of poetry can you get up about dogs? I must confess, I don't like them. Unless, of course, they are the nice little lap-dog kind."

"This isn't about a lap-dog, exactly," returned Songbird. "It's about a watchdog."

"Um! By the way, Songbird, haven't the Sandersons a new watchdog?"

"Yes." And now Songbird reddened a little.

"Well, let us have the poem, anyway. I love dogs, and some poetry about them ought to run along pretty good."

Thereupon, rather hesitatingly, Songbird held up his writing-pad and read the following:

"The sun sinks low far in the west—
    The farmer plodeth home to rest,
 The watchdog, watching in the night,
    Assures him ev'ry thing is right."

"Fine!" cried Tom. "Real, dyed-in-the-wool poetry that, Songbird. Give us some more." And then the would-be poet continued:

 "The sun comes up and it is morn,
    The farmer goes to plow his corn,
 The watchdog, watching through the day,
    Keeps ev'ry tramp and thief away."

 And be it night or be it day——"

"The watchdog's there, and there to stay!"

continued Tom, and then on:

"The watchdog, watching in his sleep,
    Catches each flea and makes him weep!"

"Catching fleas indeed!" interrupted Songbird. "Now, Tom, I didn't have any fleas in this poem."

"But all dogs have fleas, Songbird—they own them naturally. You wouldn't deprive a poor, innocent dog of his inheritance, would you?"

"But, Tom, see here——"

"But I wanted to say the poem couldn't be better," went on the fun-loving Rover. "Why don't you send it to some of the dog journals? They would be sure to print it."

"Dog journals?" snorted the would-be poet. "Do you think I write for such a class of publications as that?"

"Well, you might do worse," responded Tom, coolly. "Now, for a first-class journal, they ought to pay you at least a dollar a foot."

"Oh, Tom, you are the worst ever!" murmured Songbird, as he turned away. A few minutes later, Tom saw him sit down on a bench to compose verses as industriously as ever.

"I think I must be going," said William Philander, who had listened to Songbird's effort without making any comment.

"Wait a minute, my dear Billy, I want——"

"Now, Tom, please don't call me Billy," pleaded the dudish student.

"Oh, all right, Philly. I was just going to say——"

"Now, Tom, Philly is just as bad as Billy, if not worse. You know my name well enough."

"All right, Tubblets. If you prefer any such handle to the tub, why I——"

"Tom, if you are going to talk that way, I'll really have to leave you, don't you know," cried William Philander. "I am not going to stand for it any longer. I have told you at least a hundred times——"

"No, not a hundred times, not more than sixty-eight times at the most," interrupted Tom.

"Well, I've told you enough times, anyway, Tom. So if you——"

"Don't say another word, or you'll make me weep," said Tom, and drew down his face soberly. "Why, my dear fellow, I wouldn't hurt your feelings, not for the world and a big red apple thrown in. But what I was going to say was this: Are you going to play on our baseball team this Spring? Somebody said you were going to pitch for us," and Tom looked very much in earnest.

"Me pitch for you?" queried William Philander. "Why, who told you such a story as that?"

"It's all over college, Tubbs, all over college. You must be practicing pitching in private."

"But I don't know a thing about pitching. In fact, I don't know much about baseball," pleaded the dudish student.

"Oh, come now, Tubbs—you can't fool me. Most likely you have been practicing in private, and when you come out on the diamond you will astonish everybody. Well, I am glad to know that Brill College is really to have a first-class pitcher at last. We need it if we are going to win any baseball games.

"Now, Tom, I tell you that I don't know——"

"Oh, you can't fool me, William," declared Tom, positively. "I got the information straight, and I know it is absolutely correct. You are booked as the head pitcher for Brill this season." And thus speaking, Tom turned on his heel and walked off, leaving William Philander Tubbs much perplexed.

CHAPTER V

THREE LETTERS

A new idea had entered Tom's mind, and he lost no time in carrying it out. Meeting Bob Grimes and Stanley Browne, he drew them quickly to one side and mentioned the talk he had had with William Philander.

"Now, carry it along," he concluded. "If you do it properly, we'll have a barrel of fun out of it."

"Right you are!" returned Bob, and Stanley winked knowingly. Then Tom hurried off, to interview several others of the students, principally those who were interested in the Brill baseball nine.

Just before the bell rang for breakfast, William Philander found himself confronted by Bob, who shook hands cordially. "This is the best news yet, William," said the baseball leader, heartily. "I have been wondering what we were going to do for a pitcher this season."

"Yes, it's all to the merry," put in Stanley, who had come up with Bob. "But tell us privately, William, are you going to depend on a straight ball and speed, or are you going to give them some curves and fadeaways?"

"Now, see here!" spluttered the dudish student. "I am not a baseball pitcher, and I want you to——"

"Oh, William, don't try that game on us! '" burst out Stanley. "We know that you have been practicing pitching for the past two months; that you took lessons from one of the greatest ball twirlers in the Western League. Of course, we understand that you wanted to surprise us; and I must confess, it is a surprise."

"But a mighty agreeable one," came from Spud, who had joined the crowd, while Tom hovered behind William Philander, grinning broadly over what was taking place. "Brill has wanted a really great pitcher for years. Of course, we have won some victories with ordinary pitchers, but the moment I heard that you had taken to twirling the sphere, I said to all my friends; 'This is the year that Brill is going to come out on top.' My dear Tubbs, I think we ought to get down on our knees, and thank you for doing this much for our college. I am sure the board of directors, when they hear of this, will certainly give you a vote of thanks, because success in baseball and other athletic sports is what makes a college in these days. And you are taking up the sport in such a thoroughly systematic manner."

"Oh, my dear fellow!" pleaded William Philander, frantically. "This is all some dreadful mistake, don't you know. How it came about, I can't imagine, but I haven't——"

"It's no use, fellows. He simply won't acknowledge it yet," broke in another student.

"We'll have to wait until he comes out on the diamond in his new uniform," added still another.

"Anyway, William, you might tell us whether you are going to use a straight ball or a curve and the fadeaway," pleaded Stanley.

"He is going to keep that a secret, so as to fool our opponents," broke in Tom. "And he'll fool them all right enough, you can depend on W. P. Tubbs every time."

"Three cheers for W. P.!" cried Spud. "Now, then, boys, altogether: W. P., the champion pitcher of Brill College!"

A cheer and a yell rent the air, and brought a great number of other students to that part of the campus. In a twinkling, William Philander was completely surrounded.

"What's it all about?"

"Is it a fight?"

"Who are they cheering?"

"It's all about Mr. W. P. Tubbs, Esq.," cried Tom, loudly. "Our new, double back-action, warranted, baseball twirler; the man who is going to shoot 'em over the plate in such