CHAPTER XXVII

THE ROOTERS INSIST

Word was quietly passed around that another feast was to be given by the three chums, and invitations to it were eagerly looked for.

“That Chunky sure does know how to get up an eat-fest,” said Gene Flarity. “Too bad the last one was spoiled.”

“Oh, it wasn’t exactly spoiled,” observed George Fitch. “We had most of the stuff put away inside us when the proc came in. But I don’t think any one will squeal this time.”

“If they do, and it proves to be Frank, he ought to be run out of college,” declared Gene. “It’s a shame the way he snubs those fellows.”

“So it is,” agreed George. “Well, we’ll hope for the best.”

“And we’ll get it, if Chunky has the ordering of the eats,” chuckled Gene. “He was telling me he was going to make a chicken pie in that electric chafing dish.”

“Good!” exclaimed George. “Chunky is sure some little cook!”

To the surprise of Ned, Bob and Jerry, who quietly passed word around about the prospective surreptitious lunch, members of the varsity nine whom they asked, refused.

“I’d like to come, first-rate,” said Jake Porter, “but you see Frank has forbidden us.”

“You mean he won’t let you come just because we’re giving it?” asked Ned. “Solidified scuttle-butts! but that is carrying it a long way.”

“No, it isn’t because it’s _you_,” Jake hastened to add. “I’m not even sure he knows you’re going to give it, unless you asked him.”

“There wouldn’t be any use asking him,” Bob said.

“Well then, it’s because it’s the night before the second Kenwell game,” Jake explained. “Frank says any of the varsity who feed up and stay out late the night before the game can’t play. So I’m not going to take a chance.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right,” Jerry said. “We don’t want to spoil the team’s chances. We haven’t any ourselves, so we’re going to feed up.”

“Oh, I don’t suppose it makes an awful lot of difference,” said Jake. “I can play just as well after a supper as before. But you know what Frank is. Once he gets a notion in his head it’s hard to get it out. So I’m taking no chances.”

“Can’t blame you for that,” remarked Ned. “And we sure do know what Frank is!”

Somewhat to the surprise of the hosts Bart and Bill agreed to come to the feast.

“We don’t care what Frank says,” declared Bart. “I want to have some fun, and we’ll get it in your rooms. It won’t make a bit of difference about the game. But don’t let Frank know we’re coming, or he might be pig-headed enough to keep us out.”

“We won’t say a word,” promised Bob.

“But how are you going to get in without his knowing it, seeing that you’re bunking with him?” asked Jerry.

“Oh, we can slip out on some excuse or other,” Bill said. “I’m not going to let him slave-drive me much longer.”

“You can’t get into our rooms without his seeing you,” went on Jerry. “He’s likely to come out in the hall any minute.”

“Hush! Whisper!” exclaimed Bart, with a wink. “The fire escape! There’s one outside Ned’s window; isn’t there?”

“Sure!” Ned cried. “I never thought of that.”

“We’ll crawl up the fire escape from the outside,” went on Bart, “and you be ready to let us in your window.”

“But it may be risky going back that way,” cautioned Bob. “The moon won’t be up when you come in, but it will be shining directly on the ladder when the party breaks up.”

“Oh, going out will be easy,” declared Bill. “You can let us slip out of your rooms into the corridor. We can go down it a way on our tiptoes and come back flat-footed so Frank will hear us. He’ll think we’re coming back from a trip to town, where we can intimate that we’re going.”

“Any way you like,” said Jerry.

The night of the feast came. It was the night before the second big game with Kenwell.

To the rooms of our friends came those invited to the feast. All but Bart and Bill arrived in the usual way, stepping softly along the corridor. If Frank, in his den across the hall, knew that a feast was going on he gave no sign. Not a light showed over the transom.

“He went out before we did,” said Bart when he and Bill arrived by way of the fire escape. “I guess we’ve got him fooled all right.”

“I hope so,” returned Jerry.

“And now for the chicken pie!” said Bob, when some of the other things had been passed around and the fun was under way.

“‘Hurrah for the fun, is the pudding done? Hurrah for the pumpkin pie!’” quoted Bart.

“Not so loud!” cautioned Bob, turning the electric current on in the chafing dish.

“Circulate the olives, somebody!”

“Who’s holding those cocoanut macaroons?”

“Somebody’s got a mortgage on the chocolate cake!”

“Say, but this is a good feed, Chunky!”

Thus came the comments, mostly in whispers, though now and then a laugh would break out which would be quickly hushed.

“Smells good, Chunky,” said Bill, when the stout lad took the cover off the chafing dish.

“I hope it is,” Bob remarked, carefully inspecting his concoction. “I guess it’s done.”

“Then hurry up and dish it out and we’ll beat it,” Bart said. “I don’t want Frank to get suspicious.”

Bart and Bill were served with the chicken pie and were about to begin eating, when there came a knock on Jerry’s door.

“Caught again!” exclaimed Ned.

“Who--who’s there?” faltered Bob, while Jerry reached up and switched off the lights.

“It’s Frank Watson,” was the unexpected answer. “Open the door.”

Wondering what was in the wind Jerry turned on the incandescents, while Ned swung open the portal which he unlocked.

“Are Bart and Bill here?” demanded Frank, haughtily, not coming in. “I thought so,” he went on, as he caught sight of the two members of the varsity. “I told you fellows to cut this out,” he went on. “I don’t object to a little fun, but you know it’s the night before a big game, and I don’t want you trying to play with stomach-aches. Come on out now!” he ordered, harshly.

It was, perhaps, within his right as captain and manager, and Bart and Bill realized it.

“Can’t we finish this pie?” asked Bart.

“No! You’re in training, the same as the rest of us. I’m not breaking mine, and you shouldn’t yours. It isn’t fair.”

“Will you come in?” asked Jerry.

“No!” Frank fairly snapped. “And you fellows come out!”

Bob wanted to ask how Frank knew of the presence of the two varsity men in the room, but did not think it wise. After all, it was not hard for Frank to guess, since he could not have been unaware of the fact that a supper was in progress across the hall.

Bart and Bill went out.

“I don’t suppose you have any objections to the rest of our guests remaining, have you?” asked Jerry, slightly sarcastically.

“No!” Frank answered shortly. He went into his own room, followed by Bart and Bill.

“I guess he won’t squeal,” said Ned. “We’ll finish the feed.”

It was the day of the second game with Kenwell. A big crowd surged in the stands around the diamond at Boxwood Hall. The rival rooters sang, yelled and cheered, and there was a riot of college and academy colors.

“Is Frank going to let Bart and Bill play?” asked Jerry.

“I haven’t heard,” replied Ned. He, as well as Jerry, Bob and other members of the scrub, were in baseball suits, for a game with the Kenwell scrub would follow the main contest.

But a little later when the Boxwood Hall varsity ran out of the dressing room it was seen that Bart and Bill had not been penalized.

“Play ball!”

Again sounded that thrilling and inspiring call.

At first it seemed that the Boxwood Hall team had a good chance. But Kenwell was more on edge, and slipped over two runs the first inning, while the college lads had only a goose egg.

“Oh, it’s early yet,” said Jerry, who sat with the other scrubs.

But when it came Boxwood Hall’s turn they could do little against “Sock” Burchell’s pitching, finding him only for fouls.

It was in the fourth inning that the real break came. The score was three to one in favor of the academy. And then it was that the military lads cut loose.

They literally pounded Jim Blake out of the box, and though Frank raged around, and did his best, it was too much for him. The man on first missed two easy balls, and as for the short stop he let three easy grounders get past him. The academy brought in five runs that inning and it looked to be all up with Boxwood Hall.

And then the rooters took a hand.

“Get a pitcher!”

“Put somebody in without a glass arm!”

“Get a new man on first!”

“Where’d that short stop learn to play ball?”

“Frank, you’ve got to do something!” cried Bart to his chum when Kenwell was finally put out.

“What can I do? The team’s playing rotten.”

“I know. But put in some fellows who can play. There’s Hopkins, Slade and Baker. You know they can play. They may pull us out of the hole and we might win with Ned’s pitching. Put ’em in!”

“No!”

From the crowd of rooters came the demands.

“What’s the matter with Jerry Hopkins?”

“Can’t Ned Slade curve ’em over?”

The crowd was becoming unruly. Several shouted unpleasant names at Frank.

“You’re a peach of a captain!”

“Better put the three in,” advised Bill Hamilton. “They’ll put some pep in the team.”

Frank’s face showed his anger. He hesitated, while the roar from the crowd increased.