came the thrilling notes of the bugle, blown by some one in the stage. Then followed another large vehicle, filled with a throng of cheering lads.

“They’ve brought a crowd along,” commented Sam.

“Yes, maybe they’re depending on rooters to help them win the game.”

“Well, our fellows can root some too,” spoke the pitcher. “I’m glad there’s going to be a big crowd. I can pitch better then.”

“Well, do your best,” urged the manager. “There’s Percy Parnell and Fred Newton over there. I thought they were out on the field long ago.”

“Maybe they had to set fence posts too.”

“Maybe,” assented Darrell with a laugh. “And here comes Tom Davis. Who’s that with him?” and the pitcher and manager glanced at a tall, well-formed lad who was walking beside the substitute first baseman. “Evidently a stranger in town,” went on Darrell.

“Yes, I’ve seen him before,” remarked Sam. “He lives down on our street. The family just moved in. His name is Batson, or Hatson, or something like that. His father works in the harvester factory.”

“Hum,” mused Darrell. “He looks like a decent sort of chap,” and he gazed critically at the stranger. “Maybe he’d like to join our club,” for the ball team was a sort of adjunct to a boys’ athletic organization.

“Oh, we’ve got enough fellows in now,” said Sam quickly.

“Always room for one more,” commented the manager, who was ever on the lookout for good material for the nine. Perhaps Sam suspected something like this, for he glanced quickly at his companion.

“Say, if you think I’m not good enough——” began the pitcher, who was noted for his quick temper.

“Now, now, drop that kind of talk,” said Darrell soothingly. “You know we’re all satisfied with your pitching. Don’t get on your ear.”

“Well, I won’t then,” and Sam smiled frankly.

By this time Percy Parnell, the second baseman, and Fred Newton, the plucky little shortstop, had joined the pitcher and the manager, and greetings were exchanged.

“Are we going to wallop ’em?” asked Fred.

“Sure thing,” assented Sam.

“It’s going to be a hot game all right,” was Percy’s opinion.

“All the better,” commented Darrell. “Say the people are turning out in great shape, though. I’m glad to see it. We need a little money in our treasury.”

They turned in at the players’ gate. The Resolute team had preceded them, and already several of the members of that nine were in their uniforms and out on the diamond. They were lads of the same age as their rivals, and had about the same sort of an organization—strictly amateur, but with desires to do as nearly as possible as the college and professional teams did.

But there was a great difference, of course, and mainly in the rather free-and-easy manner in which the rules were interpreted. While it is true that in the fundamentals they played baseball according to the general regulations, there were many points on which they were at variance, and a professional probably would have found much at which to laugh and be in despair. But what did it matter as long as the boys, and those who watched them, enjoyed it? Not a bit, in my opinion.

As the Silver Star lads proceeded to the improvised dressing rooms under the grandstand, several more of the Resolute players hurried out, buttoning jackets as they ran.

“Oh, we’ll get you fellows to-day all right!” shouted Henry (otherwise known as Hen) Littell, pitcher and captain of the Resolutes.

“All right, the game’s yours—if you can take it,” called back Darrell, with a laugh.

The diamond soon presented an animated scene, with many players and a few substitutes pitching, catching or batting balls about. The crowds were beginning to arrive and occupy seats in the small grandstand or on the bleachers. Many preferred to stand along the first and third base lines, or seat themselves on the grass.

Approaching the grounds about this time were the two lads of whom Sam and Darrell had spoken briefly. One was Tom Davis, the substitute first baseman and the other boy whom Sam had referred to as “Batson” or “Hatson.” Sam had it nearly right. The lad was Joe Matson, and as he is to figure largely in this story I will take just a moment to introduce him to you.

Joe was the son of Mr. and Mrs. John Matson, and had lately moved to Riverside with his parents and his sister Clara, who was a year his junior. The family had come from the town of Bentville, about a hundred miles away. Mr. Matson had been employed in a machine works there, and had invented several useful appliances.

Located in Riverside was the Royal Harvester Works, a large concern. In some manner Mr. Isaac Benjamin, the manager, had heard of the appliances Mr. Matson had perfected, and, being in need of a capable machinist, he had made Mr. Matson an offer to come to Riverside. It had been accepted, and the family had moved in shortly before this story opens.

Joe was a tall, well-built lad, with dark hair and brown eyes, and a way of walking and swinging his arms that showed he had some athletic training. He had made the acquaintance of Tom Davis, who lived in the house back of him, and Tom had asked Joe to go to the game that day.

“For it’s going to be a good one,” said Tom proudly, since he was a member of the nine, even though only a substitute.

“Who’s going to win?” asked Joe, as they approached the grounds.

“We will, if——” and then Tom stopped suddenly, for there was a yell from inside the fence and a moment later a ball came sailing over it, straight toward the two lads.

“Look out!” yelled Tom. “That’s a hot one! Duck, Joe, duck!”

But Joe did not dodge. Instead, he spread his legs well apart and stood ready to catch the swiftly-moving horsehide in his bare hands.

CHAPTER II

TIEING THE SCORE

Ping! The ball came in between Joe’s palms with a vicious thud, but there it stuck, and a moment later the newcomer had tossed it back over the fence with certain and strong aim.

“I guess some one will pick it up,” he said.

“Sure,” assented Tom. “Say, that was a good stop all right. Have you played ball before?”

“Oh, just a little,” was the modest and rather quiet answer. In fact Joe Matson was rather a quiet youth, too quiet, his mother sometimes said, but his father used to smile and remark:

“Oh, let Joe alone. He’ll make out all right, and some of these days he may surprise us.”

“Well, that was a pippy stop all right,” was Tom’s admiring, if slangy, compliment. “Let’s go in, I may get a chance to play.”

Joe turned toward the main entrance gate, and thrust one hand into his pocket.

“Where you going?” demanded Tom.

“Into the grounds of course. I want to get a ticket.”

“Not much!” exclaimed his companion. “You don’t have to pay. Come with me. I invited you to this game, and I’m a member of the team, though I don’t often get a chance to play. Members are allowed to bring in one guest free. I’ll take you in. We’ll use the players’ gate.”

“Thanks,” said Joe briefly, as he followed his new friend.

“Here’s a good place to see it from—almost as good as the grandstand,” said Tom, as they moved to a spot along the first base line. “Though you can go up and sit down if you like. I’m going to put on my things. I