r talking together not far from the bench,
and near them stood Herbert Rackliff, a city boy who had entered
Oakdale Academy at the opening of the spring term.

Rackliff was a chap whose clothes were the envy of almost every lad in
town, being tailor-made, of the latest cut and the finest fabric. His
ties and his socks, a generous portion of the latter displayed by the
up-rolled bottoms of his trousers, were always of a vivid hue and
usually of silk. His highly-polished russet shoes were scarcely
browner than the tips of two fingers of his right hand, which outside
of school hours were constantly dallying with a cigarette. He had
rings and scarf pins, and a gold watch with a handsome seal fob. His
face was pale and a trifle hollow-cheeked, his chest flat, and his
muscles, lacking exercise, sadly undeveloped. For Rackliff took no
part in outdoor sports of any sort, protesting that too much exertion
gave him palpitation of the heart.

Hooker was still sitting hunched on the bleachers, when Rackliff,
having lighted a fresh cigarette, came sauntering languidly toward him.

"Hello, Roy, old sport," saluted the city youth. "You look lonesome."

"I'm not," retorted Hooker shortly.

"Well, you're not practicing, and you must be tired of watching the
animals perform. I came over to kill a little time, but it's grown
monotonous for me, and I'm going to beat it."

"I think I'll get out myself," said Hooker, descending from the
bleachers.

Rackliff accompanied him to the gymnasium, where Roy hastened to strip
off his baseball togs and get into his regular clothes.

"What made you quit pitching so soon?" questioned the city lad,
lingering near. "You don't mind being hit a little in batting
practice, do you?"

"That wasn't it," fibbed Hooker. "Didn't you hear those chumps cackle
with glee? That's what made me sore. Then what's the use for me to
try to pitch if Eliot isn't going to give me any sort of a show?"

"No use at all," said Rackliff cheerfully. "I've noticed that on all
these athletic teams there's more or less partiality shown."

"That's it," cried Roy savagely. "It's partiality. Eliot doesn't like
me, and he isn't going to let me do any pitching. Wants to bury me out
in right garden, the rottenest position on the team. A fellow never
has much of any chance out there."

"Oh, probably he knew you wouldn't accept the position, anyhow," said
Herbert. "He had to make a bluff at giving you something.