away the fogs and the sun was shining temptingly, Professor Terbush summoned the members of the Athletic Board to his classrooms, and, an hour later, Clark, who for two years had been one of the student members of the board, emerged and posted a notice upon the bulletin board.

Larry Kirkland, with Winans, was strolling toward the hall, when a shout attracted their attention and, an instant later a cheering mob of Freshmen and Sophomores bore down upon them, and forming a ring, gave three cheers.

“What’s this all about?” demanded Larry, breathless as the fellows pulled and dragged at him, all striving to shake his hand at once. “Let up. What’s happened?”

Still cheering, they dragged him toward the bulletin board and he blinked, as he read:

Larry stood staring at the poster, as if unable to grasp its meaning.

“Speech, speech,” yelled a diminutive Freshman.

“Speech,” howled the delighted students, enjoying his embarrassment. Larry, his face redder than his hair, struggled, protested and kicked, but was carried bodily to the steps, and placed upon the stone coping.

“Fellows,” he stammered, twisting with embarrassment, “I’m all embarrassed”——

“Who would have guessed it?” yelled little Turner, raising a laugh.

“Fellows,” Larry repeated, “I’m flabbergasted. This is all news to me. I can’t realize that I’m appointed captain. Maybe it’s a joke”——

“No, no!” cried several. “The committee decided upon a student manager and student control.”

“All I can say,” concluded Larry lamely, “is, I’ll do my best—to help old Cascade win, and I want you all to help me.”

An outburst of applause greeted his stumbling speech, and a moment later, seeing an opening, Larry dodged into the doorway and fled through the building, across the campus and did not stop until he reached his rooms. There he remained, cutting two recitations, while trying to realize the turn fate had taken, and striving to plan how he would form his team. He recalled his early experiences with the Shasta View club, and decided that, in selecting his men, he would follow the same methods.

Larry was busily engaged writing a long letter to Krag, explaining the situation and asking advice, when the door opened and Clark, escorted by Winans and Katsura, who had come to offer their congratulations, entered.

“Hello, captain,” called Clark, offering his hand.

“Hello, manager,” replied Larry. “I want to thank you fellows—I have been afraid it is a mistake”——

“Better thank Lattiser,” laughed Clark. “He talked the professor into it. Old Terbush came through like a trump. Said we owed it to you for what the committee did. We’ll never get rid of you now. He is as strong for you as he was against you.”

“He’s honest in his beliefs, anyhow,” said Larry, “I’d never dare face him when I was guilty. He made me feel guilty when I was innocent.”

“What are we going to do about the club?” asked Clark. “I never played the game enough to know it, but you may count on me to back you up.”

Larry explained carefully his plan for the formation of the team, and the idea met the approval of the new manager.

“You have the ground work of a team, anyhow,” he said. “I suppose you will select men to fill in the positions?”

“No,” replied Larry. “My idea is to forget that any one ever played on the team—and award every position to the fellow who plays the best ball.”

“You’ll have some of the fraternity men and some Seniors in your hair,” warned Clark. “However, what we want is a team—I’ll back you up and you may count on Lattiser and Terbush.”

The interest in baseball revived quickly when Larry’s plan for choosing a team became known among the students. Instead of the usual two dozen candidates, the field swarmed with players of all conditions, each hopeful of getting a position.

“Candidates for catcher,” Larry called, after the throng had been batting and throwing for half an hour.

“Torney is our catcher,” remarked Jacobs, the second baseman casually, as if imparting information.

“I know,” replied Larry, “but no one is a member of the team this fall until he wins his place. Candidates for catcher!”

Eight candidates stepped out.

“Pitchers!” called Larry.

“Oh, I say Kirkland,” said Jacobs anxiously, “the fellows who won their places last year are entitled to stay.”

“Not unless they’re better than the others,” replied Larry briefly. “We want a ball club, not a friendly, social organization.”

His quick squelching of the spirit of rebellion among the veterans appealed to the candidates. Fifteen who claimed to be pitchers were separated from the others and set to work throwing to the catchers. Rapidly the entire squad was divided into groups according to what positions they thought they could play. Not one volunteer offered himself for third base.

“Looks as if I have a cinch,” laughed Larry. “Don’t be afraid to try, you third basemen; if you’re better than I am you’ll get the job.”

Little McAtee, a splendid fielder and speedy, laughed.

“All right, Cap,” he said. “I’ll tackle you, but I think you can beat me.”

“I don’t want any one to think he hasn’t a chance until I tell him,” said Larry. “I won’t try to pick a team for three days, and then it will be a tentative one. Of course we’ve got to reduce the squad quickly, so those remaining may practice. But I want to keep twenty-five regulars this fall.”

“Well, that was a good start,” remarked Clark, as they walked across the campus after two hours of hard work.

“How do you think the fellows like the idea?” inquired Larry anxiously.

The responsibility of the position had commenced to worry him, and he feared that his innovations would not be received in good part by the students.

“The majority of the fellows who were watching agree with you,” said Clark. “I think most of the players believe it is the right way—but, I imagine you’re going to have trouble with some of the old players—and the fraternity crowd will be furious. Baldwin is trying to stir them up—says he isn’t getting a square deal.”

“I didn’t see Baldwin out to-day,” remarked Larry thoughtfully.

“Would you give him a chance to make the team?” asked Clark, stopping in surprise.

“Of course, if I thought him good enough.”

“Well—you beat me,” laughed Clark. “After what he has tried to do to you to give him a chance.”

“He’s a pretty fair player, if he attends to business,” remarked Larry. “I don’t want my personal grievances to hurt the team.”

There were two letters awaiting him when he reached his room. One was from Krag saying:

“Now is the time to be careful. It is harder, sometimes, to stand prosperity than it is to stand abuse.”

The other was a long, scrawly note from Helen Baldwin.

“I have heard of your good luck in being made captain,” she wrote. “Let me congratulate you. I do wish you would give Harry a chance.”

Larry whistled softly to himself as he read it, striving to guess how Helen Baldwin had heard the news so quickly.

The next week was one of worry and apprehension for Larry Kirkland. He had feared, most of all, that he would arouse the enmity of some of the candidates when he reduced the size of the squad, but to his surprise he found this task easy. In the first three days more than half of the candidates voluntarily retired, discovering for themselves that they were not expert enough to hope to replace the others. Larry was compelled to issue an order that all candidates who desired to retire from the squad consult with him before quitting, for he feared losing some promising material because the players might grow discouraged, or think themselves poorer players than they really were. By the end of the first week, the squad was reduced to eighteen players, and after careful study, Larry chose his first team. The team was made up of Trumbull, cf; Winans, catcher; Katsura and Arksall, pitchers; Torney, 1b; Jacobs, 2b; Wares, ss; Allen rf; Dalmores, cf.

Larry had appealed to Krag for assistance in choosing his men and for the first time the big ex-pitcher had refused, declaring that from that time on Larry must exercise his own judgment, but warning him against “playing favorites.”

Of the team chosen, only Jacobs had elected to take a stand against Larry’s theories. He did not actively oppose the captain in anything, but constantly obeyed orders with a half-sneering smile, or a side remark directed to some other player, that told, more plainly than words, his idea that Larry’s plan of playing ball was wrong. The attitude of Jacobs, more than anything else, served to harass and annoy the young captain. He hesitated to force an open rupture, yet realized that the behavior of Jacobs was having a bad effect upon the team in general. He ignored the contemptuous looks and laughs for several days.

“I’ve got to do something about Jacobs,” he said to Clark. “He is against everything I do, and he is not getting into the spirit of the team.”

“That fraternity crowd is not back of him,” said Clark. “I’ve noticed that they seem well pleased at your selection of players. They’ve got half the squad. The old sporty crowd seems to be backing him up. If I were you, I’d read the riot act to him, and, if he don’t want to play, tie a can to him.”

The crisis came that same afternoon. Larry had been working with the pitchers at one side of the field, and the regular team was supposed to be at fielding practice on the diamond. Larry, running back to take his turn at bat, saw Jacobs loafing near the bench, in earnest conversation with Harry Baldwin.

“Oh, Jacobs, why aren’t you on the job?” he called.

“I’m talking to a friend,” replied Jacobs sneeringly and not moving to resume practice.

Larry, boiling inwardly, stood still an instant, striving to master his anger. Then he walked toward the pair.

“Baldwin,” he said quickly, “if you will not help the team please do not interrupt the practice.”

“You can’t order me off this field,” retorted Baldwin angrily. “I came here to talk business to Jacobs.”

“His business right now is playing ball,” said Larry steadily. “You have no right here unless you come in uniform as a candidate for the team. I learned that lesson myself—and I believe you were one of the teachers.”

He smiled bitterly at the recollection of the time Haxton had ordered him off the field.

“A fine chance I’d have to make the team with you captain,” sneered Baldwin.

“Just the same chance any one else would have, if you are the best player in the position,” retorted Larry. “The idea is to make a ball club—not to promote friendship.”

“I can play as well as any one here can,” retorted Harry, sullenly defiant.

“Then get out and prove it,” retorted Larry quickly. “Jake, we’ve wasted a lot of time. Get out there at second and we’ll try working that double play.”

He played abstractedly and missed several chances to make plays during the three-inning practice game with which they wound up the daily practice.

“I’ve done the right thing, I’m sure,” he muttered to himself as he dressed. “But it looks as if I had merely made more trouble for myself.”

It was his evening to call at St. Gertrude’s, and the trouble he had feared commenced to materialize more rapidly than he expected. He found Helen Baldwin nervous and excited. Her fair face was flushed and the dark rings around her pretty eyes indicated that she had been weeping.

“Oh, Larry,” she exclaimed, “I have been so upset. I wanted to see you. I’ve had such a dreadful time.”

“Haven’t they been treating you well here?” asked Larry, remembering the complaints the girl had uttered of the treatment she said was accorded her by some of the teachers.

“It isn’t Miss Hazlett this time,” she said. “It’s Cousin Harry. Oh, he is simply dreadful. Every time he comes here he scolds me just terribly because you are my friend. He was here to-day, and he told me if I allowed you to call any more he’d write Uncle Barney, and tell him, oh, dreadful tales about me.”

“That is funny,” reflected Larry. “Harry came to the grounds this afternoon and I invited him to join the team. I hoped we might at least quit quarrelling.”

“Did you do that? Oh, I’m so glad you did! Maybe he will not write Uncle Barney.”

“What did he threaten to tell? I’m sure he could not tell anything that would do any harm.”

“Oh you do not know! Harry is horrible! He threatened to write that I have been breaking bounds and going riding with you and other fellows, and he knows how Uncle Barney dislikes Mr. Lawrence, so he just wants to make trouble.”

“Why,” Larry exclaimed indignantly, “I never have seen you outside of this room—he surely wouldn’t write such a lie as that.”

The girl pretended to weep, dabbing at her eyes. She concealed the fact that she, with two of the girls had broken the rules and gone automobile riding with three of the town boys, and that Miss Hazlett had discovered the fact. She cunningly led Larry to believe that Harry Baldwin’s entire tirade of threats had been caused by her friendship for him.

“I’m so glad you and Harry are going to make up and that he can play on that old team,” she said, smiling as she dried her eyes with a bit of lace. “He seems to think that is more important than anything. Maybe he won’t tell those awful tales about me if you let him play. I wanted to ask you to deny them if he wrote Uncle Barney.”

“Of course I’ll deny them,” he answered stoutly. “It’s a muckerish trick to talk that way about a girl. As for playing on the team; he isn’t on it yet. He’ll have to win his place.”

“He said you wouldn’t give him a fair chance,” she replied. “He is just as furious with you as he is with me.”

An hour later Larry Kirkland bade her good-night. His mind was strangely excited as he walked slowly through the drives on the lawn and set forth for the long walk back to his rooms on the campus at Cascade. He was fighting a battle with himself.

He could make a place for Harry Baldwin on the team and, at one stroke he could end the constant warfare with that element of the students that had opposed him from the first. He could put an end to Harry Baldwin’s opposition to everything he did or tried to do. Better, he told himself, he could protect Helen Baldwin from the malice of her cousin and earn her closer friendship—a friendship which was coming to mean more and more to him every day.

It would not be hard. Baldwin was a fair ball player. The team needed a stronger shortstop, and Baldwin, he thought, could be trained to play that position well. No one would object, excepting perhaps little Wares—Wares was a poor batter, although clever and fast in defense. It might be a good move.

Larry was approaching the campus, still fighting the battle in his own mind. As he entered the wide avenue, bordered with eucalyptus trees, he looked far up the arcade of gentle swaying trees to the gray tower on the main building, now lighted by the rising moon. He stood a moment awed by the solemn quietness. As he gazed toward the mass of gray buildings he again felt the spirit of the college stir within him. No, if Baldwin played on the team, he would earn his place. The good of the school; the honor of Cascade in baseball had been entrusted to him, and he would not compromise it to gain—even Helen Baldwin.

Having made the decision, Larry Kirkland walked rapidly through the darkened campus, paused an instant to yell a greeting at Mike, the Professor of Lawnology, who attended to the lawns and watched for predatory students, and so to his rooms. He had won his hardest battle.

On the evening before the game with St. Mary’s, the first of the “big” games of the college year, the baseball squad of Cascade College, numbering nineteen men, with Manager Clark presiding, met to discuss plans for the battle.

The preliminary games had been played, and the Cascade team was playing more steadily and brilliantly than ever before. Captain Kirkland had shifted the lineup several times, in order to try out the men and there was much discussion among the students as to how the team would line up for the initial struggle of the year against an important club. The meeting had proceeded quietly for some time when Clark called upon Captain Kirkland to outline the battle plans.

“Fellows,” said Larry, “I have thought this out the best I can and I hope that no one will take it to heart if not selected for this game. I think it best that Arksall start the game for us, with Katsura ready to relieve him if he needs it. That will give us more hitting strength. I have placed Wares at short, and myself at third”—He paused and a murmur arose from the place where several of the veterans of the team were sitting.

“The rest will play in their regular positions excepting Jacobs”——

The murmur from the veterans arose to exclamations of surprise. Harry Baldwin and Jacobs were off the team.

“I knew we wouldn’t get a fair deal,” said Baldwin, so that every one in the room could hear. Larry quickly accepted the challenge.

“I left Baldwin and Jacobs off the team,” he said slowly, “because, for the last week, they have been breaking training rules and have not shown the proper spirit either on or off the field. Besides, I believe the men chosen for their places are better ball players than they are. I am willing to leave it to a vote of the club and abide by their decision if any one is dissatisfied.”

Larry flung the challenge at the little group of malcontents.

“Don’t do it,” urged Clark hotly. “You’re the judge.”

“I’d rather have the club vote,” persisted Larry, “if I am wrong, the sooner we find it out the less harm there is done.”

There were murmurs of protest, muttered consultations and the vote was taken. Clark opened the slips of paper and read them off. The result of the vote stood 16 to 4 in favor of Kirkland’s decision.

“The majority seems to think I’m right,” said Larry. “Anyhow, we’ll try it this time.”

“You can’t take a C man off the team that way,” protested Jacobs. “I earned my place and if I don’t play to-morrow I won’t play at all.”

“Very well,” said Larry firmly. “We cannot compel you to play—but I imagine the opinion of the students will be against you if you quit that way.”

The meeting ended quietly, but the open dissension in the ranks had its effect. After the meeting, the players broke up into small groups and scattered, discussing the situation. The news of the trouble in the club spread like wildfire over the campus and interest in the game was redoubled. Lattiser, who, while holding aloof, always was ambling into the scene when trouble threatened, was among the first to rally to the support of Kirkland’s methods. During the morning he strolled over the campus, rallying the Seniors, and half an hour before the game started he led a marching force of Seniors, in cap and gowns, to the park and, before they took their seats, he signaled, and the Seniors, standing, gave vent to three long cheers for Kirkland.

The moral support of the Seniors overawed the malcontents. Harry Baldwin and Jacobs, who had been loitering around as if undecided as to what they were going to do, suddenly changed front, donned their uniforms and took their places in the preliminary practice.

The game started as if to be a walkover for St. Mary’s. The big batters of the academy fell upon Arksall’s fast curve and fast ball in the first inning and drove out two hits before he had settled to his task.

“Slow up, slow up,” urged Larry feverishly. “Lob the ball to them.”

But Arksall was too “rattled” by the unexpected onslaught to heed the advice and, pitching blindly, he hurled the ball high over Winans’ head and let the runners advance to second and third bases. An instant later Hoskins, the big St. Mary’s first baseman, drove a line single to right center. Trumbull fielded the ball perfectly, and threw fast toward the plate. The throw was vain, as both runners would score on the hit, but Kirkland, cutting in, caught the ball in the middle of the diamond, snapped it to McAtee, and Hoskins was caught going to second.

“That clears the bags,” yelled Larry. “Steady now, fellows—stop ’em.”

The play restored Arksall’s nerves to some extent, and he pitched more carefully, and, although St. Mary’s made two more hits in the inning they failed to score again.

“Only two runs on four solid hits, boys,” yelled Larry. “Now get at them and get those runs back.”

Meisler, of St. Mary’s, a speedy left-handed pitcher, however, refused to permit them to hit, and the game rushed along, with the score 2 to 0, through the fourth. Arksall had steadied and was pitching well, while the team behind him was playing brilliantly. Twice little McAtee had proved the wisdom of Larry’s choice of second basemen by brilliant stops that shut off runs.

“We’ve got to get started, fellows,” said Larry as he came to the bench at the end of St. Mary’s fifth inning. “I’m first up. I’m going to try bunting. Then, Torney, you hit the first ball and, McAtee, you wait and make him pitch. Wares, if you get up, hit the first ball. We’ll try to get him guessing as to what we are going to do.”

Larry faced Meisler and swung viciously at the first ball pitched, missing it purposely, and the crowd, especially the St. Mary’s adherents, roared with laughter.

Meisler grinned and pitched a fast ball, and Larry bunting perfectly toward third base, raced across first before the surprised pitcher or third baseman could move toward the ball. The plan was beginning to work. Torney, who was a clever actor, shortened his grip on the bat, crouched and pretended he intended to bunt, but hit the first ball pitched hard, and drove it so fast past McNamara’s head that the St. Mary’s third baseman could only dodge, and Larry reached third and Torney second, and the Cascade adherents went wild. Wares, obeying orders, strove for a base on balls, but flied out and Larry scored after the catch. McAtee bunted safely and a fly ball sent Torney across the plate with the tying run.

The sixth found the teams battling on even terms, but in the first half of the seventh an error, quickly followed by a hit and two long flies, gave St. Mary’s two more runs and seemed to decide the game.

The last of the eighth found Cascade still struggling in the rut.

“We upset them last time by bunting,” said Larry. “Arksall, you’re leading off, try it. They’ll not expect it from you.”

The big pitcher, awkward and notoriously a poor hitter and a slow runner, had struck out twice, and among the critics of the game in the stands there was a murmur when he was permitted to bat again, a murmur of disapproval that changed to one of laughing applause when he bunted toward third and went lumbering across first ahead of the ball.

“You run for him, Katsura,” ordered Larry. “I’m going to hit the second ball he pitches toward right field, if possible. I’ll pretend to bunt the first.”

His plan worked perfectly. Maloney, drawn out of position to field the bunt, saw the ball bound past him and before it could be recovered, Katsura was on third and Larry on first. Torney was too anxious, and his high fly seemed to end the rally.

Larry turned quickly to Trumbull, who was coaching.

“Send Jacobs up to hit for McAtee,” he ordered. “We’ve got to win it here.”

Jacobs, who had been fretting on the bench, sprang to the bats and rushed to the plate. The first ball that Meisler pitched was a foot above his head, but he hit it with terrific force, and sent it rolling to the cinder path far beyond the outfielders. Before it could be retrieved, all three runners had crossed the plate and Cascade led 5 to 4.

There Katsura held them, and Cascade rejoiced in victory dragged from defeat.

In the club house, as the excited victors dressed and discussed the events of the afternoon, Jacobs approached Larry Kirkland:

“Thank you,” he said simply. “I was wrong. My dad came over to see the game—and it would have hurt him if I had not played.”

Larry grasped the extended hand heartily. One, at least, of the opposition was converted.