Barbour Ralph Henry
The Lucky Seventh

CHAPTER XV
ON THE ROCKS

It was hard going for Dick, for his crutches sank into the sand nearly to the depth of their rubber tips, but he persevered, and after some ten minutes of “crutching” arrived at the end of the beach where the point of rock from which the place received its name advanced from the grassy bluff and waded far into the breakers. Harold was not in sight when Dick reached the bottom of the ledge; but a few moments later when by careful climbing Dick had reached the seaward end of the rock, he came into view. The receding tide had left a long and narrow pool in a cleft of the ledge, a pool whose sides were festooned with delicate seaweed and set with purple mussels and green and brown snails and in whose bottom pink starfish crawled. Harold, perched at the edge of the pool, was looking fascinatingly into the clear green depths and didn’t hear the soft tap of Dick’s crutches until the older boy was almost beside him. Then he turned startledly, narrowly escaping a bath in the pool, and scowled at the intruder.

“Had to hunt for me, anyway, didn’t you?” he asked sneeringly.

Dick paid the question no heed. Instead, he moved to the edge of the pool and peered interestedly into it. He didn’t have to feign interest, he was interested. It seemed a long time to Dick since he had crouched, as Harold was crouched now, and gazed fascinatingly at the wonders of a rock pool. Nor had he done it very frequently, for climbing over the ledges is hard and risky work for a boy without two good legs. Harold continued to frown at a wavering starfish in the depths, but presently, as Dick did not speak, he shot a curious glance at him.

“Gee,” he said to himself, “you’d think he’d never seen starfish and things before!”

Dick took off his hat and wiped his moist forehead. Then he lowered himself cautiously to a seat on the rock. “Regular natural aquarium, isn’t it?” he asked pleasantly. Harold’s reply was an unintelligible growl. “Lots of queer things in there,” went on Dick musingly.

“Sure; I just saw a whale,” replied Harold sarcastically.

“Did you? Your eyes must be pretty good,” returned Dick, with a smile. “I dare say, though, I see something you don’t.”

Harold viewed him suspiciously. Finally: “What?” he asked.

“A sea-anemone.”

“A sea-what?”

“Sea-anemone.” Dick laughed. “I sea-anemone; what do you see?”

“That’s a punk joke!” scoffed Harold.

“I’m not joking. I’ll point him out to you. Lean over this way. See that purplish-brown thing on the side near the bottom? Looks like a flower, sort of. See?”

“Sure! Is that it? It isn’t a flower, though; it moves, don’t it?” Harold was interested in spite of himself.

“Yes, it moves, and it isn’t a flower. It’s a polyp. It’s name is Metridium something or other; I forget the rest of it.”

“What’s a polyp? An animal?”

“Y-yes, of a low order. About as much as a sponge is.”

“Pooh, a sponge is a vegetable!” derided the other.

“Not exactly. Those things that move are little tentacles with which it feeds itself,” said Dick, pointing again at the anemone.

“What’s it eat?” asked Harold curiously.

“All sorts of animal matter that floats around in the water and that is so small we can’t see it.”

Harold observed him suspiciously. “I don’t believe it’s alive at all,” he said presently. “It’s just a sort of seaweed, and it moves because the water moves.”

“Think so?” asked Dick. “Then put your hand down there toward it and see what happens.”

“It won’t – bite, will it?” asked Harold doubtfully.

“No, but it will show you whether it’s alive or not. You needn’t touch it,” he added, noting the other’s hesitancy. “Just put your hand near it or disturb the water.”

Harold pulled his sleeve up and cautiously thrust an arm into the pool. “Gee!” he exclaimed. “It shut its mouth!”

Dick laughed. “Doesn’t look much like it did, does it?”

“No; it’s an ugly little thing now,” responded the other. “Say, that’s funny, isn’t it? Guess it’s alive, all right.”

“Yes; and it knows three things pretty well: It knows how to attach itself to the rocks, how to get food, and how to shut up shop when trouble brews.”

“What would it do if you took it out?”

“Die. Besides, it’s stuck on there so hard you’d have to pull it to pieces to get it off. I tried it once when I was a kid, and had to give it up.”

“I’d like to find a sea-urchin,” said Harold. “I’ve got a lot of starfish and a horse-shoe crab and some razor-clam shells and two shark eggs. I guess I’ll get that big starfish down there, too.”

“What’s the use?” asked Dick. “It’s just like those you’ve got. Let the old chap live and enjoy himself.”

“I’ll get it if I want to,” replied Harold. “Say, what did you follow me out here for, anyway?”

“Because I told your mother I’d find you and send you to her. She’s got something to say to you.”

“Sure! I suppose you went and told her a lot of lies about me.”

“You don’t suppose anything of the sort,” responded Dick quietly.

“Well, anyway, I’m not afraid of her.”

“Of course not, but you want to do what she wishes, don’t you?”

“That’s my business,” replied the other ungraciously. “I do as I please.”

“Well, you’re a lucky chap, then,” said Dick pleasantly. “By the way, are you going to see the ball game Saturday?”

“Yes, I guess so. That is” – with elaborate concern – “unless you don’t want me to.”

“I was going to say that if you’ll ask for me at the gate I’ll pass you in, Harold.”

“Why, are they going to charge?”

“Yes; twenty-five cents.”

“Gee, they’ve got a crust! Who’d pay twenty-five cents to see a lot of wooden-heads play ball?”

“Well, we’re hoping a lot will. Anyway, you won’t have to. Just ask for me at the gate. I guess it will be a pretty good game. Do you like baseball?”

“I suppose so.”

“Do you play?”

“Sure! What do you think I am – a wooden Indian?”

“That’s good. They have a pretty good team at Rifle Point. Maybe you’ll make it some day.”

“There isn’t any maybe about it. I’m going to.”

“I hope so. Well, I must be getting back. You coming along? It must be very nearly lunch time.”

“No, I’m not,” growled Harold. “I’ll come when I’m ready.”

“All right. By the way, we won’t have any lessons to-morrow. Nothing doing until Monday. Meanwhile you see if you can’t get the better of that algebra, like a good fellow. So-long!”

“Long!” muttered Harold.

Dick pulled himself up and fixed his crutches and began the laborious task of climbing back up the rock and across to the beach. Fortunately his rubber tips held well, and he was soon at the top of the ledge. But there misfortune overtook him. Just what happened he couldn’t have told, but the result he was very certain about. For one crutch flew out from under him, he spun half around on the other and fell backward, his head coming into violent contact with the granite ledge. For an instant he was too dazed to move. His head rang and buzzed like a bee-hive. In falling he must have cried out involuntarily, for almost before he had gathered his faculties together and made a move to get up he heard footsteps pattering on the rocks, and then the anxious voice of Harold Townsend:

“Are you hurt, Lovering? What happened?”

Harold ran to him, and bent over him with very genuine concern.

“I – I’m all right, thanks,” replied Dick, a trifle vaguely. “I fell. That rock is some hard, Harold!” He rubbed his head ruefully and grimaced as his hand came in contact with the swelling bruise. “Just give me a hand, will you? And kick that crutch this way, please.”

“Here’s your crutch,” said Harold, “but just you wait where you are a minute.” He sped away down the slope of the rock, and Dick, with his head throbbing, for once could not but feel a qualm of envy. In a moment the younger boy was back. He had dipped his handkerchief in the water, and now he offered it a trifle shyly to Dick. “Put it on your head,” he said gruffly. “It’ll make it feel better.”

“Thanks, Harold.” Dick applied the wet compress to the bump. “It was stupid of me to keel over like that,” he said. “I don’t know when I’ve fallen down before.”

“I should think you’d have lots of falls,” replied Harold. “I think you get around mighty well, Lovering. How does it feel now?”

“Better, thanks. Just sort of give me a boost, will you?”

Harold assisting, Dick got to his feet, or, rather, his crutches, and, with the younger boy watching anxiously, went on down the ledge to the beach.

“You needn’t come unless you’re ready to,” said Dick. “I’ll be all right now, Harold.”

“I guess I’ll go, too,” replied Harold carelessly. “It’s most lunch time.”

They walked along in silence for a way, and then Dick asked: “Do you know who Caspar Billings has got to take Morris Brent’s place on Saturday?”

“Fellow named Jensen. Do you know him?”

“No, I think not. Pretty good, is he?”

“I guess so. Loring says he is. Say, Mason’s going to pitch for us. Did you know that?”

“Mason? Oh, he is the fellow who was to have played in the last game and didn’t get here. Is he a wonder, Harold?”

“Is he!” Harold chuckled. “You just wait and see. You fellows won’t be able to touch him!”

“As good as that, eh? By the way, who scores for your team?”

“I don’t know.” Harold shrugged his shoulders. “Nobody, I guess. Why?”

“I should think you’d like to do it.”

Harold considered. “I guess,” he answered finally, “I don’t know how well enough.”

“I can show you. You bring a book Saturday and sit by me, and I’ll make a professional scorer of you in no time.”

“Too much trouble,” replied the other indifferently.

“It isn’t trouble at all, Harold; it’s fun. Better try it some time. It’s a good thing to know.”

Presently Harold asked: “Why aren’t you coming to-morrow?”

“Because we haven’t been getting on very well, Harold. I thought it might be a good idea for us to stop for a couple of days and think it over; see whether we want to go on with it or not, you know. If we decide that we do, we’ll start all over again Monday and do the thing right.”

“Humph!” muttered Harold. “What did you tell my mother?”

“Oh, just that I wasn’t willing to go on and take her money without accomplishing something,” replied Dick cheerfully. “I told her you could study as well as your brother if you wanted to – ”

“She’s always beefing about Loring!” grumbled the boy.

“And that if you didn’t want to there wasn’t much use in my coming. Well, I’ll cut through here for the car. I’ll see you Monday, Harold.”

“What about Saturday?” asked the other. “You said – ”

“Of course! Look me up, and bring your score-book.”

“Haven’t any.”

“You can get one at Wadsworth’s, on Common Street. Or I’ll buy one for you, if you like.”

“You needn’t. It’s too much like work. So-long!”

Dick returned to Clearfield more encouraged. If only Mrs. Townsend would do as she had agreed to, he believed that he could manage Harold and earn the money that was being paid him. He had about given up hope of finding more pupils, and so could ill afford to lose Harold. He certainly didn’t want to, he reflected, but he would in an instant rather than make no better progress than he had been making.

At practice that afternoon, Gordon told him that Morris had asked to see him, and Dick agreed to call at the Brents’ for a few minutes before supper. Morris was pathetically glad to see the two boys and very loath to have them go again. Mrs. Brent looked in for a short time and Louise met them on their way out and thanked them for coming. She looked rather tired, and Gordon spoke of it.

“It’s been so hot to-day,” she explained, “and I’ve been indoors a good deal since Morris was hurt. He can’t read to himself yet, and so I have to do it for him. Of course, I’m very glad to, but it is hard work in a way. I wonder if either of you have any books he’d like. I’ve read about everything I can find.”

“I think I have,” responded Dick. “I’ll bring two or three over. I guess what Morris wants is a rattling good adventure story.”

“Yes; he’s crazy to hear stories about ships and pirates and hidden treasure, you know. About the only other thing he cares about is the baseball news. I read that to him every morning, and I’m getting to be quite – quite learned.”

“I suppose,” said Dick, “the doctor won’t let you move him out to the Point yet.”

“He says we can go in about another two weeks. I think it will be much better for Morris. He’s getting fearfully tired of that room up there. And it is hot, you know. Thank you both for coming, and do come again when you can. I guess it isn’t much fun for you, but Morris looks forward to it all day.”

“She’s a nice girl,” commented Dick, as they passed through the gate. “Pretty, too.”

“She is nice,” agreed Gordon. “I guess when a fellow’s laid up like that a sister’s a pretty good thing to have around.”

“Yes,” said Dick. And, after a moment, he added: “I’ll find those books and take them around to-morrow morning.”

“I would,” approved the other. “You’re certain to find her in then.”

“Don’t be a chump, Gordie! She’s only a kid!”

“She’s as old as I am, except for a few months. And if you call me a kid I’ll lick you.”

“If you do, I’ll suspend you,” replied Dick sternly.

Gordon laughed. “I hope I’d get as much fun out of it as Jack is getting,” he said. “He confided to me to-day that you were a fine manager. ‘I tell you, Gordon,’ he said, ‘a manager’s got to have plenty of discipline!’ If you could only fire Jack for good and all, he’d love you like a brother, Dick!”

“I sort of wish we were going to have him in the game Saturday,” said Dick. “We’ll miss his batting, I guess.”

“I wonder if this fellow Mason is as good as they seem to think him. Anyone know where he comes from?”

“I didn’t ask. He’s probably better than Porter, though. I have a feeling that we’re due to get the short end of the score day after to-morrow.”

“I wouldn’t be surprised. I hope to goodness Harry can play. If he is out of it, we will be in a mess!”

“How is Tom getting on with his shingling or painting or whatever it is he’s doing?”

“I don’t know. Why?”

“Well, it would be a good thing if he could come out and practice a little more. It’s too bad we can’t find another fellow to help out with the pitching, Gordie. If Tom got sick we’d be in a fix.”

“We surely would! But I don’t believe Tom was ever sick in his life. Anyway, he was pretty fit to-day. I caught him for a few minutes, and he had everything there is.”

Dick smiled. “Tom has just three balls, Gordie: an out, a pretty good drop, and a fast one that’s a peach. That’s all he needs, though. If he mixes them up right he can get by. But we’ve got to find our batting eye Saturday if we’re to win. How about the line-up? Think we’d better change it?”

“Yes, I do. This fellow Shores had better follow Lanny, don’t you think? He seems to think he can bat, but he didn’t connect with much yesterday.”

“Maybe he was embarrassed,” suggested Dick, with a smile.

“Embarrassed!” said Gordon. “Yes, about as much embarrassed as a bull-pup! Maybe he will do better in a game, though. Well, so-long, Dick. I’ll have to hustle or I’ll be late for supper.”

“Coming around to-night?”

“I don’t believe so. I told Lanny I’d go over there. See you to-morrow, though.”

“Come over in the morning, will you? I’m not going out to the Point to-morrow.”

“You’re not? You haven’t quit, have you?”

“No, not yet. I’m giving Harold a day or two to think over his sins. Good-night.”

“I say, Dick, don’t forget your call.”

“What call?” asked Dick, from the end of the hedge.

“Why, on Miss Brent!”

“You’ll sit on the bench if you’re not careful,” laughed Dick.

CHAPTER XVI
DICK SCORES A DEFEAT

“Well, what do you know about that!” ejaculated Fudge awedly. He and Lanny were approaching the athletic field at a little after two on Saturday. Ahead of them, as they turned the corner, was a group of some fifty or sixty persons, mostly boys and young men, and they were quite evidently waiting for the gate to open.

“And it isn’t half-past two yet,” said Lanny. “Looks as if we were going to have an audience, after all, Fudge.”

“Bet you they don’t know they have to pay a quarter,” responded the other pessimistically.

“Then they’re blind, because there’s a notice right beside the gate there.”

“Someone ought to find Tim and get him here,” said Fudge anxiously. “They might change their minds and go away again!”

“What time is he supposed to get here?”

“I don’t know. Half-past, I suppose.” They passed through a smaller gate which led to the dressing-room and found Dick and Gordon already on hand. Fudge told his fears to Dick, and Dick reassured him by agreeing to take the gate himself until young Mr. Turner appeared. Five minutes later the first two or three rows of the grandstand were occupied, and spectators were still dribbling through the gate and depositing quarters in Dick’s hand. Tim Turner arrived breathless soon after and relieved Dick. Some thirty Rutter’s Point residents accompanied their team and still further swelled the audience, and by three o’clock Dick estimated that fully a hundred and sixty persons had paid admission. That was much better than anyone had dared hope, and Lanny, making a lightning calculation, confided to Gordon that there’d be thirty dollars coming to the club after Rutter’s Point had received the twenty-five per cent. agreed on.

“If we can do that often enough,” said Lanny delightedly, “we’ll have more than enough for – ”

“S-sh!” cautioned Gordon.

“He’s over there talking to Billings. Who is the kid with him?”

“That’s young Townsend, the fellow he’s coaching. It’s about time to start, isn’t it? There come three more, Lanny.”

“Every little quarter helps,” replied Lanny. “I hope Tim Turner doesn’t abscond with the cash! Someone ought to stand over him with a bat! Oh, Fudge!”

“What’s wanted?” asked Fudge, joining them.

“We wanted to tell you that if Tim runs off with the money you will have to make good.”

Fudge grinned. “He’s awfully excited,” he said. “He’s got both pockets full of silver, and sounds like a treasury when he moves. He’s terribly worried because he gave one fellow too much change. He says he knows him, though, and is going to get it back!”

“Come on,” said Gordon. “On the run, fellows. You’re in right field, Shores. Throw out another ball, Jack, will you? Here you are, Harry!”

A minute later Captain Billings faced Tom Haley, and the game began.

The batting list of the visiting team had been changed in two instances, Jensen replacing Morris Brent in left field, and Mason pitching instead of Porter. Melville, or “Mel,” Mason was a big youth of eighteen at least, with a quiet, self-constrained manner that impressed Dick and filled him with forebodings of defeat. Clearfield was minus the services of Jack Tappen, Mr. Daniel Shores making his first appearance in a purple uniform and holding down Jack’s place in right field. The umpire was Mr. Cochran, physical director at the Young Men’s Christian Association, and a great favorite among the boys.

Rutter’s Point failed to do anything in the first inning. Tom Haley allowed only one player to reach first, and he got no farther. When Clearfield came to the bat, with Harry Bryan up, the audience proved its loyalty to the home team by loud and prolonged cheering. It was very soon evidenced that “Mel” Mason was in a different class from Bede Porter as a pitcher. Who he was or where he came from neither Dick nor Gordon had learned; but, to use Fudge’s admiring and slightly resentful expression, he was “some pitchist!” He had plenty of speed when he cared to use it, but his favorite offering was a slow ball that was probably patterned on the “floater” of a famous league pitcher. The Clearfield batters hit under it or over it with discouraging regularity, and Harry, Will, and Gordon went out in order in the last of the first inning, only Will managing to hit into fair territory. Harry and Gordon fanned.

For three innings the contest was a pitchers’ battle. Tom was in excellent shape, and, although he secured fewer strike-outs than his rival, managed to hold his own with the assistance of sharp fielding by his team-mates. If there were those among the spectators who had come to scoff at the kind of ball they were to see they must have been surprised, for both teams played a practically errorless game until the beginning of the fourth. And even after that, if there were frequent miscues, there was enough excitement and suspense to make up for them.

It was Jensen, the chap who had taken Morris’ place, who started things going in the fourth. Loring Townsend had flied out to Pete Robey, making the first out. With two strikes and one ball on him, Jensen reached for an out-shoot, found it on the end of his bat, and deposited it neatly behind Gordon and close to the foul-line. Chase, the Point shortstop, tried twice to bunt, and then hit sharply past Pete, and Jensen went to third. House was over-anxious and went out on strikes, and Chase got to second. Then Leary waited and got his base. With the bags all occupied and two men down, it was up to “Pink” Northrop to come to the rescue with a hit. The Point coachers were jumping and shouting like mad, and Tom might have been excused for some unsteadiness at that juncture. But Tom settled down, followed Lanny’s signals closely, and at last, after working two strikes over on Northrop, caused that youth to hit weakly to third. Will Scott almost overthrew the base in his eagerness, but Gordon pulled the ball down in time and the crisis was over.

Gordon went out, shortstop to first; Way lifted a high one to second baseman, and Pete Robey faced Mason with little expectation of faring any better. But Mason let up for a minute, probably arguing that with two gone he could afford to take things easy, and Pete shot a hot liner at third baseman. Caspar Billings got his hands on it, but it trickled past him, and Pete was safe. That doubtful error – Dick charitably scored it as a hit – seemed the signal for the Point to go up in the air. Mason whipped a quick throw to first which would have caught Pete flat-footed off the bag had Loring Townsend been ready for it. He wasn’t, however, and the ball went past him to the fence, and Pete, finding his feet quickly, shot to second and then on to third, beating out the throw by a fraction of an inch and causing dissatisfaction among the Pointers over Mr. Cochran’s decision. Lanny, impatiently waiting at the plate, swung twice in his eagerness to score the runner, and then waited while Mason teased him with wide ones. With two strikes and two balls against him, Lanny out-guessed the pitcher, and swung against the next one. Shortstop knocked it down but couldn’t find it again in time to throw either to the plate or to first, and Clearfield, amidst the excited whooping of the audience, scored her first tally.

Lanny went down to second on the first pitch, and, although Houghton threw quickly and well to that bag, Lanny beat him by a yard. Danny Shores, who was at bat, had swung and was one strike to the bad when Mason grimly turned his attention to him again. Quite a few of Danny’s friends from the factory were on hand to see him perform, and when, after the third delivery, he caught the ball squarely on the nose and sent it streaking just over second baseman’s head, they shouted themselves hoarse in Danny’s honor. On the bench, Jack Tappen looked a bit glum. He had visions of being displaced by Mr. Shores. Lanny came in without hurrying much, and Danny reposed on first. Fudge tried to do his share of a hit-and-run play, but he swung far wide of the deceptive drop, and Danny was caught at second and the inning was over, with Clearfield two runs to the good.

Enthusiasm reigned among the spectators on the stand, and they “rooted” valiantly for Clearfield throughout the rest of the game. In the fifth the Point got two men on bases, and was in good position to score, there being but one out, when Pete Robey pulled down a liner that had been distinctly labeled “two bases,” raced to second ahead of the runner, and then completed the double by making a fine throw to Gordon. Mason struck out Tom easily in the last of the fifth, passed Harry Bryan, fanned Will Scott, and then, with Gordon at bat, caught Harry off first.

Every play was loudly applauded, and the audience was by this time perched on the edges of the seats. Again in their half of the sixth Rutter’s Point found Tom for two hits, and again sharp fielding kept her from crossing the plate. It was evident, though, that Tom was less of a puzzle now than in the earlier innings, and it seemed only a matter of time when the Pointers would bunch their hits and Dick would have to credit them with a run or two. You are not to suppose that Dick was doing nothing but keeping the score. He was managing that game from the bench as scientifically as if he had played the game all his short life. Every batsman got his orders from Dick before he stepped to the plate, and every coacher was instructed before he went to the box. And, besides that, Dick was teaching Harold Townsend how to score a ball game. In spite of his indifference two days before, Harold had appeared with a brand-new, black-covered score-book and a fountain pen. Dick had told him to put the pen in his pocket, and had supplied him with a pencil instead. Harold seated himself by Dick and watched and learned. He made more mistakes than enough, and his score when finished was a veritable hodge-podge of misinformation, but he seemed to get a lot of excitement and fun out of it, and he really did learn a good deal for a boy who had theretofore scored an out by placing a huge X opposite the batsman and a run by marking up an equally enormous I. When he began to memorize the symbols for struck out, base on balls, hit by pitched ball, and so on, he discovered that scoring was not the simple task he had thought it. About the sixth inning he gave up trying to keep a detailed score, and contented himself with disposing of the batsmen with his X’s and I’s. But by that time the excitement had grown so intense that it would have required a person with a much cooler head than Harold’s to keep his mind on scoring.

Clearfield went to bat in the sixth with the grim determination to add another brace of runs to her score and place the game safely away. Dick realized that Tom was weakening, and that before long the visitors would find him for some real hits, and before that occurred he wanted Clearfield to have a sufficient lead to place her out of danger. Gordon had his instructions to reach first at any cost. Then Way, who was a clever bunter, was to sacrifice him to second. Either Pete or Lanny was to supply the hit to score Gordon. But plans don’t always carry through. Dick’s didn’t on this occasion. Gordon hit squarely into Mason’s hands, and the pitcher tossed the ball nonchalantly to first for the out. Way bunted down the first-base line, and managed to beat out the throw. Pete flied to center field, and Way was held on first. With two down the inning should have been as good as over, but Fate took a hand and prolonged it until the bases were filled, and Dick, watching intently from the bench, dared to hope that Fudge might for once do the impossible. Mason had passed Lanny on purpose, forcing Way to second. Then Danny Shores had come through with a mild wallop down third-base line. Caspar had only to touch the base to retire the side, but his wits must have been wool-gathering, for, after gathering in the ball on the bound five feet away from the bag, he paid no attention to Way, dashing past him hardly out of arm’s length, but hurled the ball across to first. Perhaps Loring Townsend was too surprised to realize what was required of him. At all events, the ball dropped out of his glove, and Mr. Cochran, who had already motioned Danny out, had to reverse his decision.

And so the stage was set when Fudge seized his favorite bat and manfully stalked to the plate, resolved to do or die. Fudge was right in the midst of a baseball romance at that time, and only the night before, writing with his foolscap propped up on his knees in bed, he had described how his hero, despised and ridiculed by his school-mates, had gone to the bat in the last of the ninth and, even while the crowds turned disappointedly away from the field, had out-guessed the marvelous pitcher of the rival school and with one mighty stroke of his faithful bat had turned defeat into victory by driving out a home-run and scoring the men on bases. Fudge recalled that as he gripped his bat and faced Mason, trying hard to appear nonchalant and undismayed. He wondered whether things ever happened in real life as they did in stories. Somehow that brilliant deed of his hero seemed horribly improbable to-day. Fudge determined to tone it down a little that evening. A two-bagger would answer the purpose just as well, and would certainly sound more plausible.

Dick’s voice from the bench reached him as Mason, after glancing over the bases, wound up. “Make him pitch to you, Fudge! It only takes one!” Back and forth from behind first and third the cries of Harry Bryan and Gordon rattled. Fudge gripped his bat tighter yet and glued his eyes to the upraised hands of Mel Mason. Then the ball, a particularly dirty one, streaked toward him; Fudge’s heart beat loudly and he stepped nimbly out of the way, only to hear the fell verdict: “Strike!”

Fudge looked reproachfully at Mr. Cochran, sighed, and again faced the pitcher. That ball had come well across the inner corner of the plate, and Fudge determined that Mason shouldn’t fool him a second time with that particular kind of a delivery. So when the next ball shot forward apparently coming the same way Fudge held his ground scornfully and prepared to swing his bat. But the next instant he had forgotten all about swinging and was sitting on the ground with both hands clasped to his ribs and an expression of pained surprise on his face. When he had regained his breath and the use of his legs, Fudge thought that the joy of his team-mates was very ill-considered. It seemed nothing to them that he had narrowly escaped death at the hands of an infuriated baseball; they only shouted and jumped about because a run had been forced in!