style="font-size:15px;"> “Maybe he’ll drop out of sight,” said Tom. But this was not to be. Tad Sobber was to cause a great deal of trouble, as we shall learn in the near future. The young rascal had convinced himself that the Stanhope fortune belonged to him, and he meant to leave no stone unturned to get possession of it.
CHAPTER II
THE FIRE ON THE STEAMER
“That’s the way to do it!”
The cry came as Tom knocked a neat liner out to center field. He managed to get to first base with ease, while Dick, on the alert, slid to the home plate just before the ball came in.
“That gives us five runs, anyway!” was Stanley’s comment. “Now, Spud, see what you can do.”
“Here is where I knock one across the river and back,” declared Spud Jackson, as he came forward with a bat. “Better chase your men away out,” he added to Frank Holden.
“They can use nets,” answered the pitcher with a grin.
Spud had a ball and a strike called on him and then met the leather and sent it to the shortstop. Tom had to run for second and he legged it with might and main. But the ball got there ahead of him and he was put out, and so was the runner at first.
“Wow!” cried Songbird. “Thought you were going to knock the ball across the river and back, Spud.”
“So I did,” answered Spud, as he walked up from first. “It landed on the other side, bounced back, and the shortstop got it. Fierce luck, eh?” And he cut a face that made many of the students standing by laugh outright.
In the next inning the other side added two runs to their total. One of these runs was made by Sam, much to the youngest Rover’s satisfaction.
“We’ve got you going!” he cried, to his brothers and the others. “Might as well give up.”
“Huh! we haven’t started yet,” retorted Tom. He turned to William Philander Tubbs, who had strolled near. “Say, Tubby, old boy, lend me your green socks for luck, will you?”
“Oh, Tom, please don’t ask me to – ah – lend those socks,” pleaded William Philander, innocently. “They are the only pair of that shade I have, and the young ladies say – ”
“They can’t resist you when you have them on,” finished Tom. “All right, if you want me to lose the game, keep the socks,” and the fun-loving Rover put on a mournful look.
“But, my dear Tom, how can my socks have anything to do with the game?” questioned the dude, helplessly.
“Why, it’s a psychological phenomena, Tublets. Sort of an inter-mental telepathy, so to speak – a rhomboid compendium indexus, as it were. Of course you understand,” said Tom, soberly.
“Why – ah – I don’t think I do, Tom,” stammered the dude. “But I can’t loan the socks, really I can’t!” And he backed away with all possible haste, while some of the students poked each other in the ribs and some laughed outright.
“Now then, here is where we go at ’em, hammer and tongs!” cried Dick, as he walked to the plate. And he met the first ball pitched and lined a beautiful three-bagger to deep center.
“Hurrah! That’s the way to do it!” yelled Tom. “Leg it, old man, leg it!”
“We’ve struck our gait!” sang out another player. “Now, Tom, you’ve got to bring him home sure.”
Tom was on the alert and after one strike managed to send the ball down into left field. Dick came home and the batter got to second, although it was a tight squeeze.
Spud was up next, and this time his face wore a “do-or-die” look. He had two balls called on him, and then whack! his bat struck the ball and the horsehide went sailing far over the right fielder’s head.
“Say, that’s a beaut!”
“Come on in, Tom!”
“Make it a two-bagger, Spud!”
“You can get to third if you try!” yelled Dick, and Spud did try and landed in a cloud of dust on third base just a second before the ball got there.
“Now then, Wilson, bring Spud in,” said Dick, to the next fellow at the bat.
“Make it a homer and bring yourself in too, Wilson,” added Tom.
“By chimminy! Make him two home runs while you are at it alretty!” cried Max Spangler, with a broad smile. Since arriving at Brill the German American lad had become quite a baseball “fan.”
“Hi, there, you fellows!” came unexpectedly from the center fielder.
“What’s the matter?” yelled back Frank Holden, stepping out of the pitcher’s box and turning around.
“Something is wrong on the river.”
“Wrong on the river?” queried several, in a chorus.
“Yes. Don’t you hear the screaming?”
“Time!” cried the umpire, and the game came to a stop.
“Say, that is somebody screaming!” exclaimed Stanley. “Sounds like a girl’s voice.”
“It’s from that excursion boat!” said another student. And as he spoke he pointed to a small river steamer, gaily decorated with flags and bunting, that had appeared around a bend of the stream.
“Why, that’s the Thistle!” ejaculated Dick.
“The Thistle?” repeated Sam. “Oh, Dick, that’s the steamer the girls from Hope were going to use for their picnic up the river!”
“I know it.”
“Do you suppose Grace and Nellie and Dora are on board?”
“More than likely.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“They are yelling like Indians!” cried the center fielder. “Come on, something is wrong, sure!”
On the instant the game of baseball was forgotten, and like a drove of wild horses the college boys raced down to the edge of the river, which at this point was over a quarter of a mile wide but quite shallow. As they did this they heard the steam whistle of the Thistle sound out loud and long.
“That’s a call for assistance, that’s certain,” said Dick.
“Oh, I hope the girls are safe!” murmured his youngest brother.
“She’s on fire, that’s what’s the matter!” exclaimed Tom. “See the smoke coming from the cabin!”
“Fire! fire! fire!” was the cry taken up on all sides. “The steamer is on fire!”
“Why don’t they run to the dock?” asked one of the students.
“Can’t – it isn’t deep enough,” was the reply. “They are going
