Classic Audiobook Collection - Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barbour ~ Full Audiobook [adventure]

Episode Date: February 9, 2024

Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barbour audiobook. Genre: adventure When shy, thoughtful Dudley 'Dud' Baker arrives as a new boy at Grafton School, he quickly learns that fitting in can feel as hard as any exam. Dorm life has its own rules, reputations are made at the dining table as much as in the classroom, and Dud is painfully aware of how easily a quiet newcomer can be overlooked. Fortunately, his lively, good-humored roommate, Jimmy Logan, decides Dud is worth a little pushing and pulling into the currents of school society. Dud has one private hope: to earn a place on the baseball nine as a pitcher. As tryouts and practice games begin, he throws himself into the work of improving his control, mastering new deliveries, and keeping his nerve under the watchful eyes of coaches and older players. But the diamond is only part of the battle. A tangle of jokes, pride, and rivalries draws Dud into conflict with a self-important school favorite, and suddenly every decision seems to test his courage and character. Set in an early 20th-century boarding school, this is a story of friendship, confidence, and learning what it really means to win your game. For ad-free listening try our premium subscription Chapters (Approximate) (00:00:00) Chapter 01 (00:14:43) Chapter 02 (00:29:51) Chapter 03 (00:43:23) Chapter 04 (00:59:29) Chapter 05 (01:10:52) Chapter 06 (01:23:17) Chapter 07 (01:38:26) Chapter 08 (01:52:37) Chapter 09 (02:05:48) Chapter 10 (02:23:32) Chapter 11 (02:40:04) Chapter 12 (02:49:46) Chapter 13 (03:02:09) Chapter 14 (03:16:51) Chapter 15 (03:32:14) Chapter 16 (03:47:35) Chapter 17 (03:57:46) Chapter 18 (04:17:29) Chapter 19 (04:33:01) Chapter 20 (04:46:51) Chapter 21 (04:59:39) Chapter 22 (05:15:59) Chapter 23 (05:29:02) Chapter 24 (05:42:22) Chapter 25 (05:57:58) Chapter 26 (06:16:32) Chapter 27 Learn more about your ad choices. Visit megaphone.fm/adchoices

Winning his game by Ralph Henry Barber Chapter 1 Dud Wonders Jimmy Logan stood his skis in the corner behind the door and tramping heavily to get the clinging snow from his shoes, climbed the first flight and trow hall slowly, and then dragged wearied feet down the corridor to number 19. Once inside the room he said,

Hello? Shied his cap onto his bed and sank exhaustively into the nearest chair, stretching his legs across the rug and slumping down. until the wet collar of his Mackinac came in contact with his ears, whereupon he muttered, and sat up another inch or two. Across the room, one foot on the floor and the other doubled up beneath him on the window seat, was Jimmy's roommate. His response to the greeting had been brief and delivered in a preoccupied voice, for Dudley Baker had a book open before him on the cushion and held the stained and battered baseball in his right hand. His attention was divided between book

ball and had no room for Jimmy. The latter's gaze presently came away from his shoes, which were trickling water to the rug, and fixed itself on Dudley. He had to sit up still higher in the chair to get an uninterrupted view of his chum, which, preceding elicited a protesting groan from him, and after he had attained it, he instantly decided it was not worthwhile, and deeply regretted the exertion it had caused him. He promptly descended again on his spine, crossed his feet and sighed luxuriously. The dollar clock on Dudley's chiffonier ticked briskly and loudly in the ensuing silence.

Outside the windows tiny flakes of snow were falling. The shadows deepened in the room. In the corridor, deliberate footsteps sounded, and suddenly the transom over the door showed yellow and an oblong of light appeared on the ceiling. Mr. Crump, the school janitor, was lighting the dormitories. Jimmy wished that his shoes were off

and his mackinaw and the wolf. and socks, but as yet he wasn't equal to the task. When Mr. Crum's footsteps had died away on the stairs, Jimmy broke the silence. What are you doing? he asked uninterestedly. There was, however, no reply from the window seat, possibly because Jimmy's tones had been too faint to reach there. After a moment, Jimmy turned his head and stared across a pile of books on the study table at the three or four inches of Dudley's head that were visible.

Then— "'DUD!' he bawled resentfully. "'H?' "'What are you doing?' I asked you. "'Oh, me? Oh, just trying to dope out some of this stuff.' "'What stuff?' "'Stuff about pitching.

How to hold the ball, you know.' "'Oh!' Jimmy subsided again, and another period of silence followed. "'Then you don't expect to play baseball for a while, do you?' he asked lazily. "'You better study how to throw a snowball.' He chuckled faintly at his joke. It isn't so long now responded dud soberly. They're going to call candidates the 21st." Jim work, grunted the other.

Take my advice and keep away from it. Don't go out for the team until it gets out of doors. Are you still thinking of trying for the school? Of course. Jimmy grunted. You'll have a fine show, I don't think. Better try for the second, Dud. I don't expect to make it, but it's good practice.

And maybe next year. year. You'll stand more chance with the second and have a lot more fun. The second's going to have a regular schedule this year, five or six games maybe, going away for some of them too. If I don't make the first, and I suppose I won't, of course I'll try for the second, said Dud. I asked Murtha this morning if he thought it would be all right to try for the first, and he

said, Guy Murtha said, yes indeed, Baker, we want all the candidates we can get. what they always tell you, and then when you get out there, they inform you gently but firmly that you won't do, and hadn't you better stay with your class team this year and try again next? What's the use? I like to play ball, Dud, but you don't catch me putting in a month's grind in the cage and then getting the GB as soon as we get outdoors. Me for the second, and safety. You're lazy replied, Dud, shutting his book and stowing the ball back of the pillows.

You could make the first this spring if you try for it. You want to, too. Jimmy shrugged. Maybe so. But I'd rather have a sure place than the second, thanks. Gee, but I'm tired. Skiing? Yes, Pete Gordon and Kelly and Gus and I. We climbed up to the observatory and then hiked halfway over to the falls.

It was piles of fun going down the mountain. Gus Weston took a header and turned over about 40-11 times and then went into a snowbank headfirst up to his waist. But we tried to do two. much. My legs feel as if they'd never stop aching. What have you been doing? Been in here all afternoon? But of course you have. I forgot about your tooth. How is it? Any better? Yes. I guess I caught a little cold in it. I wish that dentist chap would yank it out instead of practicing on it. Dad turned the lights on and perched himself across a chair at the opposite

side of the table, his arms on the back, and observed Jimmy in a thoughtful fashion. Jim Jimmy grunted. Shoot, he said. What's on your mind? I've been wondering, Jimmy. Oh, gee, Jimmy groaned deeply. Added again, eh? Well, what is it this time, Dud?

The other day you were worrying yourself thin because you were afraid you were costing your folks too much money or something. Dud smiled. Not exactly worrying, he replied. Just wondering. There isn't much difference the way you'd do it. If I...

Not so much about how much I was costing them as whether they're going to get their money's worth, Jimmy. Sometimes I wonder whether I'm really doing any good here. Now, you look at it this way. I won't. I refuse. Besides, that's an old one. What's your latest worry? It isn't a worry, exactly. I was only thinking that, he paused, then, oh, I guess it isn't anything after all.

Say, you'd better get out of those wet things, Jimmy. I am going to just as soon as I have strength to move. But I want to hear your new problem, Dud. Come across, fess up to your Uncle Jimmy. Thud hesitated, smiling a bit embarrassedly. He was a good-looking chap of fifteen, with clean-cut features, a rather fair complexion and very bright blue eyes. He was small-boned and slim,

and since he had been doing a lot of growing the past twelve months, he looked a trifle weedy. In that respect he was a distinct contrast to his roommate, for James Townsend Logan was a stocky lad, wide of shoulder and broad of chest. Jimmy was 16, although only four months divided the two boys in age. Jimmy's features were nondescript, but the result was pleasing. He wore his red-brown hair rather long, that said it was because he was too lazy to have it cut off under than once every term,

and had a short nose and a wide, humorous mouth and a very squirt. chin. He was a member of the upper-middle class, while Dud was a lower middler. I guess it's sort of silly, said Dud after a moment. But I have been wondering, Jimmy groaned again. Why I don't know more fellows, Jimmy, why I don't mix better. I don't believe I really care a whole lot. He paused again. Yes, I do, too, though. I'd like to have fellows like me, Jimmy, as they do you, and ask me to do things and go places and all that. Of course I know the trouble's with me all right, but, but what is it? Oh, piffle, dud.

Fellows do like you. Yes, about the way they like the steps in front of school hall. That is, they don't exactly like me. They just, just don't dislike me. I guess I'd rather have them do that than not care a fig whether I'm alive or dead. I suppose this sounds silly, but... Honest confession is good for the soul respond to Jimmy lightly. But I think you're wrong about it, Dud.

anyway, now look here. I suppose I'm just not pet out to be what you might call popular interrupted dud thoughtfully. Well, but still, shut up and let me talk. The trouble with you is that you don't let fellows find out whether they can like you or not. You don't, don't mix, do you see? If you'd get into things more. But that's just it. How can I when I see that I'm not wanted? That's just imagination, dud. You can't expect fellows to fall all over them, themselves and hug you? You got to show them that you're ready to be friends. You got to make the start yourself. What do you do when someone says, let's do this or that? You mutter something about having to dig Latin or math and sneak off. Fellows naturally

think you don't want to do things they do. Now, today for instance, I couldn't have gone, Jimmy, with this plagued toothache. Why, no, I guess you couldn't. But Thunderation dud, if it isn't a toothache, it's something else. You've been a little bit of a toothache. You've always got some perfectly wonderful excuse for beating it about the time the fun begins. Not that you missed much this afternoon, for you didn't, borrowing a lot of tired muscles, but you often do miss things. To be what you call a mixer dud, you've got to mix, and you don't know the first thing about it. Fellows like it all right, what they see of you, but you don't give them a chance. That stared thoughtfully at the green shade before him. Yes, I suppose that's

true, Jimmy. But I don't like to stick around when fellows are getting up things because I think that maybe they won't want me in on it, and that if I'm there, they'll think they have to ask me. What if they do have to ask you? Let them. Then when they see that you're a regular feller, they'll ask you the next time without having to. But I wonder if I am. Am what? asked Jimmy ungramatically. A regular feller. Maybe I'm not. I wonder. Jimmy threw up his hands in despair. Oh, gee, he's at it again. Dud, what you want to do is stop wondering. You're the finest little wanderer that ever came down the pike, all right, but you spend so much time

at it that you don't get anywhere. Now, you take my advice, old chap, and stop wondering whether fellows like you or don't like you. Just get out and bud in a little, when you see a crowd walk right into the middle of it and find out whether it's a fighter or frolic. And whatever it is, take a hand. Now there's some mighty good advice, Dud, take it from me. I didn't know I had it in me. Let me tell you another thing, kid. If you expect to have a show for the first team you want to crawl out of your shell and rub shoulders with fellows. Get hunky with the first team crowd, do you see? Be more of a, well, more of a regular feller, like I said before. Don't try too hard to be popular, though. Fellows get onto that and won't stand for it. Just be nice.

natural. I guess I'm being natural, answered Dudd with a smile, and that is where the trouble is. I guess I'll have to wait until next year. A lower-middle fellow feels sort of fresh if he tries to mix in with upper-middleers. Piffle. Lots of your class are thick as thieves with upper-middle chaps. Look at young, what's his name? Stiles. He's always traveling with upper-middleers, Bordway and Blake and that bunch. Ned Stiles has more cheek than I have. Besides, I don't think fellows like him particularly, Jimmy. He's sort of toadies, doesn't he? He's a perfect ass, if you ask me. But they seem to stand for him. Well, but I don't want to be stood for. I want fellows to want me. All right, give him a chance then. You're all right, dud, only you're shy. That's what's

the matter with you, old chap. You're just plain shy. Never thought of it before. Look here now, I'll tell you what you do. You forget all about your dear little self and get over being, being, gee, what's the word I want? Being self-conscious, that's it. That's your trouble, self-consciousness. Jimmy beamed approval at himself. Best way to do it is to, to do it. Tell you what, we'll make us start tonight, eh? Let's go out and visit someone. Who do you know that you'd like to know better? I'd like to know Hugh Ordway, for one, said Dud hesitatingly, but I guess he wouldn't care about knowing me. And so, stow it. That's just what you mustn't do, do you see? You mustn't wonder whether a fellow wants to know you or not. You just take it for granted that he

does. Say to yourself, I'm a good feller, a regular feller. I'm as good as you are. Of course you want to know me. Why not? See the idea? Dud nodded doubtfully. Still, Hugh Wardways a bit, A bit what, demanded Jimmy impatiently. I mean he's awfully popular, and has piles of friends, and he wouldn't be likely to want to know me. Oh, piffle! Ordeway's just like any of us, except that he happens to be English and have a Lord or a Duke or something for a father. I don't know him very well myself, but that's just because he trains with the football crowd, Blake and Winslow and that bunch.

But I know him plenty well enough to visit, and that's just what we'll do this evening, Dud. Maybe we better leave it for some other night, replied Dud uneasily. I've got a lot of lessons tonight and, ha ha, laughed Jimmy mirthlessly. Where have I heard that before? He pulled himself from his chair with a groan and pointed a stern finger at his chum. You'll start right in with me this very evening, dud, and be a regular feller. And no more punk excuses either. I'm going to take you in hand, son. When I get there with you, you won't know yourself. Here, stop that. What? asked that startledly. You know what? You were beginning to wonder, I saw you. No more of that, understand.

The first time I catch you wondering I'll, I'll take my bill to you. End of Chapter 1. Chapter 2 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 2. The Entering Wedge If you have by any chance read a previous narrative, of events at Grafton's school entitled, Rivals for the Team,

you are sufficiently acquainted with the scene of this story, and also with many of the characters. But since it is quite possible that you have never even heard of the former narrative, it devolves on the historian to introduce a certain amount of descriptive matter at about this stage, something he has as little taste for as have you.

Descriptions are always tiresome, and so we'll have this as short as possible. Grafton School then occupies a matter of ten acres a half-mile east of the town of that name, and at the foot of the hill which is known as Mount Grafton. Like many another New England's school, it is shaded by elms, boasts many fine expanses of velvety turf and, so to speak, laves its feet in a gently flowing river. The buildings on the campus consist of three dormitories, the more venerable school hall, the gymnasium and the principal's residence,

And of these, all save the two ladders, stretch in a straight line across the middle of the three-acre expanse. The gymnasium is slightly back from the line in the principal's cottage is a bit in advance, its vine-covered porch looking along the fronts of the other buildings, and its rear windows peering down into Crumbie Street. School hall is in the center. Trow comes next on the left and then Lothrup. On the right of the older building stands Manning, which shelters the younger boys,

and somewhat around the corner is the gymnasium. Gravelled walks lead across the campus, under spreading elm trees, to Crumbie Street on one side, to River Street on the other, to School Street straight in front. Beyond School Street is the green, a block-wide parallelogram on which, at the corner of school in River Streets, two smaller dormitory stand. These, Morrison Fuller, are converted dwellings of limited accommodations.

The main walk from the steps of School Hall continues across the green to Front Street, beyond which descending gently to the Needham River is Lothbert Field. An ornamental wall and gate commemorate the name of the giver. The fieldhouse flanks the steps on the left and beyond lie the football grid irons, the baseball diamonds, the tennis courts, and the blue-gray cinder track. The distant weather-stained building on the riverbank is the boathouse. Grafton School looks after slightly over 200 boys between the ages of 12 and 20. At the time of which I am writing, February of last year, the number was, I believe, exactly

210, of which some 35 had attained to the senior class, and about 80 were juniors, leaving the upper-middle and lower-middle classes to share the residue fairly equally. The faculty number 12, beginning with Dr. Duncan, the principal, and ending with Mrs. Fair, the matron. Dr. Duncan's full title is Charles William Duncan, A. M. Ph.D. But he is better known as Charlie. There was, and doubtless are, also a Mrs. Duncan and a Miss Duncan, but they are not likely to enter into this narrative.

So much then for our stage setting. I might keep on, but I fear you are weary, and I know I am. Hugh Wardway roomed on the top floor of Lothrop, the newest and most luxurious of the dormitories, sharing the sweetest study in two bedrooms with Bert Winslow. Hugh's father was English and his mother American, and although Hugh had been born on the other side and had spent most of his 16 years there, he declared himself to be half American. His full name was Hugh Oswald-Broadwick Ordway, and in spite of the fact that by reason of his father being the Marquis of Lockley, Hugh had every right to the title of Earl of Ordway, he was generally

known at Grafton as hobo, a nickname evolved from his initials. As he was a straight, well-built, clear-skin young chap with quiet brown eyes and an undeniable air of breeding, the nickname was amusingly incongruous, if one stopped to consider it. But Hugh had been known as Hobo Ordway ever since fall, when his cleverness as a running halfback on the first football team had surprised and delighted the school. And nowadays the name was too familiar to excite any comment. Hugh's particular friends were more likely to call him Einus, however. It was Hugh, alone in the study, who responded to the knock at the door shortly after supper that evening,

and who successfully disguised the surprise he felt, when he recognised his visitors as Jimmy Logan and Dudley Baker. He made them welcome quite as heartily as though he had been expecting them all day, and Dud, who had hung back all the way up the three flights of Slate stairs, was vastly relieved. The conversation skipped from one subject to another for the first few minutes, during which time Hugh, perched on the window seat, leaving the easy chairs to his guests, hugged his knees to his chin, piloted the conversation, and secretly wondered at the visit. You are not to suppose, however, that Hugh was the only one of the three at his ease. Such a supposition shows on your part of vast ignorance of Jimmy Logan.

Jimmy was a stranger to embarrassment. Had Hugh been the president of the United States or the King of England or, well, home-run Baker, Jimmy would have been just as splendidly at ease as he was at this moment. He might have assumed a more dignified attitude in the Morris chair, and his voice might have held a more respectful tone, but beyond that, no, not Jimmy. Just now Jimmy was humorously recounting his skiing adventures that afternoon, and Hugh was chuckling over them. Duds smiled when Hugh laughed, sitting rather stiff.

in his chair, and tried his best to look animated and pleasant and only succeeded in looking anxious and uncomfortable. Jimmy did his best to get Dud to talk, but Dud's conversation consisted largely of yes and no, and Hugh secretly thought him a bit of a stick. Jimmy was wondering whether to withdraws gracefully as possible before Dud created any worse impression, when the door opened to admit a black-haired dark-guide fellow of seventeen who, with less command over his features than Hugh looked frankly surprised when he saw who the visitors were. The surprise even extended to his voice as he greeted them. Hello, Jimmy, said Bert Winslow. What are you doing up here?

Haven't seen you around here for ages. He spoke to Dud then, hesitating a moment as though not certain of the latter's name. Dud, noting the fact, felt his embarrassment to increase and wished that Jimmy would give the word to leave. But Jimmy had already abandoned thoughts of withdrawing. He liked Bert Winslow, just as most fellows did, and welcomed the chance to talk to him. Bert and Jimmy were both members of LIT, short for literary society, and only two evenings ago had been pitted against each other in one of the impromptu weekly debates, and had struggled the long nip and tuck until Jimmy, abandoning facts, had in a wild flow of rhetoric won the meeting.

Bert alluded to it now as he tossed his cap through the open door of his bedroom. Jimmy, that was a fine lot of hot air you got off the other night, he said with a grin. Didn't your folks ever teach you anything about the beauties of truthfulness? Jimmy laughed. Sure, but I had to beat you somehow, Bert. Besides, what I said may be so for all I know. Hmm. You just said the first thing that came into that silly head of yours.

Did you ever hear such a mess of rot as he sprang, Hugh? Hugh smiled. It sounded all right. Some of the figures were corking. He must have a wonderful memory, Logan. Memory, snorted Bert, seating himself beside Hugh in the window seat. There wasn't a figure that was right.

I looked it up afterwards. Did you hear him, Baker? Oh no, you're for him, aren't you? Yes, replied Dud. He tried very hard to follow that up with something brilliant or amusing in regard to Jimmy's debating, but couldn't think of anything,

possibly because Bert's tone had held some of the careless content. with which members of a society spoke of its rival, and Dud wished just for the moment that he too was lit. Perhaps Hugh thought that his chum had verged on discourtesy, for he observed quickly, they tell me you chaps have some awfully good talkers in Forham, Baker. That agreed. I guess Joe Leslie is our best, he and Guy Murtha. Murtha's better than Joe, I think, said Jimmy. Anyway, he did a lot better last year in the debate with Mount Morris. Joe's a wonder at hammering home facts, said Bert.

Guy's better at the eloquent stuff, though. Speaking of Guy, Hugh, reminds me that I told him you were going to try for the outfield this spring, and he said he was mighty glad, because if you could get on the base, he was certain you could get around. Oh, but I say, Bert, I don't know that I shall. Try for baseball, I mean. Of course you will. But I don't know much about it.

You say it's quite different from cricket, eh? Quite, Inus. You've seen baseball played, haven't you? Oh, yes, once or twice, but I should think a fair cricket player would easily get to hang a baseball, said Jimmy. I guess it's as hard to catch a cricket ball as a baseball, isn't it? I suppose you're a rattling good cricket player, Ordway. Oh, no, really, I'm not, exclaimed Hugh. I've played a bit at it, of course.

You chaps bowl, I mean pitch to the batter so like thunder, don't you? I fancy I'll be scared to stand up there, eh? You might if Gus Weston was pitching, laughed Bert. You're going to play this year, Jimmy? Oh, I guess so. What would the dear old second do without me? Aren't you trying for the first, though? You're as good a fielder as Parker, I guess.

I may. The fact is, Bert, I'm sort of used to the dear old second. It would be like leaving home to go to the first. Still, I may decide to break home ties and meet you fellows there. I fancy you're not likely to meet me there, said Hugh. I'll be an awful dub if I try it, I know. Do you play, Baker? A little, answered Dud.

Dudd's the coming Matthewson, said Jimmy. Got to watch him, we have. Some twirler. Really? asked Bert, evidently not much impressed. That's fine, Baker. The second rather needed pitchers last spring. He's going up for the first, said Jimmy. Duds like me, you know. When duty calls, Jimmy smiled eloquently. I say, though, Logan, who is this Johnny you spoke of?

Matthews, wasn't it? Not Johnny. Christopher replied Jimmy gravely. I referred to Mr. Christopher Matthewsson, better known as Maddie, the Dean of American pitchers. Dud and Maddie are as thick as these, that is, Dud is. Dud reads

everything Maddie writes and can tell you offhand how many games Maddie pitched last year in all the other years, and how many he won, and what his averages are and all the rest of it. He has a gallery of Matthewson pictures, and he's the proud possessor of a ball that Matthewsson and used in a game with Philadelphia, back in 1760 or thereabouts.

I don't know how he got that ball, but I suspect that he swiped it. It was given to me, said Dud defensively. Then he added, embarrassed. You mustn't mind what Jimmy says. He talks a lot of nonsense. I say, though, exclaimed Hugh, I do hope you get on the first baker. It must be a lot of fun to do the pitching, eh? More fun than fielding, I fancy. Have you pitched much? inquired Byrd politely. I've been trying to for a couple of years, answered Dud. I don't suppose I'll make the first this year, of course,

but Martha said he'd be glad to have me try, and so you must make allowances for his modesty, said Jimmy. He's really rather a shark at it. He can tell you just how to pitch any ball ever discovered from a straight one to a floater. Question is, I guess, Bert laughed, whether he can pitch him. I know how to pitch a knuckleball, but I can't do it.

I remember now, Baker, You'd pitch some on the second last year, didn't you? Only three games are parts of them, Winslow. I dare say I won't be good enough this year, but I thought I'd try. Of course, said Bert heartily. Nothing like trying. The trouble is, though, you've got some good ones to stack up against, eh? There's Nate Letty and Ben Mayett,

and Gus Weston observed Jimmy gravely. Bert smiled. Just the same, Gus has pitched some good games for us, but isn't he a wonder when he goes up? Jimmy chuckled. Gus Weston can go up quicker and higher than any fellow I ever saw, he said. And when he is wild, he ended with an impressive whistle. He looked pretty promising last spring, continued Bert.

Remember the game he pitched against Middleboro? They only got six hits off him, I think. Yes, and Kelly is another chap that is likely to make good this year, said Jimmy. We're pretty well off for twilers, but you wait until Dud gets going. And speaking of going, Dud, what do you say if we do a little bit of it? Don't rush off, said Bert. Well, come around again, Jimmy. Probably the invitation was meant to include Dud, but Hugh thought that Dud might not interpret it so, and added cordially,

Yes, do fellows. On the way downstairs, Jimmy said, well, we got out of that pretty well, Dud. I thought for a while you were going to spoil everything by monopolizing the conversation the way you did, but... I don't seem to know what to talk about, said Dud ruefully. I guess Ordway thought me an awful ass. Well, he rather pointedly invited you to come back, so I don't think you need to worry about that. The next time...

There won't be any next time, interrupted the other. It's just like you said, Jimmy. I can't mix and there's no use trying. Oh, yes, there is. We've just started. That was the entering wedge, so to say. We'll drop around again next week. and between now and then I'll put you through a course of sprouts, old chap.

We'll mix in society, just as soon as you can learn to forget your plaguy self-dud, you'll get on finally. The trouble is with you that you just sit and worry about what fellows are thinking of you. But I'll break you of that quick enough. I guess we'll call it off, muttered dud. And I guess we won't was the firm response. Having set my hand to the plough Dudley, I never look back. That's me.

My full name is grim determination. All others are impostors. Except no substitutes. Guarantee to comply with the pure food law. After you dud, one flight and turn to the right, please. End of Chapter 2. Chapter 3 of winning his game by Ralph Henry Barber. This sleeper-vox recording is in the public domain.

Chapter 3. 29 Lothrop. True to his promise, or threat, if you think with Dud. Jimmy hailed his protesting friend from room to room in the evenings, made him join the throngs on the ice or the toboggan slide in the afternoons, and on all occasions dragged him into the conversations, and, to use his own expression, got him in the spotlight. He can't be truthfully said that his efforts met with overwhelming success, however. Thud didn't shine as a conversationalist or display any traits calculated to win popularity. No one disliked him in the least. Most of the time, few were really conscious of

his presence, in spite of Jimmy's untiring efforts. Personally, as has been suggested, Dud didn't take kindly to being exhibited and exploited. And when a fortnight or so after the inception of the undertaking, Jimmy actually got to telling jokes and crediting them to Dud, the latter was supremely uncomfortable. Jimmy would chuckle and say, "'Dud got off a good one the other day, fellows.' "'And then he would follow with some more or less brilliant remark or joke "'that sounded to Dud horribly flat. "'Generally, the hearers laughed and shot surprised glances

"'at the silent and embarrassed Dud, "'but he didn't win recognition as a whid or sage for all of that. "'Had they heard the things from Dud firsthand, "'they might have been more impressed. "'As it was, the credit went rather to Jimmy than Dud. "'Jimmy played Boswell to Dud's Dr. Johnson with remarkable enthusiasm and patience. He evolved all sorts of schemes,

most of which his charm promptly refused to consider, designed to waft Dudd into the white light of publicity. For instance, he conceived the brilliant idea of having Dudd write a notable article for the campus, a school monthly. Thud had no serious objection to that project, but it fell through because neither of them could think of a subject to write on. Then Jimmy suggested that Dudd gets someone to break through the ice on the river

so Dud could rescue him. Jimmy said he would be glad to impersonate the drowning character if he wasn't afraid of catching cold and having rheumatism in his throwing arm. It was all highly entertaining for Jimmy, and he thoroughly enjoyed it, but Dud was getting very tired of it. Every now and then Jimmy had what he called a showdown.

At such times he would take a list from his drawer in the study table and check off the names of fellows whose acquaintance Dud has succeeded in making since the last time. Churchill. We got him. Check for Churchill. He was a brand new one, wasn't he? Roy Dresser. Dresser was rather a success, Dud. I think he rather took to you. We must call there again. I'll make a note of that. Dressor's room is a good place to meet fellows. Parker, check. Parker's an ass anyway. Ayer. I say, dud, we haven't met Neil Ayer yet. Do you know him at all? only to speak to.

We'll go after A. or this evening, then. I know where to find him. He will be in Joe Leslie's room, I guess. Foster Trey, check. Trey's a good sort. Zinetti. That's another chap we've missed. We'll have to find him with Nate Letty sometime.

I don't know him at all. He's a good fellow to know, though. Stands in with the football and track crowds. I tell you what, do it. Why not go out for the track team? Because I can't do anything, laughed dud. How do you know you can't ask Jimmy untroubled? Besides, you wouldn't have to really do anything.

You could have a try at something, and you'd meet a lot of fellows. Jumping isn't awfully hard. Why not try the broad jump? I couldn't do that in pitch too, you idiot. That's so I forgot. Still, some fellows do go in for baseball and track. There's Cherry, for instance. Well, never mind.

Maybe we better... or concentrate. Jimmy sat back and studied Dud speculatively, tapping his pen against his teeth the while. What we've got to do, Dud, he continued presently, in the tones of one who has reached a witty conclusion after much thought, is to put it all over those other box artists. That's our line, Dud.

We've got to spring you as a startling phenom. Yes, sir, that's the game. That's all well enough, Jimmy, but suppose I can't pitch a little bit when the time comes. "'By, Ginger, you've got to. Look here, you're wasting time. You ought to be at it every day. You ought to get down in the cage and the gym and practice.

What time is it now?' "'Nearly six, eh? Too late today, then. But tomorrow we'll put in a half hour, and the next day too, and read along until they call candidates. I'll catch you. I'll borrow a mitt somewhere. It'll be good fun, too.

Practice for both of us. Great scheme, eh?' "'Do you mind?' asked Dud eagerly. Love to. We've got a week yet, and you ought to be able to get a lot of practice in a week. That's settled then. But we mustn't forget the social side of the campaign. So let's see.

Jimmy bent over his list again. Quinn, Czech, Milford, had him before. Forbes. The second visit to Hugh Ordway's study came off right on schedule, nine days after the first call. But on this occasion, Dud and Jimmy found the room jammed from door to windows with fellows and a loud and even violent argument going on. Their appearance went practically unnoticed and they found seats with some difficulty

and became for a while silent listeners. The argument proved to be concerned with the election the evening before of one Starling Meyer as captain of the hockey team. The hockey team had just finished a disastrous season, ending with a second defeat by Grafton's ancient rival, Mount Morris. Lack of hard ice had aided in the team's demoralization, but besides that things had gone badly from start to finish, and there were many who credited the aforementioned Meyer with having been largely to blame.

Pop Driver, who played right guard on the Eleven and was normally good nature to a fault, expressed the views of the anti-Meyer faction. Meyer, Pop was saying, has caused more trouble all the winter than he's worth. that Yetters wanted to do one way, Starr's insisted on doing another. You fellows know that, all of you. Look at the way they changed the style of play in the middle of the season.

Yetter started out playing four men on defense and it worked out all right. Then Starr got the saying that we weren't scoring enough points and that the four men backed business was all wrong. He grouched and sulked about it until Yetter gave in to him. After that, we got licked right along,

with one or two exceptions, and finally Yetter went back to the old style again. And Starr threatened to quit and there was the dickens to pay for a while. Starr's simply no use unless he can be the whole shooting match. Well, they've made him captain, said Jim Quinn, football manager, so now he can show what he knows. There's no sense in blaming everything on Star Meyer declared Ned Musgrave. Yer's a good chap, but he hadn't any business being captain.

There's where the whole trouble began. If Yetter... Warren would have been all right, said Bert Winslow, if Starr had let him alone. But Starr hates to see anyone else have any say about anything. He's a peach of a hockey player, I'll grant you that, but he's a peach of a troublemaker too. And I'll bet you anything, things will be in a worse mess next year than they were this. Why didn't they elect Gus Weston asked Roy Dresser?

Gus would have made a dandy leader. Because Starr pulled all the strings he could, answered Pop, and scared the fellows into voting for him. I happen to know, Pop, interposed Musgrave warmly, that more than three-fourths of the team wanted Star for Captain long before election. You might as well be fair to him, Pop. Give him a show. Don't convict a fellow before he's tried, I say.

All right, Ned, answered Pop good-naturedly. We'll let him have his trial. Maybe a right, too. Star may make a better captain than he did a first lieutenant. Let's hope so. I won't be here to see, though. What makes you think so, inquired Nick Blake, maliciously, raising a laugh at driver's expense.

Pop, as he himself put it, was doing the four-year course in five, and there was always some doubt as to his getting through in five. Pop grinned now and shook his head. They'll give me my diploma to get rid of me, Nick, he said. Jimmy, who had remained quiescent until now, took advantage of a momentary lull in the discussion and chuckled. Pop beside him turned inquiringly. What's on your mind, Jimmy? he inquired.

I was just thinking of something Dud got off a while ago, replied Jimmy still visibly amused. Dud threw an entreating look at him, but Jimmy pretended not to see it. That who asked Pop? Thud Baker, over here. Jimmy's glance indicated his friend. We were talking about the hockey team losing so many games one day, and Dud said he gets the trouble with them, Jimmy had managed to gain the attention of the room by now,

was that they were weak from starvation. Dudd looked anything but like the author of the Bonmont at that moment, but the audience laughed, even Ned Musgrave, and Jimmy credited himself with a bullseye. The pun observed Nick Blake Gravely, is considered the lowest form of humor. I think that's mighty clever, exclaimed Hugh. You're hipped because you didn't think of it yourself, Nick.

Try up, Inus. I was about to say when you so rudely interrupted that it is, of course, necessary to consider one's audience, and that having the mentality of the audience in mind, Baker's joke may be considered clever, even brilliant. For my part, choke him somebody, said Bert. After all, say what you like about Star, you got to acknowledge that there's much to admire about. But Nick's groan of anguish drowned the rest, and Dresser, pretending disgust, arose it apart, setting the example for several others. Jimmy, fearing that does gloomy silence

might undo the effect created by the joke, thought the moment a good one for retiring and let his chum away. Outside, Dudd remonstrated again. I wish you wouldn't, Jimmy, he said. I feel such an awful fool when you spring those jokes and tell fellows I made him. They must know I didn't. Why? You do say things as good as that, don't you? When there's no one but me around, I mean.

I don't know, maybe. I didn't think that was awfully funny anyway, Jimmy. Jimmy chuckled. I do. And the others did. Cheer up, Dud. I'll make a celebrity of you in spite of yourself. Later, back in number 29, Lothrop, Bert Winslow laughed suddenly while he was getting ready for bed and Hugh, hearing, called across from his own bedroom. What's the joke, Bert? I was thinking of the one Jimmy Logan sprung, about the hockey team being weak from starvation. It isn't so bad, eh? Rather, clever, but it was that chap Baker who said it, wasn't it?

I guess so. But look here, continued Bert, appearing in his doorway in the course of a struggle with his collar. Why is it Baker never gets off any of those things himself? It's always Jimmy Logan who springs him. All Baker does is to sit and look glum. If he's so all-fired clever, why doesn't he say something once in a while? I think he's a bit of a pill. He's not so bad, I fancy, replied Hugh.

Maybe you have to know. him. Some chaps are like that, if you know what I mean. Yes, but, Bert's voice died out until he had at last wrenched the refractory collar from his neck. Then, here's another funny thing, Hugh, he said. Jimmy lugs that fellow around every place with him, sort of butts in with him everywhere. You think Jimmy was, uh, a nursemaid or something? Looks to me as if he was trying to introduce his young friend into society. I wouldn't care a bit if he forgot to bring him up here the next time. What have you got against him, inquired Hugh?

Nothing much. He's only a lower middler, though, and lower middlers ought to keep to the round set. Besides, look at the cheek of the kid. Going to try for pitcher on the first. What do you know about that? But if he's really any good at it, began the other. How could he be? He can't be more than fifteen, I guess. You were young ones yourself, old chap. Yes, but I didn't try to pitch on the first team, grumbled Bert.

He's too fresh. I'll tell you just what's the matter with him, said Hugh, appearing in the study in a suit of pink striped pajamas. He's shy, Bert. Shy, and going out for the first nine. I know it doesn't look so, laughed Hugh, but that's just what his trouble is, and I rather fancy that Logan, out of pure kindness,

is trying to bring him out if you know what. Pure kindness, scoff, Bert. Jimmy's kind enough, I guess, but if that's his game, you can bet all you've got that he's doing it for a lark. I know Jimmy. End of Chapter 3. Chapter 4 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 4. A Chance Meeting

Two days after the visit to Hugh Ordway's room, Jimmy Logan's joke which he had attributed to Dud bore unexpected fruit. The remark had tickled the fellows who had heard it, and consequently they very promptly repeated it, with the natural result that within 24 hours it got around to Starling Meyer himself. Stars, he was generally called, was a large good-looking boy of seventeen, well supplied with self-conceit. He was a rattling good hockey player, undoubtedly the best in the school, and a fair performer with the second nine in the outfield. Where his athletic prowess ended, for he considered, or pretended to consider, track sports

unimportant and football unscientific. He was a clever student and stood high in class and was in consequence rather a favorite with the faculty. As a member of the Forum Society, his activities were critical rather than constructive, for he took no part in the debates beyond attending them in pointing out the deficiencies of the debaters in a superior manner. fellows liked him, especially those who were not clever in the lines he affected, and even those who saw through his poses and couldn't stand his conceit, accorded him honor for his brilliancy

in classroom and on the ice. Although Star Room next door to Dud, the latter knew him only as he knew three-fourths of the students, that is, to nod to one passing. Once or twice, since they had both been rather unimportant members of the second baseball team last year, they had spoken. But beyond that they were strangers. And so when two days after that visit to 29 Lothraip, Starr Myers stopped Dudd in front of trow by the simple but effective method of seizing him by the arm, Dudd was somewhat surprised. Starr was scowling and Dudd didn't need more than one glance at his face to realize that he was angry.

Even when angry, however, Starr didn't allow himself to forget his pose of contemptuous superiority. And now when he spoke he managed a one-sided smile designed to remind Dudd the honor being done him. Baker, you're a remarkably fresh young kid, began Starr, and some day that mouth of yours is going to get you into a heap of trouble.

Ever think of that? Dud, puzzled, moved restively in the bigger boy's grasp, but failed to get free. I don't know what you mean, Meyer, he protested. Yes, you do. What's the good of lying? After this you leave my name out of your funny jokes here.

I don't know what, began Dud again. Then recollection of Jimmy's Bon Mott came to him, and he flushed. The next time I'll kick you from here to the river, said Starr in a quietly venomous tone. I do it now for a couple of buttons, too. You'll leave my name strictly alone, Baker, after this. Understand me? Yes, but honest, Meyer, I didn't say.

Then, however, Dudd had to stop, for although innocent, to insist on the fact would put the blame on Jimmy. He dropped his eyes. All right, he muttered. Somehow that phrase seemed to add fresh fuel to star smoldering anger, for he took a fresh and very painful grip on Dud's arm and said, All right, is it? Well, it isn't all right, kid. You're a sneaky little bounder, that's what you are.

Saying smart aleck things and then trying to lie out of it? Don't you ever mention my name again? If you do, I'll get you and you won't forget it in a hurry. Now you beat it. You're a sneaky little bounder, that's what you are. With a sudden wrench of the captive arm, Star spun Dud around and aimed a kick at him. Fortunately, a premonition of what was happening caused Dud to jump aside,

and Star's foot missed his goal. Dud, angry himself now, turned with clenched fists and flashing eyes. But the situation was distinctly hopeless. Star topped him by a head, and Dud was suddenly conscious of his own physical inferiority. Still, he might have tried conclusions had it not been for the smile of haughty contempt on the other's countenance. Somehow that smile was too much It seemed to say What, you dare to show disrespect to me?

Be gone, impious mortal Thud's finger straightened again He gulped down his resentment Stole a doubtful glance at a group of fellows Who were looking on curiously from the dormitory steps And walked away Trying his best to appear dignified and unconcerned But secretly feeling like a whipped cur

Later when he recounted the episode to Jimmy The latter took him to task vigorously Why didn't you tell him you didn't say it? I'm not afraid of the big fraud, considering you told everyone that I had said it. Yes, that's so, Jimmy frowned mightily. Well, then why didn't you light into him? Don't you see that the fellows who were watching you will think you were afraid of him?

I wanted to, but somehow he looks so, so sort of superior. Yeah, that's star's best bluff. Bet you anything if you'd hit him just one little top on the nose he'd have run. "'Hang it, Dud, you got to play up, boy. Here I am making you out a regular feller, and the first chance you get to, to put yourself in the limelight you fall down. Why, you had to find a sort of an opportunity to distinguish yourself.

Think what it would have meant to you, Dud. Fellows would have said, What do you know about young Baker-licking Starmeyer right in front of Trow this morning? Had it all over him, they say. Beat him something brutal. Some class to that kid, eh? That's the way they'd have talked you up. Now you've gone and...

Don't be an ass, beg Dudwood's spirit. You know Plague well, I couldn't lick star. He's six inches taller than I am, and he's at least 17 years old, and he's... He's stronger. Son, when you get in a row with another chap, replied Jimmy emphatically, don't you stop to figure out how much bigger or stronger he is?

You jump in and get the first lick at him. You'll be surprised to find with a lot of inches that first whack takes off the other chap. What you should have done? "'Well, I didn't,' said Dud shortly. "'You wouldn't have either, I guess.' "'Jimmy grinned. "'Never mind what I'd have done, Dud.

"'I'm not making a name for myself. "'I'm not—' "'Neither am I. You are, and I'm getting sick of it. "'It's no use anyway. "'Let's drop it.' "'Drop nothing,' replied Jimmy vigorously. "'We're getting on famously. "'Why, you just said I've queered myself.'

"'I said you'd missed a chance to make a hit. "'So you have. "'But we can fix that, all right. Those fellows who saw it will talk, I guess, but we can talk too. Who were they? I don't know. Stiles was one, though. The sweetest little gossip in school commented Jimmy.

All right, Dud, you leave it to me. Your Uncle James will fix it all honky for you. You sit tight and... Yes, that's the game. Dud, you must go around looking very dignified for a couple of days. ROT! I mean it. You must make fellows think that you resisted a great temptation

and that it has sobered you. Get me? What temptation asked the puzzle? Why, the temptation to lose your temper and beat Star Up, of course, explained Jimmy patiently. That's our line, don't you see? It was only by superhuman control

that you manfully resisted the impulse to fell him to the ground. Great stuff, what? You just wait till I tell it. Jimmy, for the love of lemons, don't start anything else. Every time you get to talk and you put me in a hole. You've got fellows thinking I'm a wit, and they all look at me in a

funny sort of way as if they were waiting for me to spring something bright, and I get tongue-tied and they can't think of a thing to say. And you're telling it all around that I'm going to be a wonderful pitcher, too. They don't believe that, of course, but it makes me look silly, and now you want to make me out a scrapper. Not at all, not at all. Star resented your remark about him and spoke insultingly to you. You gave him a beautiful, beautiful calling down and he didn't dare talk back. Then when your back was turned, he tried to kick you, and you stifling your natural and excusable indignation,

kept your temper wonderfully and walked superbly away. All through the encounter your dignity was sublime. Dudd groan. He'll simply make me out an awful ass and fellows will laugh at you and me. I wish you wouldn't, Jimmy. That remark merely shows how little you appreciate my powers of diplomacy, replied the other in tones of sorrowful resignation. But never mind, I shall continue to do my best for you, Dud,

even though my efforts are unappreciated, misunderstood. Leave it all to me, my young friend, appear very dignified and aloof. Let's see you look aloof, Dud. That only looked disgusted. Not a bit like it, resumed the other cheerfully. More like this, get it? Sort of hinting at a secret sorrow, or, no, that's not exactly the idea either. You want to look like a hero in the second act of the play,

when everyone thinks he stole the jewels and the heroine spurns him. He knows that he's innocent, you see, and knows that the audience will know it in the last act. So he just looks disdainful and a bit sad, and sort of moons around by himself and smokes a good deal to salve his sorrow. I can't smoke, interrupted Dud practically. They won't let me, and I don't like it anyway.

Jimmy waved his hand airily. You get the idea, though, Dad. Too proud to fight is your line, old chap. Now shut up and let me think. Jimmy's thinking resulted in an action. That afternoon about four he might have been observed lingering idly in front of school hall, hands in pockets, whistling tunelessly quite at a loose end. Nick Blake tried to entice him up to lit to play pool,

thus Weston suggested the joys of a trip to the village for hot soda, and Pete Gordon strove to lure him to his room. Jimmy resisted heroically and was left to his devices. It was a particularly disagreeable afternoon, with a hard wind freezing the pools along the walk, and Jimmy from time to time glanced them patiently at the big doors behind him. But it was nearly the half hour before they finally opened again to admit Ned Stiles. Worned by the creaking of the portal, Jimmy instantly assumed the appearance of one who, passing, has his attention attracted by the sound of an opening door.

in the face of the fact that he had been all along aware that Stiles, in trouble with Mr. Gibbs, the history instructor, had been having an after-school seance with Gusty in a classroom. Stiles was an upper middler, 17 years old, and an interesting and rather sycophantic youth, who Jimmy secretly disliked very much. Stiles suspected the fact and was consequently somewhat surprised when Jimmy, after nodding briefly, halted and awaited him at the foot of the steps. Hello, Stiles. Rotten day, isn't it?

Seeing Guy Murtha lately? Stiles shook his head, changing his books from one elbow to the other in order to reach his handkerchief and blow a very red nose. Stiles always had a cold in winter and snuffled from October to April. Can't find him anywhere,

continued Jimmy in preoccupied tones, accommodating his steps to those of the other boy and continuing on toward Trow. Starmeyer said he thought he'd gone to the village. I want to see him. him awfully. I haven't seen him all day, I guess, said Stiles. He was hoping that some of the fellows would look from their windows and see him hobnobbing with Jimmy. Well, I guess I can get him at supper, said the latter. Then he chuckled, and in response

to Stiles' unspoken question explained, I was thinking of Star. He hasn't got over it yet, I guess, grumpy as anything he was. Got over what? asked Stiles eagerly. Didn't you hear about it? Jimmy looked at him incredulously. Why, Dud Baker gave him an awful calling down this morning and Starr took it like a lamb. Say that kid certainly has got spunk. Stiles viewed the others suspiciously, but Jimmy's countenance expressed truth and quiet amusement. Stiles grunted. Then he said,

Hmp, doubtfully. Starr was mad as a hornet about something Dudd said, some joke or other, you know. Stiles nodded, yes, about the hockey team dying of starvation. Was that it? Well, anyway, he got after Dudd and wanted Dudd to apologize, and Dudd told him to chase himself, that it was all true and that every fellow in school knew it, and a lot more. And Starr was mad enough to bite. Think of Dudd getting away with it.

I saw it, said Stiles, but it didn't look just like that to me. Starr had Baker by the arm and it looked like he was reading the riot act to him. And then he tried to kick him and Baker beat it. Good thing for Starr he did then, said Jimmy knowingly. I'd hate to stand up to Dud Baker when he was riled. I didn't know he was that sort, said Stiles, interestedly. They had reached the entrance to Trow and paused at the door. Dad Baker?

Didn't you ever hear what he left the school he was at before he came here? Stahl shook his head. Well, it isn't a nice story to tell, although it wasn't all Dud's fault. I heard it from a fellow who was there and saw it. In fact, he helped to carry the other fellow to his room. He was three years older than Dud. and a whole head taller, too, they say. But that isn't the sort of fellow you can bully.

Or he wasn't. Nowadays, Dud will stand a lot. I guess after that fracas he learned to keep his temper. The other fellow was in been a month. It was such a close shave for him that is sort of sobered Dud up, and he will go most any length now to keep from scrapping. He's got an awful punch, they say. Stiles look vastly amazed, but Jimmy, glancing from the corners of his eyes, saw to

his satisfaction that there was no incredulity in the amazement. Stiles had swallowed the yarn hole and was gasping for more. But Jimmy knew the value was silence. Well, I guess I'll run over to Lothra. If you should see Guy, you might tell him I'm looking for him. So long. But look here, Logan, called Stiles eagerly. What was it Baker said to Starr, eh?

Oh, I don't know just what he told him, but it was a plenty. And Starr took it, too. But he kicked Baker. We saw him. Never replied Jimmy vehemently. He may have kicked at him. In fact, some fellow told me he did aim to kick at Dud when Dud's back was turned. Said Dud turned like a tiger on him then, and he thought sure it was all up with Star.

But Dud controlled himself and walked quietly away. Gee, I couldn't have done that, Stiles. It must have been great to see, wasn't it? Why, yes, only, Stiles paused. It looked to us as if Baker was scared, Logan. Of course he wasn't, but that's what it looked like. I didn't know he was such a scrapper. Who, Dud?

Jimmy spread his hands expressively. Take my advice, old man, and don't let him hear you say he looks scared, though maybe he wouldn't touch you. Then again he might lose control of that temper of his, and better not risk it, I guess. I wouldn't think of it, said Stiles earnestly. I didn't really think he was scared, you know, only some of the other fellows who saw it said it looked that way.

Don't tell Dud Baker I said that, will you? Me? No, indeed. In fact, I wouldn't mention the thing to him at any price. He's awfully touchy, you see, and ever since this morning he's been sort of like a bear with a sore head. I guess there's times when he wishes he'd forgotten himself and let fly. Well, so long. Jimmy walked on toward Lothorpe, and Ned Stiles plunged through the door and hurried down the corridor to leave his books and then spread news to all who would hearken to it. And Jimmy, approaching the first entrance to Lothra Paul, winked gravely at the ornamental brass knocker.

End of Chapter 4. Chapter 5 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 5. That loses his temper. Winter observed Jimmy very disgustedly one morning toward the last of February, and sure lingering in the lap of spring as the poet, half it. Between you and me, Dad, I guess winter's fallen asleep there. There it is almost

March and everything still covered up with snow or ice. Or water, he added a second later, his gaze falling to the pools of melting snow that lay in the hollows of the campus. The windows were wide open and the air that came in, while still chill and damp, still somehow held a suggestion or perhaps a faint promise of spring. But the sky was leaden. Between the walks the sod was hidden under patches of dirty snow or ice that had begun to melt a little and the whole morning world had attired and bedraggled look. Jimmy, still attired in pajamas, shivered and turned disapprovingly away. Then his gaze fell on Dud and the disapproval increased, for Dud, half awake a moment before, had nestled down on the rumpled pillow again and was sleeping peacefully. Jimmy was

righteously indignant. "'Wake up, you slagged,' he bawled, pulling the clothes from the other. Here I've been talking to you for five minutes, saying perfectly gorgeous things and you haven't heard a word. Get up, you lazy loafer and hear the birdie sing or sneeze. Come out of there. Dud came out, rather in a heap, blinking confusedly, and strove to pull the clothes from the bed to his shrinking form on the floor. But Jimmy was merciless, and Dud was forced to arise grumblingly and rub his sleepy eyes. What time is it? he yawned.

Never mind what time it has replied Jimmy severely. It's time you were up in doing. With a heart for any fate, murmured Dud poetically of sleepily. What day is it? Great jump in Jehoshaphat, exclaimed Jimmy. He doesn't even know the date. It's a Tuesday, darling, and the month's February, and the year. Then it's today, practice begins, said Dud.

I knew there was something. He arose and sought his bathrobe. I'll bet it's awfully early. I don't hear any of it. went up. You hear me up, responded his roommate. As a matter of fact, I don't know just what time it is, because you forgot to wind the clock and my watch has stopped and I couldn't find yours. But it must be long after six. Six grunted Dud and deep disgust. What do you go pulling me out of bed at six for? I'm going back again. I said it was long after six. Where's your watch?

Have a look at it. Dud discovered that article at last dangling over the back of a chair. It having escaped from a pocket, and in more mollified tones informed Jimmy that it was twenty to seven. In the corridor, door opened and slippered feet pattered toward the bathroom. Jimmy set his watch on the clock, found his own robe and then pausing at the door, asked solicitously, "'How's the old arm, Dud?' "'Soar was the answer. "'Dud bent it and flexed it. "'It was his right one, and he observed it scowlingly.

"'It's lame all the way to the shoulder. "'Oach!' "'And the shoulder's lame too.' Too bad, said Jimmy. I was afraid you might overdo it, Dud. Well, whose silly idea was it anyway? demanded Dud indignantly. Who suggested practicing every day I'd just like to know? I did, of course, but I didn't tell you to do too much of it and lame yourself, did I? What you've gone and done, Dud, is catch cold in it.

You ought to be mighty careful that way. You ought... Oh, dry up, grumbled dud. You make me tired. If you know so pesky much about it, why didn't you say something before? I wouldn't have caught cold in it if you hadn't insisted on slopping around in that rink yesterday with the water up to your ankles. No wonder I caught cold. Well, you'll have to lay off a few days, old chap. It'll be all right again, I guess.

That's fine, isn't it, when I've got to report for practice this afternoon? You won't have to pitch, though, responded Jimmy consolingly. Just do the setting up stuff. come on and get your back. I don't want any bath, muttered Dud, still feeling of his pitching arm with cautious fingers. You go ahead. Dud, said the other severely.

You've got a grouch. You must have got out of bed the wrong way. I did. When you pulled me out, was the pointed reply. And who wouldn't have a grouch I'd like to know? I'll have a fat chance to do any pitching, won't I? You can tell him you lamed yourself, can't you? Cheer up, Dud.

Come ahead before the crowd gathers. I'll rub it for you when we get back." Huh, I guess that's what's the matter with it now. You nearly killed me last night with your old massaging, as you called it. It may hurt a little, said Jimmy earnestly, but it's awfully good for you. It's regular Swedish stuff, dud. I learned it from a chap at home who works in the gym. We ought to have some liniment, though.

I wonder if that liquid dentifrous stuff as yours would do. I'll do my own rubbing, thanks, replied the other ungraciously, if it hadn't been to for you." Help, well, Jimmy, hurrying through the door. Then came the sound of quick scurrying in the corridor and dud, still moaning on the side of the bed, guessed that Jimmy and some other chap were racing for a bathtub. That hoped the other fellow would win. He continued to explore the lamed muscles of his arm for several minutes, finding a grim

satisfaction in the twinges of pain he evoked. Finally, however, he slung the cords of his bathrobe together and dejectedly followed the others down the corridor. As luck would have it, three other youths were awaiting their turns at the tubs, while Starling Meyer reached the washroom at the same moment Dud did. Star fixed a haughty and scornful glare on the younger boy. I'm ahead of you, he announced briefly. Most any other time, Dud would have acquiesced without a murmur, but this morning his peevishness made him combative and courageous. Like fun you are, he replied scowlingly.

A perceptible thrill went through the other members of the waiting group. Dud Baker and Star Meyer were going to have a scrap. They had heard of Dud's fighting reputation, and now they were to witness an example of that youth's quality. They almost held their breasts in excitement, the round eyes traveling from Star to Dud and back again expectantly. Star frowned portentously. We'll see, he remarked coldly.

You bet we'll see, agreed Dud, strange recklessness taking possession of him. Somehow this morning Star didn't look nearly so far, formidable, perhaps because his eyes were still heavy with sleep, or because the flaming red bathrobe in which he was enveloped was so palpable in a front to good taste. Star stared an instant in perplexed surprise and then deliberately turned his gaze away from Dudd's pugnacious countenance, indicating contempt and scorn and several other things that riled Dudd still further.

From the cubicles holding the tubs came the rush and splash of water in the voices of the bathers. No healthy boy ever bade silently, and the fours. and the tubs were judging from the sounds remarkably robust. Jimmy was chanting a football pan at the top of his lungs. Another boy was singing something remarkably tuneless and repetitional, and the other two were exchanging batonage across the partition at the tops of their voices. After a moment one of the doors opened. A very pink-hued youth emerged and it was the turn of one of the interested trio. Oddly enough, the latter showed a strange disinclination to avail himself of

his prerogative. Instead he offered in a whisper to let one of the others precede him, but the reply was a shake of the head, the boy not even removing his fascinated gaze from dud. There was nothing for it but to go then, and the youths went, disappearing behind the door most reluctantly. Star moved impatiently from one foot to the other. You fellows in there, got to move on, he advised loudly. We've been waiting here ten minutes. Keep on waiting, old chap, replied Jimmy, interrupting his song. Don't know who you are, but you're an awful fibber. I say, Dud, are you there?

Yes, growled Dud. Hand me a piece of soap from the stand, will you? Dud wanted to say no, but thought better of it, and ungraciously crossed the washroom and secured a cake of soap. Catch, he called. Stop it, squealed, Jimmy. Don't chuck. Here, pass it in. The door opened a bit, and Jimmy's face appeared in the slit. Squeeze in, he whispered.

I'm through. Dud thrust the door open and entered, and Jimmy quickly bolted it again. Who's out there? he whispered. But before Dud could inform him, Star Meyer's voice was raised in indignant protest. You can't do that, Logan. It isn't Baker's turn. There are three of us ahead of him. You come out of there, Baker. I only took half a bath, Star, replied Jimmy amiably.

I'm letting Dud have the other half. Yes, you are. Yes, you are. No funny business now. Here, Benson, it's your turn. Go ahead in. They can't do that. Benson, a slim, unaggressive youth, stared at Star and alarm. I... I'm in no hurry, thanks, Meyer. I... I just as leaf weight, thanks. Then you, whatever your name is. It's your tub. The second boy shook his head and grinned.

I don't like that one, he replied diplomatically. The plug leaks. I'll wait. Star scowled and looked doubtfully at the closed door. For some reason, intense quiet prevailed. Not a splash was heard. Then if you fellows won't take it, he said resolutely, it's my turn. That's my, Tubb Baker. You better come out of there. I'll be out when I've had my back was the trucalent reply,

followed by a sound very much like that caused by a hand descending approvingly on a bare shoulder. Stars strode across and rattled the door, but the only response was the gurgling of a little. water as the plug was withdrawn. I'll report you to Mr. Gibbs announced Star loftily. You're supposed to take your turn. You better let me in there. Just then the door opened and Jimmy came out.

Starr drew back a step and Doug quickly shot the bolt again. Jimmy smiled sweetly and carelessly at Starr. Don't be a grouch old man, he said. There's lots of water yet. Star fell back on his haughty attitude and observed Jimmy as from Olympian Heights. Jimmy chuckled. Great stuff, Star, he approved. Then he nodded affably to the round-eyed Benson

and took himself gracefully from sight. At that moment another cubicle emptied itself of its occupant and Star, swallowing his wrath, absent-mindedly entered it, leaving the two waiting youths to scowl blankly at the closed door. After a moment Benson ejaculated in a careful whisper, Hog! The other boy nodded agreement. I thought he and Baker were going to scrap,

confide as Sotovoce. Gee, I wish they had, and I wish Baker had done him up. He's just a big bluff, that's what he is. From the further cubicle came the sound of song. Thud was regaining his temper. End of Chapter 5. Chapter 6 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 6. First Practice There was a large attendance at half-past three that afternoon in the baseball cage. Some forty-odd candidates, most of them last year's first and second-team members, had assembled for work, while fully as many others were on hand to watch proceedings. Not that anything very exciting promised, but it was a raw, uncomfortable sort of day

outside, and fellows were glad of any event that offered a half-hour's mild amusement. The cage was not a very ambitious affair, for it had been a very ambitious affair, for it had been an afterthought and had been built after the building was erected and had a sacrifice of one of the two bowling alleys, which, thrown into the space formerly occupied by a storeroom, supplied area for a modest cage. It was large enough to throw it based distance in and to hold batting practice in it if the batter didn't attempt anything more than a tap. Also, of course, it made an excellent place for the pitches to limber up. Dud and Jimmy went over to the gymnasium together, where the latter had finally decided

to try his luck with the first nine. When having got into his gymnasium suit, Dud looked around for Jimmy, he was rather disconcerted to find himself confronting Starling Meyer across the bench. That didn't feel so brave today, and would have been just as satisfied if he hadn't run across the hockey star. But the latter only glared in a haughtily disgusted manner and turned us back, and Dud heaved a sigh of relief, not loud, but fervent, and made his way unobtrusively out of the locker room. He was careful to nod or speak to such fellows as he knew, although lots of times it took a great

deal of courage. He was obeying Jimmy's directions, however. Don't wait for fellows to speak to you, Jimmy had ordered, speak first. Don't act as if you were afraid they wouldn't know you either. Just say, hello, Smith, sort of careless-like, or if you don't know them fairly well, just nod and smile. Don't grin, smile. Like this. And Jimmy turned the corners of his mouth up slightly and nodded his head very briefly. Get the idea? I know who you are, but I don't recall the name. But don't try that on the big fellows, like, well, like Mertha and Trafford and nose traps. You want to be polite to them, sort of cordial, too. Only don't let them think you're trying to swipe. Which I am, Dudhead interpolated a trifle bitterly.

Not at all. You're merely being tactful. There's a difference. Tact and diplomacy are great things, dud. You want to practice them. Toteing, I call it. Tutt, nothing like it. Call it. Call it a studied effort to please. Call it what you like, that had replied somberly. It's poor business. Some of our greatest citizens have been diplomats, dud. Look at me. Dutz Gaze picked out a number of baseball celebrities whom, under Jimmy's tutelage, he had come to know well enough to speak to. In every case, if he found himself near enough to speak, he spoke,

or failing that, he nodded, trying to look quite at his ease and not succeeding very well. Guy Merthyr was there, of course, for Guy was this year's captain. He was 18, a tall, decidedly plain youth with so many likable qualities that one soon forgot about his features. and Bert Winslow and Nick Blake were talking together further on, and nearby were Ben Mayet and Pete Gordon and Nate Letty, and Hugh Ordway was one of the group the rest of whom Dudd knew only by sight. Jimmy appeared from somewhere in about that moment, Mr. Sargent, the physical director and baseball coach, came in with Triss Barnes, the manager.

Mr. Sargent, or peed as he was called, was short and square, with a beard and mustache and a pair of restless brown eyes behind the big round lenses of his spectacles. He had a nervous and patient manner of speaking and was quite likely, to the secret amusement and delight of the fellows, to get his words twisted when the least bit excited. All out of the cage, please, but team candidates was his order. Close that door, somebody. Better bolt it, Churchill. Now, fellows, if you kindly stop talking. Uh, stop talking? We'll get started. Captain Murtha, want to say anything? I guess not, sir. There'll be plenty of time to talk later on, won't there? I'd like to say, though, that we're going to need more candidates than are here today,

and I wish you fellows would try and get others to come out. There's no use waiting until we get outdoors, for this work in the cage is very important, and fellows who miss it won't stand but show. Our season begins pretty early this spring, a week earlier than last year, and we haven't any too much time to get in shape. I'd like mighty well to see fully twenty more fellows. here tomorrow."

Yes, yes, this is a very poor showing, agreed Mr. Sergeant. Well, we'll make a start, fellows. We're going to have setting up work this afternoon and for a few days. How's that, Barnes? No, no dumb bells today, thanks. Just get in line, fellows, will you? About four rows will do. That's it.

Now then, follow me, please. And keep your mind on what you're doing. One, two, three, four. Stretch the arms out as far as I'll go. All right, now the wrists. Twist. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight. Keep it up. All right. It soon became tiresome to Dud, for he hadn't been in training

and the gymnasium work twice weekly had not been strenuous. It was, he reflected, rather remarkable, to find so many muscles that creaked in unsuspected places. Almost in front of him in the second row, Starmeyer was going through the evolutions easily and gracefully and untiringly, and was something of his usual haughty disdain for anything not of his own devising. In gymnasium shirt and trunks, Starr showed strong and muscular, and Dudd felt a warm satisfaction over the fact that he and Starr had not come to blows that morning in the bathroom.

Starr's legs were things to admire as the muscles played over them like whip-cords, and Dudd wished that he had paid a little more attention to his physical condition during the past year or two. He imagined that his own thin, elongated body must look strangely out of place there with all those other well-conditioned ones. Further along where he could just be seen out of the corner of Dud's eyes stood Jimmy, sturdy and stocky, loafing a bit when Mr. Sergeant's gaze was not on him. Dud wanted to loaf too, but didn't dare. The calisthenics lasted less than half an hour, by which time Dud was not the only one breathing hard and perspiring freely, and then Barnes set the candidate's names down. When it was Dud's turn to register, Star Meyer was nearly at his elbow,

a fact which added to Dud's embarrassment. Name? asked the manager. Dudley Baker, upper middle. Age Baker? Fifteen. Experience? I was on the second nine last year. Position? To picture, please. Someone sniggered. It wasn't Star, for Star never sniggered. It was too low in common. Star only looked insultingly amused. Barnes looked a little amused, too, although he tried not to. All right, Baker, get on the scales and let me know your weight tomorrow. Don't forget, please.

Dudd, aware of more than one amused countenance, moved away and sought the locker room, conscious that his cheeks were very red. Jimmy, already out of his gymnasium togs, noticed and frowned disapprovingly. Why, the blushes, Dudd? He asked severely. "'Dud muttered something evasive and passed on to his locker. "'But later Jimmy wormed it out of him. "'Jimmy always could.

"'And Jimmy frowned once more. "'We'll have to do something with Starr,' he said thoughtfully, "'something to make him have a little more respect for his betters. "'I wonder,' Thud laughed. "'I thought wondering was my stunt, Jimmy.' "'So it is.' "'I don't wonder, then. "'I merely speculate.

"'Look here, Dud. "'Know what I think?' "'Dud shook his head, hopelessly. Well, then, Jimmy went on. I think you'd better have a showdown with Star." What's sort of a showdown? Fultured Dud.

I mean pick a quarrel with him and fight him. You see, Star has a good deal of influence, and I'm afraid he's been talking. One or two things have reached me, you know. What we'd better do is make an impression on him. Thanks. You're not much of a slugger, are you? Dudd shook his head. No, I suppose not, continued Jim.

me thoughtfully. Well, neither am I, but I guess there are a few tricks I could teach you. Besides, I have a hunch that Star isn't any fonder of scrapping than you are. I wouldn't be a bit surprised if you could bluff him, Dud. Of course I may be wrong, but that's my idea of him. It's a fine idea, said Dud sarcastically, but suppose you're wrong. Then what? Why, then you'll have to mix it up a bit, replied the other quite cheerfully.

But we won't try it until we've got in shape some. We ought to have a couple pairs of light gloves. Know any fellow who has any dud? No, I don't, answer the other emphatically. And if you think I'm going to stand up to Star Meyer and have him knock me around just to please you, you're horribly mistaken. Nothing doing. To please me.

I like that. It isn't to please me, you silly chump, it's for your own good. Stars distinctly inimical to your interests and, yes, and he'd be distinctly inimically inimical to my nose, interrupted Dud warmly. And I like my nose the way it is. You may not, but I do. I'm not going to fight him, and that's all there is to it. Jimmy was plainly disappointed.

It seems the only way, though, Dud, he said pleadingly. If you know any better way. And besides, you've got a reputation for slugging to keep up. What will fellows think if you let Star sneer at you and don't call him down? You had no business telling fellows I was a fighter, said Dud. You didn't consult me about that, and I'm not responsible now for what they think. I'm not a fighter and never was and never could be. I don't know anything about it.

And I don't want to. Jimmy sighed and shrugged. You're extremely difficile, Dud, he said in a discouraged tone. I plan things for you. Plan things! I should say you did. You're a bully little planner, Jimmy, but I don't like your plans. Think up something that won't get me killed, please.

"'Piffle. What if Star did give you a black eye? You'd have the credit of putting up a game fight and "'Fellas would like you better. I tell you, Dud, the fellas got to risk something now and then.' "'You do the risking, then,' replied the other at trifle sullenly. "'I don't want any black eyes, thanks.' "'Oh, all right, then. Still, we've got to take Star down a peg or two, Dud. But don't you worry. I'll fix my giant intellect on the problem. Leave it all to me, old chap.' Yes, answered Dud bitterly, and find myself all beaten up some fine day. Look here, Jimmy. I guess this thing's gone about far enough.

Let's drop it now. I guess I don't care so much about being a regular feller as I did. It's too plaguy strenuous. Give it up just when we're beginning to show results, cried Jimmy in amazement. Never. When I start to think, Dud, I see it through. That's me, old chap. Having once set my hand to the plow,

Dud groaned in despair. Well, then he muttered. I wish you go off and plow somewhere else. Cheer up, Dud. The dawn is breaking. Jimmy slapped him encouragingly on the back. We'll make a regular fella out of you yet. That's all well enough, Jimmy, but what I want to know is this.

What's Starr Meyer going to do when he hears that I'm telling it around school that he's afraid of me? It's a wonder to me that he hasn't heard it already. Jimmy winked. I sort of think he has, Dud, he said softly. End of Chapter 6. Chapter 7 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Libre Vox recording is in the public domain.

Chapter 7. Ben Mayet advises. If, however, Starling Meyer had heard Jimmy's version of that encounter with Dud, he certainly gave no sign. When he and Dud met, which was frequently now that daily baseball practice was going on in the cage, he either looked over Dud's head or deigned him a fleeting and disdainful glance. But that didn't feel at all badly because he received no more attention. In fact, he was extremely glad every time he looked at Starr and pondered on that youth's wealth of muscle and length of arm, and he hoped from the bottom of his heart that Starr would keep right on treating

him with distant disdain. The more distant the better. Meanwhile, Jimmy, being a firm believer in preparedness, had procured two pairs of lightweight boxing gloves from different sources, and Dud, much against his inclination, was made to dawn a pair every day before supper and do his best to master the rudiments of self-defense. I don't believe, just between you and me, that Jimmy knew a whole lot about boxing, but at least he knew more than his friend did. Dud was the various Tyro and those first lessons, undertaken by Dud with no relish and one might say under compulsion, were strange affairs. With the study table drawn back to the length

of the green cord connecting droplight and ceiling plug. The drop light met a natural fate during the third lesson. An eight-foot ring was secured, and in this, with much thudding of shoes and thumping of gloves, the two fainted and parried and struck. The striking, though, was somewhat one-sided at first, Jimmy being the striker and dud the strikee, to coin a convenient word. Anyone pausing outside the door of number 19 might have heard, in spite of the closed Transom, a conversation calculated to arouse curiosity. Watch your head now. Well, I warned you, didn't I?

Keep your right in front of you. Don't drop your arm like that. Or, now lead, quick. I'll put some pep in a dud. More like this, see? Faint with your right and come up quick with your left straight for my chin. Get it? Try it again.

That's better, only you're too slow. You give it away beforehand. Keep your eyes on mine and don't look where you're, you're going to hit. Sorry, Dud. Was it too hard? You had your guard down, you see. Quicker on your feet, old chap. Keep moving. Don't get said, or I just wanted to show you what would happen, Dud. Don't get mad about it. The only way to learn. Good one. You got me that time, right on the nose. Bulley work. After some half-dozen lessons, Dud began to learn, and Jimmy, having procured a paper-covered book in the village which was entitled

Boxing Self-Tot, studied it diligently and became more proficient. I doubt that Jimmy, even when at his best, was what might be termed a scientific boxer, and that never developed beyond the hammer and tong stage, but they got to fancy themselves quite a bit after a fortnight or so, and talk learnedly of hooks and uppercuts and sidestepping and other mysterious things. and by that time Dudd had become really interested and viewed Starr Meyer with far less awe. In fact, though I grieve to relate it,

he even got to the point where he speculated on what it would feel like to place his fist in violent contact with Starr's supercilious nose. The conclusion that he invariably arrived at was that the sensation would be distinctly pleasurable. But much to Jimmy's disappointment, and a little to Duds too, I fancy, Star offered the latter no possible excuse for doing such a thing. He's afraid of you, grieved Jimmy.

Isn't that the limit? A big husky chap like him. He corrected Dud. Being afraid of a fellow six inches smaller, continued the other, superbly disregarding the interruption. Wouldn't it make you weary? What we've got to do, Dud, is force a quarrel on him. There's no use waiting for him to start anything.

Well, but why asked Dud doubtfully? as long as he isn't bothering me. He is bothering you. He's a thorn in your flesh. Oh, said the other vaguely, is he? Of course he is. He's talking, too. Some of the things he said have got back to me.

What? asked Dud. Never mind what. You wouldn't want to hear them, I guess. Dud laughed. You're making that up, Jimmy, he charged. You're just dying to get me into a scrap with him. I wouldn't mind much, although I guess he'd lick me, but I don't see any use in fighting him about nothing. Of course, if he did anything or said anything. Haven't I been telling you? And I heard him say it, added Dud hastily, why that

would be different. Oh, if you're going to wait for him to knock you down. I'm not, replied dud indignantly, but I can't fight him for nothing at all. Hmm, Jimmy viewed his chum gloomily. I don't see what use it is then to go to all that trouble to learn to fight if, if you are aren't going to make use of your knowledge. That's an economical waste, Dudd, and waste is sinful." It isn't a waste, said Dudd. It's a good thing to know how to defend yourself. Besides, that boxing business has put my arm back in shape for pitching.

It feels great nowadays. Just feel that muscle, Jimmy. Not bad, decided the other grudgingly. Then more brightly, say, you ought to be able to hand-star a peach of a wallop with that, dud. Well, all we can do is hope for the best. We don't want to fight, but if we have to." We? queried dud.

I don't see where you come into it. You're always talking about we fighting Starr-Myer, but it's me." I said Jimmy sweetly. It's I, then, who would have to do it. If you want Star looks so plaguy much, why don't you do it yourself? Jimmy considered a moment. Well, say, that isn't a bad idea, he replied at last. Someone ought to do it, that's sure.

If you're quite certain you don't mind, I'm dead sure," said Dudd emphatically. Then maybe, Jimmy felt his arm muscles. I'll think it over, he concluded thoughtfully. Baseball practice had by this time really become baseball practice. I mean by that that the period of dumbbell exercises and setting up drills had passed, and the candidates reinforced by some dozen or so latecomers, were passing and batting and learning the tricks of the game. The battery candidates comprised Nate Letty, Ben Mayett, Gus Weston, Will Brunswick, Joe Kelly, and Dud Baker, pitchers,

and Pete Gordon, Hal Cherry, and Ed Brooks catchers. Of the pitchers, Mayott was last year's star in a clever twirler. Letty was a good man, but not so dependable. Weston had speed but little control, and the others were still unknown quantities, except that both Kelly and Dud had twirled a few times for the second nine the spring before. Pete Gordon was the regular catcher in Brooks the second-choice man. Cherry was a beginner who showed promise. At the end of the first two weeks of indoor work,

the battery candidates were given their first try-out one afternoon at the conclusion of the regular practice, and Dud, somewhat to his surprise, survived. Still, as Jimmy kindly pointed out to him later, that didn't mean much since it was the custom to keep all the would-be pitchers until the team got out of doors. Nevertheless, Dud was encouraged and did his level best to make good. Mayotte, a big, likable chap of 18 or over, took a real interest in the efforts of the younger

members of the staff and was generous with advice and instruction. One afternoon, shortly before the candidates got outdoors for the first time, he took Dud in hand after practice. Say Baker, Ben called as Dud was leaving the cage. Got time to pitch me a few. "'Dud, pulling his glove off, turned back. "'Why, yes,' he answered. "'Want me to?

"'Yes. "'Yell to Ed Brooks to lend me his mitt, will you?' "'A minute later, Ben took his place in front of the net "'and thumped the big mid encouragingly. "'All right now, boy. "'Try a few easy ones. "'That's nice. "'I say, Baker, mind if I give you a hint or two.'

"'I'd be awfully glad if you would,' replied Dud eagerly. "'I know I'm not much good.' "'Who says so?' I do, Dud smiled. But Ben shook his head reprovingly. You ought to be the last one to say it, he announced gravely. First thing you want to do, boys, stop tying yourself in a knot in your wind-up. You'll never last nine innings if you go through all that gymnastic stuff.

What's the big idea? I don't know, faltered Dud. That's the way I've always done it, I suppose. Well, I wouldn't do it anymore. You see if you can't reach the toe plate without going through so many motions. Cut out that second swing of yours, why don't you? Here's you. Ben went through an exaggerated imitation of does wind-up.

Too much work, see? If you had a man on second now, you couldn't do half that boy. He'd be sliding into the plate before you were through. Get your body into it and stop throwing your arm around. It's the body that puts the speed into the ball. You want to start easy and work up gradually until when the ball leaves your hand, you're at the top of the pitch. The way you'd do it, Baker, you get a lot of motioned up and then lose it before you pitch.

And you tire yourself a lot. I couldn't last five innings if I threw my arms around like that. I hope you don't mind my criticizing you, Baker. That didn't, and tried to say so. But his response was not much more than a murmur. However, Ben went on cheerfully. Just at first you won't have the control you have now, I guess. But after you've got on to the hang of it, you'll find you can pitch a lot easier.

Just try it, will you? That's first attempt was a complete failure, for he started unthinkingly on that second swing, tried to stop and got so confused that he didn't even let the ball out of his hand. Ben suggested getting used to the wind-up before trying to pitch, and so Dud twirled and twisted a number of times

uncomfortably conscious of the few loiterers watching through the netting, and finally got so that he was able to reach the moment of delivery without falling over his feet. But when he tried to pitch a few straight balls into Ben Myas Mitten, he discovered that the change in his method had seemingly spoiled his direction. For more than once, Ben had to reach for a wide one, or else scoop one off the floor.

Don't worry about that, said Ben. You'll get your eye back again. That's enough for now, I guess. There's one more thing I suggest, though, Baker. You're trying to pitch too many different things. You were hooking them in and out and dropping them and trying to float them, too. You don't need all that boy. Not yet, anyhow.

You take my advice and learn to pitch a good straight ball. Get so you can send it high, low, in or out, or right in the groove. Then learn to change your pace without giving it away to the batsman. After that, there's plenty of time for drops and hooks. I tell you, Baker, the fellow that has control is the fellow that batters hate to stand up to. This thing of having 57 varieties of balls doesn't cut much ice, old man. Ben opened the door and gently pushed Dut out ahead of him and they went across to the locker room. A chap who can tease the batter with the straight one, slip one across for a strike now and

then, follow a fast one with a slow one and do it all without changing his style, is the fellow who wins his games. I'm not saying hooks and floaters and all those aren't useful, for they are, but I do say that when a fellow's beginning he ought to pin his faith to just one thing, and that's control. Don't be worried if they hit you hard at first. They're bound to. But just keep on learning to put them where you want to, and the first thing you know,

you'll be fooling them worse than the curve artist. Practice that new wind-up boy and cut out all the unnecessary gie-gaws that just use up your strength. Nine innings is a whole month sometimes, and it's the very dickens to feel your muscles getting sore long about the six. So long, Baker, good luck.

Dad thought it over while he's still. stood under the shower and while he pulled on his clothes. Maybe Ben might be right, he reflected, but he was a bit proud of his ability to put something on the ball, and confining himself to straight ones didn't sound interesting. For a moment he wondered if Ben was trying to steer him away from his hooks and drop so that he wouldn't prove a rival. Then the absurdity of that suspicion dawned and he smiled at it. In the first place, Ben wouldn't be in school another year, and in the second place,

done was certain that he would never be able to pitch as Ben could. could if he kept at it all his life. In the end, by which time he was tying his scarf in front of one of the little mirrors, he decided that Ben's advice was excellent, and that he would follow it for a while at least. The next afternoon, Hal Cherry, catching Dud and Kelly, looked a trifle surprise and a bit disgusted too, when Dud's delivery suddenly exhibited a strange eccentricity. Cherry had to spear the air in all directions that day, and Mr. Sargent, watching and counselling the fellows, followed Dud's doings with dubious eyes.

Nor was Dud perceptibly more steady the day following, and Brooks, who caught him, protested more than once. By that time, Dud was getting discouraged and was strongly tempted to go back to his former, more elaborate and far more labored wind-up, and would have done so probably had it not been for Ben Mayett's brief encouragement after practice. Having got the hang of it yet, I see, Baker, remarked the veteran. Keep on, though. It'll come to you in another day or two, I guess. Try not to slow up just before your pitch, boy. That's your trouble now.

Pondering that hint, Dud hauled Jimmy out of bed early the next morning and conducted him up back of the dormitory, where stationed midway between two windows, he made cheerful efforts to get his hands on the balls that Dud pitched him. Many of them, however, bounded unchallenged from the bricks and trickled back to Dud. One particularly wild-heed came so near a window the dud shivered, pocketed the ball and led the way back to the room. If, said Jimmy disgustedly on the way, that's a sample of what you can do with this simplified wind-up you're telling about,

you better go back to the old stuff. There's nothing in it, Dud. I'm going to stick it out a bit longer, though, was the answer. Ben says it will take time, Jimmy. Yes, and patience, said Jimmy sarcastically. They catcher supplying the patience. After you've beamed a few batters, dud, they'll put you in jail as a danger to the community. I'm glad I don't have to stand up to you.

Two days after that, March having departed very lamblike, the cage was abandoned and outdoor practice began. End of Chapter 7. Chapter 8 of winning his game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 8. A Wild Pitch April at its best is an uncertain month, and April this spring lived up to its reputation. No sooner had the baseball candidates grown accustomed to the feel of soft and springy turf under their feet,

then a three-day's rain began and they were forced to retire again to the dim and unsympathetic cage. The track and field candidates defied weather conditions until the cinders-held pools of water, and the pits became of the consistency of oatmeal porridge. Then the sun shone forth again, and after another day of indoor confinement, the players once more trailed down to Lothrop Field. The diamond was far from dry, but the sun was warm and a little southeast breeze promised its best efforts. Candidates for the second team were called out that afternoon, and Jimmy, whose status with

the first was still a matter for conjecture, thought seriously of returning to the fold. That, however, refused to sanction the step, and so Jimmy grumblingly stayed where he was. I know just how it'll be, though, he said pessimistically. They'll keep me here until Crowley's got his second team all made up, and then they'll drop me. Oh, all right. He stretches his legs and lean more comfortably back against the railing of the stand. After all, it's too nice a day to do anything. I pity those poor dubs out there catching flies and wrenching their arms throwing the ball in. Me for the quiet and troubled life of a substitute outfielder. You'll have to go in and pitch pretty quick, Dud. Pete's got his eye on you now, but I'll just sit here and keep this bench warm.

and Jimmy's remarks were rudely interrupted. Hi, Logan, called Mr. Sargent. Go on out there to left and get your hands on some of those flies. Lively, no? Send bointin' in. Jimmy arose with alacrity, casting a despairing glance at Dud and ambled off. Hugh Ordway, seated further along the bench, got up and joined Dud. Awfully pretty, isn't it observed Hugh,

nodding toward the wide expanse of new green that led away to the ribbon of river beyond. Reminds me a lot of home. I mean England. It sounded as if he was correcting himself, and Dudd asked, But England is your home, isn't it? Hugh nodded. I suppose it is, only when I'm here I like to remember that I'm part American,

if you know what I mean. Your mother is American, isn't she? asked Dudd. Yes, she was born in Maryland. Her folks have lived there for a long time. It's a bit odd, Baker, but sometimes I feel as if I were more USA than British. Being sort of half and half like that, a fellow doesn't quite know where he is, if you know what I mean. I dare say, murmured Dud. It was the first time that Hugh Ordway had ever approached him, and he felt rather embarrassed. The desire to make a good impression on the other only resulted in tying his tongue up.

But Hugh appeared not to notice the fact. How are you getting on, he asked with your bowl, you're pitching. Just fair, I guess. How do you like it? Baseball, I mean. Crazy about it. I'll never learn to play d'all. decently, I fancy, but it's a jolly game, isn't it? What I'd like best is batting, only I can't seem to hit the ball very well yet. May it fools me every time, you know. I got a couple of good ones off Nate Leddy the other day, though. Are you pitching today? I guess Pete will put me in for an inning or two later. He's giving us all a chance now. I am pretty rotten so far.

Haven't found yourself yet I fancy. It takes a bit of time, eh? Bert says a lot of us will be dropped to the second pretty soon. I say, Baker, I wasn't thinking of you, you know. Oh, I'll get dropped all right, I guess. Hope none, I'm sure. In my own case, I wouldn't mind a bit. Maybe I could play well enough to make the second, or a class team, perhaps. I thought you, you fielded very well the other day, said Dud politely. Hugh laughed. You're spoofing, I fancy. I did catch a few, but I was beastly scared of them. Bert says I looked as if I was going to catch them in my mouth. Odd feeling you have when those balls begin to come down,

getting bigger and bigger every second, and you're wondering whether you'll catch them or if they'll hit you on the nose. Jolly good fun, though, corking. Lots more exciting than cricket. Is it? I never played cricket. Oh, no end. Cricket's a bully good game too, but it's a lot more quiet and sedate if you know what I mean.

Well, I'll toddle. Hope you get on finally, Baker, and drop in some time, eh? Thanks, answered Dud. Then as Hugh moved away, he blurted, did you really mean that ordway? What? Why, of course. Then, then I will. I didn't know, Dud's voice trailed off into silence as he dropped an embarrassed gaze. Hugh smiled and nodded. Right, O Baker, glad to have you. Dudd, wishing he hadn't made such a fool of himself, bent stern attention on his glove

until the red had subsided from his cheeks. He will think me an awful kid, he reflected, asking things like that and blushing like a silly girl. And of course he couldn't say anything else. You won't catch me going. Further self-community was cut short by Mr. Sergeant. All right, Baker, called the coach. Warm up, will you?

Brooks will catch you. See if you can't steady down today. Dutt squirmed out of his sweater, pulled his glove on, and joined Ed Brooks in front of the first base stand. Brunswick had taken Kelly's place in the box and it would be Dudd's turn next. As Brooks tossed the ball to him and spread his hands invitingly wide apart, Dud hoped hard that he would be able to steady down, but doubted it. As yet the recollection of that impulsive question to Ordway still made his face burn. Consequently, when after pitching a half-dozen easy ones to warm his arm,

he began to put on a little speed, he was pleased as well as surprised to find that some of his old control had come back. Encouraged, he made greater efforts to put the ball where he wanted to and unconsciously began to steam up. But Brooks cautioned him and Dudd slowed down. That's pitch and unculled Brooks. They're all straight though, Dudd are pretty near it. Try a slant. But Dudd resisted the temptation to hook one and shook his head. Instead he sent over a slow one that fool Brooks completely and brought from the ladder a laugh at his own expense. Do it again, he urged as he threw the ball back. I want to get used to those. I'll wait until you're not expecting it left, Dud. There was no lineup today, but first and

second string players were batting and running the bases, taking their places in the field ultimately to let others come in. Weston, Kelly and Brunswick had held the mound for an inning or two apiece, while Ben Mayad and Nate Letty were trying to improve their hitting. a thing that the latter was rather weak at. Presently the outfielders were called in in a body, and others took their places, and changes were made in the infield. Brunswick went to the shower and dud to the pitchers' box. Pete Gordon was still catching.

All right, Baker, called Pete. Strike him out, boy. Put her over now. Neil Eyre fouled one and then landed on the next and went to first, and Bert Winslow took his place. The pitchers were not expected to work hard, for a batsman stayed in until he hit or was caught out. Burt was difficult to dispose of, since he cannily refused everything that wasn't distinctly a strike,

and Dudd pitched a dozen deliveries before Burt found when he liked and wrapped it to deep center. Meanwhile, Mr. Sergeant was coaching air from first to second and on to third, making him slide to every base even though he was not threatened. When, however, he tried to steal home on Dudd's wind-up, Dudd managed to keep his head, send in a fast one, and saw air nailed a yard from the rubber. It wasn't especially interesting work, and some of the hits were screeches into deep right, left or center, that the outfielders couldn't begin to get their hands on to.

Dudd had not had much experience in fielding his position, and was momentarily in fear that a hotliner would come at his head. If one did he was quite certain he would duck and quite disgrace himself. But when after some nine or ten batters, had faced him, Captain Murtha hit one squarely on the nose and it came straight at Dud, the latter involuntarily putting his hands up and, while he didn't make the catch, knocked it down, recovered it and tossed out Murtha at first. He got a round of applause from the stand for that, which so rattled him that his next delivery shot past Gordon a good four feet to his right

and led in a runner from third. The batter sent the next one off on a voyage to deep center and took two bases. The base runners were taking such extraordinary chances and Mr. Sargent was making such a hullabaloo back of first that Dud began to lose his control badly, and he was forced to put exactly 11 balls across before Weston, tired of waiting for a good one, reached for a wide ball and fouled out to first baseman.

Then Starr-meyer faced him and Dud made up his mind to make Starr work for his hit. Starr viewed the pitcher with amused contempt, and Dud felt his cheeks tingle. But he set his teeth and sent a high one across that the batter disdained, and followed it with one that barely cut the inner corner of the plate and was just knee high. Star looked doubtful about it, but Gordon proclaimed that a daisy star. They don't come any better. That apparently impressed Star, for he swung hard at the succeeding delivery,

which, happening to be one of Dud's slow ones, crossed the plate almost a second after the swing. Someone laughed and Star frowned hotly. Dudd tempted him with another wide one and then sneaked one across right in the groove and caught the batter napping. Gordon thumped the ball into his glove before he threw it back, a signal of commendation with the big catcher.

That's the stuff Baker, he called. That's pitching him, boy. Dud tried another slow one and again star swung too soon and again a laugh greeted the performance. This time, with the ripple of laughter, came a smatter of applause from the handful of spectators on the stand. Starr's countenance lost its haughtiness and his mouth set grimly.

Dudd decided that he might as well let Starr hit and get rid of him, and so he tried to put one over's shoulder high and across the middle of the plate. But something went wrong. Dudd was convinced afterwards that his foot had turned on a pebble. At all events, instead of traveling straight and true into Gordon's waiting mitt, the ball took an erratic slant and brought up against Starr's shoulder. There was speed on the ball and the batter had scarcely tried to do, dodge it, and now he dropped his bat, clapped a hand to his shoulder, and performed a series

of most unconventional steps about the plate. Dud started toward him, but Gordon was already at his side, and so Dud contented himself with a sincere, awfully sorry, Meyer! But Starr, impatiently throwing off the catcher's hand, turned an angry countenance to Dud. You meant to do that, Baker. You did it on purpose. I'll get you for it, too.

You can't... But Mr. Sergeant interposed then. Tatt, Tart, Meyer! It was purely an accident. You must learn to get out of the way of them. Sorry if it hurt you, though. Get Davy to rub it for you. That'll do for today.

Star, pausing to cast a final ominous look at Dud, recovered his poise and, rubbing his injury, retired haughtily. Many amused glance has followed him, for no one there doubted that it had been purely accidental, and Starr's loss of temper had struck them as unnecessary. The incident ended Dudd's usefulness for that day, for his delivery became so wild that Mr. Sergeant quickly took him out, putting in Weston to finish the practice. Dud, yielding the ball shamefacedly, retired to the bench and donned his sweater.

He was quite aware of the fact that Mr. Sergeant meant him to return to the field-house, but the thought of the irate Starr-Meyer, who, by the time Dudd got there, would doubtless be just getting into his clothes, deterred him. Instead, then, of leaving the field, Dud found a place on the bench and pretended deep absorption in the practice. Presently, though, a better idea presented itself. Across on the other diamond, the second was putting in its first day of work, under the tuition of Dinney, as Mr. Crowley the assistant physical director, was called. He would, he decided, wander over there as unostentatiously as possible, and so escaped Mr. Sargent's eagle eye. But it proved

a mistaken move, for just at the moment the Dud detached himself from the few idlers on the bench, Mr. Sargent happened to look across the diamond, and his impatient voice quickly followed his glance. Baker, go ahead in. I told you once! The fellows on the bench grinned, and Dud tried his best to make it appear that he wanted nothing better in life than to do that very thing. But just the same, once behind the stand and out of view of those on the diamond, his feet

moved very slowly along the path. I don't believe that Dud was a coward, or one may have no stomach for physical combatting it be brave enough in other ways, but I am quite certain that he wished heartily all the way across to the field-house that the tall and dignified form of Starr-mire would appear at the doorway and proceed homeward before he reached there. But nothing of the sort happened, and when Dud entered the locker-room he was just in time to hear Star finish in account of the recent episode for the benefit of three boys who lulled on the benches in various stages of undress.

He was afraid to give me one I could hit, and so he wanged one straight at me. I wasn't looking for it and couldn't get out of the way, and it got me right on the shoulder. He threw it as hard as he could, too, and an arm will be out of commission for days. Pete had the cheek to tell me that it was an accident. Accident. Yes, it was. Not. You wait till I get a chance at that fresh kid.

End of Chapter 8 Chapter 9 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieberwark's recording is in the public domain. Chapter 9 Jimmy takes charge Dud's first impulse was to turn back, but one of Starr's audience had seen him already, and so after a moment of hesitation he went on,

and since Starr had his back toward the door, reached his locker before the speaker saw him. Then there was an instant silence. Dud pulled open the locker door, took his towel out, and dropped it on the bench. Then, got canned, did you? asked Star. Maybe you'll learn after a while that you can't do that sort of thing and get away with it. I didn't mean to hit you, Meyer. Honestly, returned Dud.

I am awfully sorry. There was a pebble or something. Oh, forget your pebbles. You know very well you meant to hit me. You've been doing a lot of talking around school lately. I've heard it. And I'd have given you a mighty good spanking if you've been big enough to notice. Star had walked around the end of the bench and now faced Dud like an outraged Joe from a yard away.

That tried hard to appear undisturbed, but the mere publicity was enough to send the blood into his cheeks and put a tremor in his voice as he answered. I haven't been talking about you, Meyer, he said as stoutly as he could. And anyhow, you needn't tried to bully me. I've apologized for that, that accident, and that's all I can do. Oh, you apologize, do you? Star laughed amusedly. Well, apologies don't answer, kid. If you weren't so small, I'd kick you around the room, you, you ugly-faced little insect.

Never mind my size, cried Dud, throwing discretion to the winds and the sudden flare of anger. And never mind about my looks either. Anytime you want to start kicking, you go ahead, Meyer. I'm not afraid of you. You're a bluff. A big bluff, that's all you... Star's right hand shot out. suddenly, and the open palm landed hard on Dud's cheek. The blow sent him sprawling across

the bench, but he was on his feet again in an instant, his face white save where the impact of Star's hand had left a tingling red stain. Star, smiling crookedly, had stepped back, ready for Dud's rush. But the rush wasn't made, for at that instant Davy Richards' voice came sternly from the doorway. "'Here, boys! Stop that! Look you, Meyer, leave him alone. What mean you hitting a boy beneath your size, hey? Davy was Welsh, and when excited, relapsed into a brogue as broad as it was difficult of reproduction and type. Star looked around, shrugged his shoulders, and laughed lightly. I wasn't hitting him, Davy. I merely slapped his face for him. If I ever really hit him, he'd know it. Well, no more of it in this house. It is no place for fighting. I knew there, Baker.

Behave yourself. Do you hear me? No more now, or I'll take a hand myself. Davy retired grumbling, and one of the audience of three chuckled as he got up and sauntered out. The others exchanged glances of amusement and went on with their dressing. Star nonchalantly retired to his own bench, leaving the outstanding with clenched fists and angry face in the middle of the floor, her once unconscious of the curious gazes of others. It isn't finished yet, Meyer, he said at last in a low voice. Star glanced up contemptuously.

You'll be finished if you try any more funny stunts with me, Baker, he said threateningly. And I want you to stop talking about me, too. Hear that? The next time I'll do a lot more than slap your ugly face for you. You'll fight me. I wouldn't bother two, Star laughed. I might break you in two if I hit you. You'll fight me, reiterated dudggedly.

If you won't. He stopped, for Davy was glowering at him from the doorway. Look you, Baker. what I say I mean. One more word about fighting while you're in this place and out you go!' Thud subsided in silence reigned until the door opened to admit a number of released second-team candidates, by which time Dud was ready for his shower. When he returned to the lockers, Starr had gone.

By that time the room was crowded from end to end, where practice was over and some forty-yard boys were struggling for space. Jimmy spied his chum and pushed his way to him. Oh, Dud, it was fine, he whispered delightedly. Only why didn't you put it a foot higher or so and bean him? Did you see him again? Dud nodded. Was he mad?

demanded Jimmy eagerly. Hello, what are you looking so funny about? You didn't. I say, Dud, you too didn't. He paused expressively. We had words, replied Dud in low tones, and he slapped my face. Slapped. Jimmy whistled.

Then, great stuff, dud. What did you do? Where were you? I wish I'd seen it. I didn't do anything. Davy butted in. I'm going to fight him, though. Of course, slapped your face, eh? The big bully. That's a fighting matter, dud. When are you going to do it? He refused. Said he wouldn't bother with me. Said he might break me in two. But he's got to fight, Jimmy.

You bet he has, agreed Jimmy enthusiastically. But listen, let me get a little bit. get my shower. You wait for me, will you? We've got to talk this over, you know." There isn't anything to talk over," Dud said flatly. He's got to fight me. Yes, but if he says he won't, you wait for me, see? I won't be a minute. And Jimmy, beaming broadly dashed off. Thud found a corner by the door and waited, listening idly to the chatter of the fellows. Nearby Foster Trey struggling with a stubborn shirt, remarked in smothered tones.

Did you see Baker Pigs Starr in the arm-mill? It was a fierce old biff. Yes, replied Oscar Milford, and Starr was hopping mad. He chuckled. Said Baker did it on purpose. Well, maybe he did, I don't know. But they say Baker's got Starr scared of him for some reason. Oh, piffle, a kid like that?

Not likely. But it isn't sense getting mad about being hit with a ball. Gee, if I got peeved every time I got whack last year. A good-natured altercation over the possession of a bath towel that both Letty and Parker laid claim to, drowned the rest of Trayy Mark, and Dud slipped further along. Captain Merther ran across him a moment later and stopped an instant. Say, Baker, you did mighty well there for a while today. Keep it up, old man.

But don't lay out any more of the team, eh? You might leave us shorthanded. Guy laughed, nodded, and went on, and presently showing numerous evidences of having dressed hurriedly. Jimmy arrived a bit breathless and dragged Dudd outside. There, a one arm through Duds, he led the way back to the dormitory. Now, he demanded eagerly, let's have the whole story. Well, I stepped on a pebble or something, and the ball got away and hit Starr in the shoulder.

Yes, chuckled Jimmy, I saw that. Something ought to be done about those pebbles. Then you winked meaningly. But it was a pebble, declared Dudd. I didn't mean to hit him. You didn't. Jimmy was incredulous. incredulous and disappointed.

Gee, I thought, of course, you did it so he'd get mad and fight. Are you sure? Yes, I am, answered Dud shortly. Don't be a fool, Jimmy. All right, then. It was an accident. Jimmy sighed. Then what?

Dud brought the narrative to his conclusion by the time they were crossing the campus, and Jimmy disengaged his arm in order to slap Dud approvingly on the back. Fine, he declared. Just what we wanted. By the time we put this thing through, Dud, you'll be the most talked of fellow in school. I don't want to be talked of. I'm sick of all that, rot. All I want is to show Starrmeyer that he can't slap me in and get away with it.

Sure, but it'll do a lot of good if you lick him, don't you see? Fellows will call you a plucky kid and all that. Oh, there's nothing to it, dud. Here's where we make good old son. I'm not likely to lick him, replied the other quietly. I dare say he will beat me to a pulp. But he won't do it before I've got in a few. he added grimly.

That's all right too, but it's going to make a lot bigger hit if you get the decision respond to Jimmy. No, you better make up your mind to lick him, dud. Make up my mind, replied the other impatiently, as they travel together down the corridor. How's making up my mind going to help? He can lick me and you know it, and I know it. What's the good of talking rot like that? How do you know he can? asked Jimmy eagerly.

I bet you anything stars got to do you. a yellow streak in him somewhere. And you've been learning right along, haven't you? When I say, I call you a mighty clever boxer right this minute, Dud. Yes, I do, honest. And I say, what time is it? Fine. We just got time to put on the gloves for a few minutes.

I was reading in that book. I'm not going to put on the gloves, answered Dud decidedly. I'll fight him just as I am. All that scientific stuff isn't much good anyway. I didn't keep him from almost knocking me flat on the floor this afternoon. But you weren't looking for it. If you'd known. Besides, the thing is to get him to fight. He says he won't. How can I make him, Jimmy? Well, Jimmy studied the question with his head on one side and his mouth pursed. At last, there are two or three ways, I guess. You might challenge him publicly, or you might just walk up

and slap his face the way he slapped yours, or you might. That's good enough, interrupted, Dud. Come on. Hold on. Where are you going? To find him. Well, but wait. Hold on. See here, Dud. You can't walk into a fellow's room and biff him, you know. Why can't I?

Because it isn't done, old chap. Violation of hospitality and all that, you know. What you want to do is find him sometime when the other fellows are around, see? Then he can't possibly refuse. But you want to make sure that a faculty isn't looking. Better wait now until morning and get him in school hall, and the corridor say. Yes, that's the idea.

There'll be a crowd around and... I'd rather do it now, said Dud. Maybe by tomorrow I might not... might not want to so much. Oh, that's all right. I'll keep you up to it, son. Trust me. You see, Dud, this is a wonderful opportunity

and we want to make the most of it. You wait until the morning and then find star in the corridor between recitations. There's bound to be a crowd there. Imagine the sensation when you step up to him and let him have it right on the cheek.

Maybe you ought to say something too, something effective. Let's see now. Suppose. Look here, Jimmy. This isn't any silly pageant. I don't care whether anyone's around or not. All you think about is making a public show of it. You make me tired. Nothing of the sort returned Jimmy indignantly. All I say is that if you're going to do it, you ought to do it right. What's the good of bawling it all up when, by using a little headwork,

you can make a great big hit. No, sir, you listen to me. I'm managing you in this affair, Dud. You just sit still and leave the whole business to me. Leave it to you, began Dud bitterly. Besides, I've got a better scheme, old chap. Let's do it ship-shape, eh? After supper, I'll call on Star and take your challenge to him.

Then if he says he won't fight, we'll go ahead with the public insult scheme. But that will be giving him a chance to accept like a gentleman. And, of course, whether he accepts or doesn't, a thing is just bound to leak out. Jimmy grinned, those things always do. I wish, said Dud moodily, and kept my mouth shut and not told you anything about it. You're bound to go and hire a brass band and make a hullabaloo. I dare say, sarcastically, you'll be selling tickets for the fight. By Jove, that isn't a bad idea!

I don't mean to sell tickets, but we might issue invitations or something. You are cordially invited to be present at an informal scrap between Dudley Baker and Starling Meyer at 5.30 on Friday, RSVP. I wish you'd quit making a silly joke of it, complained Dud. If you think it's so terribly funny, why don't you fight him yourself? I would in a minute if you slap my face, replied Jimmy promptly. Maybe he will when I take the challenge to him. Gee, I wish he'd try it. Still, I suppose you'll claim the right to the first scrap.

Well, that's settled then. Come on to supper now. Better be sort of careful what you eat, you know. You want to keep in condition. What do you say to tomorrow afternoon before supper down at the beach? We'll be out of sight there, and it would be handy for fellows to get to after practice. No use staging the affair too far away if we want a good attendance, eh? Got to consider folks comfort some, you know.

Already? End of Chapter 9. Chapter 10 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieberwark's recording is in the public domain. Chapter 10. The Challenge Come in! Starling Meyer turned from the window in number 17 and faced the door. Ernest Barnes, Starr's roommate, looked up from his book and glanced curiously in the same

direction as the portal opened briskly to admit Jimmy Logan. It lacked but a few minutes of study hour in Jimmy, with the door of the next room slightly ajar, had made certain of Starr's return before starting on his errand. Beyond the partition, there was a connecting door between the rooms, but that was never opened. Dud was dubiously awaiting Jimmy's report. Oh, said Starr eloquently, as Jimmy advanced jauntily enough, but with a most sober countenance into the radius of light from the study table. Hello, Logan.

What do you want? Barnes' greeting was just a nod, civil but not enthusiastic, and having made a moment he went back to his book. Hello, fellow, said Jimmy. Mind if I sit down, Meyer? Help yourself, Star-eyed the caller suspiciously. This is an unexpected honor, he added sarcastically. Jimmy nodded.

Yes, isn't it? Fact is, I'm on a painful errand, Meyer. Mind if I speak before Barnes? Oh, cut the comedy, Logan, replied Starr impatiently. What nonsense are you up to, anyway? No nonsense at all, really. he assured him earnestly, it's like this, Meyer. I'm here on behalf of my friend Baker. You see, he isn't just satisfied with the way things were left this afternoon. He feels that the matter ought

to be settled more, more definitely. See what I mean? Oh, rot. I'm not going to fight that kid, Logan. He's too small. Tell him to forget it. And look here, you, Star's voice took on an edge. I want you to quit meddling in my affairs, too, Logan. I know what you've been up to. You and that roommate of yours are altogether too fresh." "'Me?' asked Jimmy innocently. "'What have I done, Meyer?' "'You've talked a whole lot too much, that's what you've done. And you've egged Baker on to—to make trouble.

I want you to stop it, both of you.' "'Well, I may have talked some, Jimmy allowed calmly. Everyone has a right to talk. If they're careful what they say, yes. But—' Anyway, that isn't what I came to see you about. I've talked it over with Dud, and we've concluded that you ought to give him his satisfaction. You see, Meyer, slapping a fellow's face and then refusing to go on with it, looks, well, a bit funny, eh?

Now what we propose is that you and dud meet, say, to-morrow afternoon and half-past five, down at the beach, and settle the matter in a quiet gentlemanly way. What do you say to that? I say no, replied Starr shortly. I haven't any intention of fighting him. all I will do is slap his face again if he doesn't let me alone. He's been telling it around, or you have, that I am afraid of him. Hmm, said Jimmy thoughtfully. Well, er, if you don't fight him, won't it look as if he was right? Star flushed angrily.

Don't be a fool, Logan. I take the two of you on and lick the tar out of you if it wasn't beneath me. Oh, I see. Then I'm to tell Dad that you refuse. Tell him anything you like. And now you get out of here or I'll throw you out." Barnes had displayed a remarkable aloofness up to the present moment, but now he raised his eyes that passed from his book and judiciously, even hopefully, compared the two before

him. The result of the comparison, however, seemed to disappoint him, for he sighed and went back to his occupation again, apparently dismissing the matter from his mind. "'And what would I be doing?' asked Jimmy brightly. "'I'll tell you frankly, Meyer, that your attitude is a great surprise to me. It's a great disappointment, too. I'd hoped for better things, Meyer. The fellows are going to be mightily disappointed when they hear about it.

So you intend to talk some more, do you? demanded the other exasperatedly. Me? Oh my, no. But these things have a way of getting out, you know, Meyer. Jimmy shook his head sadly. This school is a frightfully gossipy little community. He got up and turned toward the door. If you think better of it, all you've got to do is just let me know.

I wish you'd think it over, Meyer. You get out of here, retorted Star threateningly. I'm going. I don't know what Dud will say, though, when I tell him. I fancy, sneered Star, and he will be a good bit relieved. Dud? Oh, dear, no, responded Jimmy gently. He's awfully keen about it, Dud is. It'll be a horrible disappointment to him, Meyer. Well, so long.

Jimmy passed out with melancholy Main, closing the door softly behind him, and then pausing an instant to chuckle before he opened the next portal. A moment later his expression of wickedly changed to one of utmost decorum, for to his surprise he found that Dud had a visitor, and that the visitor was none other than Mr. Russell. Mr. Russell, better known as J.P., was the Greek instructor in one of the house masters in Trow. Jimmy said, Good evening, sir, in the most deferential tones,

shot a quick inquiring glance at Dud and then paused uncertainly. Am I in the way, Mr. Russell? he asked. Not at all, Logan. I finish my business with Baker. Possibly I better acquaint you with it and enlist your assistance. Mr. Russell smiled gently. We've heard that Baker had a quarrel this afternoon with another boy and was heard to threaten him. As you know, both of you, fighting is not tolerated here, and I felt at my duty to drop in and warn Baker against any infringement of the rules.

He has explained the circumstances that I have been. must acknowledge that he has grounds for a complaint. But the matter must be settled amicably, boys, and I shall depend on you, Logan, as an older boy, to see that your friend here does nothing he will be sorry for. Personally, I believe that there is something to be said for a physical encounter under such circumstances, but rules are rules. We are here to obey them. You agree with me, Logan?" "'Abs?'' "'Absolutely, sir,' replied Jimmy emphatically. Then I may depend on you to see that nothing occurs, which, uh...

You may, sir, said Jimmy resolutely. In fact, I've already been talking it over with Dud, Mr. Russell, and I'm certain he doesn't intend to make any trouble. You see, just at first he was a bit peeved. Any fellow would have been if another fellow had slapped his face like that. But after I'd talked to him a while... Jimmy paused because Dud was grinning, and Mr. Russell had admitted what was an unmistakable chuckle.

I'm afraid, Logan, your counsel didn't prevail after all, said the instructor, though I found Baker in a decidedly uncompromising state of mind. I think you'd better have another talk with him. Mr. Russell arose, still smiling and moved to the door. My advice to both you boys is to be sensible. Good evening. Now what the Dickens did he mean by that, asked Jimmy, frowning perplexedly after the instructor. Thud laughed.

He meant that your bluff didn't fool him a bit. it, you silly ass, if you want to know. I told him I meant to fight Meyer the first chance I got. Then you came in and began talking too much as usual. Oh, said Jimmy grinning, so that's it. Well, now, what's to be done? I put it up to star and he absolutely refused the invitation. I guess that ends it, said Dud. I certainly don't intend to have any scrap with him now when faculty's on the watch. J.P. said they chucked me if I got caught at it. He's not a That sort, JP.

Isn't it the very dickens, muttered Jimmy, plunging his hands in his pockets and viewing his chum forlornly. Just when everything was coming around our way, too. Dudd shrugged philosophically. I'll get even with him some time, even if I can't fight him now, he declared grimly. Don't you worry? Yes, but that isn't going to help us much now, replied Jimmy perplexedly. You see, I insisted that you were crazy for a scrap, and Star will think,

Oh, who cares what Star thinks? Who cares what anybody thinks? asked Dud impatiently. I'm sick of the whole business. We've got to say of our faces, though, said the other, shaking his head. And so I guess, his face lighted suddenly. That's the ticket. By Jove, Dud, we'll get credit out of this yet. What silly scheme are you thinking about now? asked his chum dubiously.

Why, all we've got to do is tell the truth. All? asked Dudd sarcastically. I'd say that was a whole lot for you to try, Jimmy. Yes, sir. Just let it get around that faculty got wind of the thing and, knowing your reputation as a scrapper, sent J.P. to forbid you to fight. Great stuff, that! Jimmy laughed delightedly. Why, it's almost as good as the scrap. Look here, Jimmy. I'm tired of the whole thing I tell you. Let it drop, won't you? Sure. Only we've got to have the last work. Now don't pester me any more. I've got to dig a bit.

But if Jimmy really studied, appearances were deceptive. For when, during the next hour Dudd occasionally glanced across the table, it was always to behold Jimmy with his hands locked behind his head, his gaze on the ceiling, and a thoughtfully rapturous smile on his face. After study hour was over, he disappeared. Thud asked no questions the next day. As he had truthfully told Jimmy, he was tired of the whole affair. He was still deeply resentful towards Starr-Myer, but his anger had cooled and he had no intention of getting into trouble with the faculty with the scant satisfaction of being bruised up further by that youth.

He was tired, too, of trying to become a regular feller, to use Jimmy's descriptive phrase. What the latter liked to call the campaign had been so far as beneficial results were concerned a total failure. To be sure that he had enlarged a circle of acquaintances vastly, he was now on nodding or speaking acquaintance with fully three-fourths of the fellows. But what, as he asked himself disconsolately, was the good of knowing chaps if they didn't like you afterwards? He could still count on the fingers of one hand the fellows who really showed any disposition to be friendly. Hugh Ordway, Ben Mayott, Guy Murtha, Roy dresser, and Ed Brooks. He tried in

vain to find a sixth. There was Jimmy, of course, but Jimmy was understood. Of the friendly one one's only Ordway and Dresser could be called disinterested, he decided. Murtha was friendly because he wanted Dudd to make good as a pitcher, Mayot because he took a sort of proprietary interest in the younger twirler, and Brooks because it had fallen to his lot to catch Dudd frequently, and there had sprung up between them a sort of comradeship that so far ended with each day's workout. As to Hugh Ordway, that suspected that youth showed friendliness because he was naturally kind-hearted and had taken pity on him.

So that left only Roy Dresser, and Dressor was much older than Dudd and went with the football crowd, and in the natural course of events their paths seldom crossed. It would have been perfectly feasible for Dudd to call on Dresser, but that would have required an amount of assurance that the younger boy didn't possess. No, judging by results that campaign had not been a colossal success. Just now, however, Dudd didn't care so much whether he was popular or not. He was very full of baseball and secretly consumed by the ambition to make good as a pitcher and win a place on the first team.

For the present that provided sufficient interest. He didn't really believe that he would succeed in his ambition, at least not this year, but one may lack of belief and still hope, and Dud was doing a whole lot of hoping. So far he had done as well as any of the rookies, without however having distinguished himself in the least. He could flatter himself that neither Brunswick nor Kelly had been used more often than he, and he took encouragement from the fact. Sometimes he regretted that he had taken Ben Mayett's advice and changed his style.

If he hadn't, he told himself, he might have showed a lot more by this time. Generally though, he recognized the fact that Ben's advice had really been very sensible and that eventually, if not this season, then next, he would find himself better off for having followed it. So far though, the improvement that Ben had been very sensible. promised had developed very slowly, and he had days of discouragement. It seemed that what accuracy he had possessed before had quite left him. He could show speed and he could fool four batsmen out of five with his change of pace,

but when the score got to be two and two and it was necessary to put them over, he was as likely as not to be as wild as a hawk. Obeying Ben, he still avoided hooks, making up his mind to leave such things quite alone until he was able to put the straight ones where he wanted them. Plenty of pitchers will tell you that it is harder to pitch a straight ball than a curve, and it's very nearly true. It is, in fact, entirely true in the case of a young pitcher who is starting out pitching curves to the practical exclusion of straight balls.

And Dud, having taught himself very largely, had begun his pitching career on the erroneous assumption that a wide knowledge of hooks and curves and jumps and other freakish things is a pitcher's best asset. It is not, though, for the simple reason that no pitcher ever completely. combined a large variety of deliveries with that most valuable of all assets control. Putting it where you want it is what counts, and the pitcher who can put a straight ball just where it will do the most good can dispose of the batsman in far better style than one whose wide curves and drops and jumps refuse to break over the plate.

All this dud learned for himself eventually, but just now he was accepting it on faith, and his faith often failed him. The day after Mr. Russell's visit to number 19, Dudd very carefully avoided a meeting with Starr-Myer. When he left his room he listened to make sure that his neighbor was not also about to emerge, and in school hall he searched the corridors between recitations in order that he would not find himself embarrassingly confronted by Starr. When you have earnestly vowed to make another fellow fight, it is a bit disconcerting to have

to pass him by meekly. his endeavors met with complete success until he entered the field house in the afternoon to get into his playing talks. Then as he feared, Fortune deserted him. The first occupant of the room his eyes lighted on was Star. Well, oddly enough, Star glanced across at the doorway at that instant and saw Dud. But that was all there was to it, for Star removed his gaze without a flicker of recognition. And Dud went to his own locker, fortunately the width of the room away from Stars, and attended

strictly to the matter of making a hurry change of attire. Some of the fellows who had learned of the encounter between the two the afternoon before watched them expectantly until Starr, ready for work, left the building with Weston and Milford. Dudd avoided the glances of the others as he pulled his togs on. They knew he was certain that he had sworn revenge against Starr and were naturally viewing him disparagingly as a quitter. Had he overheard a whispered conversation at one corner of the locker-room, however, he had he overheard

a whispered conversation in one corner of the locker room, however, he wouldn't have been troubled so much. Did you see Star sneak out? chuckled Jones, a rather stout youth with ambitions looking toward a position in the first-team outfield. I'll bet he's mighty glad faculty read the riot act of Baker. What was that? asked Churchill, a third-choice shortstop. Didn't you hear? Why, Star and Baker had a rowing here yesterday and went for each other, and Davy had to separate

them. Star was mad because Baker hit him with the ball when he was at bat. Baker was wild, they say, and swore he'd get Star the first chance. So Davey pipes off the faculty and J.P. B's it to Baker's room and tells him that if he doesn't leave Star alone, faculty will jump him hard. So, of course, Baker has to promise to behave, but they say he's hopping mad and will get Star yet. I thought maybe he'd forget and light into him just now. Oh, Peanuts! I guess Star isn't afraid of that. that kid. Why, look at him. Star's six inches bigger every way. That's all right, responded Jones, but they say Baker's a regular terror when he gets started. Got thrown out of one school because he nearly

killed a fellow there. That right, asked the other incredulously. Surest thing you know, old scout, Ned Stiles was telling me. He knows the fellow Baker beat up. Jones gazed speculatively and admiringly at the unconscious dud and shook his head. He had, He doesn't look awfully scrappy, does he? But say I'll bet he could hand you an awful wallop with that right of his. They say he's as clever as anything on his feet, just dances all around the other fellow and does about as he likes. You already?

On the way out, Churchill, regarding Dud in surreptitious awe, encountered that youth's gaze, and as Dud at the instant happened to be frowning darkly at his thoughts, Churchill was ever after convinced that Dud was a fellow to be treated with the utmost respect. End of Chapter 10 Chapter 11 of Winning His Game By Ralph Henry Barber This Librevox recording is in the public domain Chapter 11

With the Scrubs DUDD speedily forgot all about Starr-Meyer Social aspirations and everything else except baseball for they had their first practice game that afternoon and although Dud wasn't called on to work during the first three innings he became vastly absorbed in the proceedings. Mr. Sargent made up one team of seasoned veterans of previous campaigns, with Gus Weston pitching and Gordon catching,

and formed the opposing team of the newer candidates, giving the twirling job to Nate Letty and letting Ed Brooks catch him. Since it was the first contest of the year, both teams were on their toes and went into it hard. From the practice diamond, Mr. Crowley's second nine looked on enviously when the opportunity allowed. Weston pitched an ice ball for the regulars for two innings, mowing down the opposing batsman impartially and even monotonously. But in the third, Ben Mayett, playing left field for the scrubs,

landed on one of Gus's offerings and drove it far into right center, where neither Starr Meyer nor Gordon Parker could reach it in time to prevent him from reaching third. That put the following batsman on their medal, and before the inning was over, Gus Weston had yielded four hits for a total of seven bases and three rites, runs had crossed the plate. As, however, the regulars had by that time scored thrice owing to two singles and as many errors of the Scrubs infield, the contest was far from decided. Weston managed to survive the fourth inning, although decidedly wobbly. He allowed two hits and passed

Barnes, and the Scrubs were yelling for a tally when Hugh Ordway fanned and made the last out, leaving an irate runner on third. Brunswick went on the mound for the regulars in the fifth, and Dudd took Lettie's place for the scrub. After that, as might have been expected, the fielders were much busier, and runs began to trickle across quite frequently. Dud pitched three innings that afternoon and performed fairly creditably.

Had Brooks, fast rounding into form as a catcher, knew Dud's failings and jockeyed him along with a lot of skill and wisdom. More than once, Dud found himself in a hole, and if he escaped, as he generally did that day, it was more due to Brooks than to him. The catcher never hesitated to demand the third strike when it was due, leaving it to Dud to put on enough steam or to fool the batter with an unexpected slowball,

and it must be said to Dud's credit that he frequently delivered the goods. But at that he was hammered hard by the head of the opposing batting list and could only find consolation in the fact that Brunswick fared but little better at the hands of the scrubs. Brunswick gave way to Joe Kelly in the eighth, and in that half-inning the scrubs almost snatched the game away from their haughty opponents. Kelly was wild and ineffective and filled the bases with the first three men up. Jimmy Logan, who had never set the world on fire with his batting, bunted cannily down the first base line,

managed to get in the way of Kelly's throw to the plate, and not only saw two runners score, but reached first in safety himself. Prentice fouled out on the second delivery and Jimmy was caught going down to second. Dud, whose turn it was at bat, had but slight hope of turning in a hit. But Kelly had another ascension, or perhaps merely continued his first, and got himself in the hole to the tune of one strike and three balls. Dud led another strike go by, and then hit at the next delivery. Luck favored him, for Nick Blake, it short, made a miserable stop of a weak rounder and

threw to first the fraction of a second too late, and the runner from third was safe. That run brought the scrub score to eleven to the regulars thirteen, and even with two down, the scrubs dreamed of tying it up. But Boynton dispelled the illusion by popping a weak fly to Neil Ayer at first, and since the practice period was up, Mr. Sargent called the game. For the succeeding half hour, the scrubs busy themselves to a man, telling just how they would have won the game had it gone nine innings. Doubtless pitching four innings to the tune of nine hits and two passes isn't anything remarkable, but Dud left the field that afternoon treading on air. If he confided to himself he had mixed a few hooks in with those straight ones

and perhaps succeeded in getting a floater over nicely a few times, he would have cut those nine bingles down to three or four. And anyway, Pete hadn't taken him out as he had Brunswick, which showed that at least the coach was fairly satisfied with him. And when, while he was pulling off his toogs, Guy Murtha stopped an instant to say, good work, Baker, I like your style, the Ayrinder Dud's feet became rosate clouds. He didn't even recall Starmier's existence until on the way to the showers, he literally ran into that youth. And then, instead of falling back abashed,

he pushed past the other with a fine indifference and rattled the curtain along the rod in Star's face. Afterwards, going across the green in the early twilight, he overtook a group of fellows, and contrary to his usual custom of passing them with a muttered and doubtful greeting, he fell at the step with Bert Winslow, much to that youth's surprise, and carelessly offered an observation to the effect that it had been a dandy game. Bird agreed unenthusiastically, shot a curious sigh glance at the other, felt some of his

antithy toward him vanish and remark quite cordially, You're more of a pitcher than I thought, Baker. Where'd you learn it? I haven't learned it yet, answered Dud, conquering his shyness with an effort that left him almost breathless. Anyway, you didn't have much trouble hitting me, Winslow. Bert accepted the compliment as merited, which it was, and thought better of the other's discernment and modesty. And while he was beginning a reply, Nick Blake, walking a few steps ahead, turned and regarded Dud gravely and remarks sadly, I'll give you a quarter next time, Baker, if you'll tip me off when you're going to pitch one of those slow ones. I don't mind hitting

the air, but I hate to break my back. Besides, I'm extremely, sensitive to ridicule, Baker?" The others laughed and Dud was spared the necessity of a reply by Bert Winslow. If you were really sensitive to ridicule, Nick, he wouldn't try to play, he observed crushingly. Nick resented the insult promptly in battle ensued. Dud left the adversaries rolling on the turf, applauded by several spectators, and made his way on to Trow, feeling much embarrassed and extremely happy.

The happiness was reflected in the letter which he wrote home the afternoon, for that was Sunday, and Dud, while he sometimes dashed off a hurried note on a week-day, made it a practice to always fill four pages with his somewhat scrawly writing on Sundays. His epistles invariably commenced the same way. Dear Mother, Father and Sisters, there were two of the latter. I am well in getting on nicely. I hope you are well when this reaches you. After that he might change the rest of the contents from week to week, but Mrs. Baker, who read the letters aloud to a more or less attentive audience, could get through the first two sentences while she was

still fixing her reading glasses on her nose. Today does letter was far more cheerful than usual. In fact, it started right out being cheerful, and the weather, generally dwelt on at length, was utterly neglected. A good deal has happened since I wrote last and things are getting pretty busy here. Something doing every minute in the big tent, like Jimmy says, Yesterday I pitched four-hole innings in the first practice game we had, and did pretty well take everything into consideration. Dad will say I'm boasting, but I'm not, because if I hadn't done pretty well, Mr. Sargent would have canned me quick, I guess.

They only got nine hits off me, and Guy Murtha, who was captain, and a peach of a wanger, only got one real hit off me and one that was mighty scratchy. I guess I did as well as Brunswick, and I know I did better than Joe Kelly, because Joe had an ascension and hand that out passes to beat the band. Well, we're getting down to business here now, all right. Everybody's doing something. The track team has been out about a fortnight, and so have we nearly. And the tennis cracks are out on the courts, and some of the fellows who play golf

go over to the Mount Graft and Lynx. They let the schoolfellows play there for nothing, but I guess Charlie pays them something for their privilege by the year. I'd like to try my hand at golf, but I guess it wouldn't be good for my pitching. I'm still sticking to straight balls like I told you last week, but if I can get my control back pretty soon, I'm going to try hooking them again. I guess you'll begin to think I don't do anything here at school but play baseball, but that isn't so, because ever since mid-year exams, most of us have been digging like anything.

I'm all square again with Mr. Gring, but I told you that last week. He says if I could write English as well as I talk, it'd be all right, but just the same I got good on my last comp and would have got excellent, for punctuation. Jimmy says I'm a punk punctuator. I guess I am all right too. We play our first game the 25th with the second team and then we play Portsmouth Grammar the 28. I'll send a card with a schedule on it so you will know when we play in whom. We have 16 dates this spring but some of them aren't filled yet. It's very hard to get teams around here to play us because we usually beat them badly and they don't like it. I had a row with Starling Meyer in the

field house the other day and he slapped me and Davy, he's the trainer, butted in. I was going to make Star fight, but faculty got wise, and J.P. came up and said if I did, I'd get in trouble, so I didn't. But I'll fix him some other way, Jimmy is well and as crazy as ever. He is out for the first too, and I guess he will make it. Anyway, he has more chance than I have, but I feel very much more encouraged since Pete let me pitch all through the last of the game yesterday like I told you. I didn't get your letter until Friday last week, so I guess Dad forgot to post it again. You ask him if he didn't.

He will say, pooh-poo, but I'll bet anything he did. I'm getting on fine. I've met some more fellows who were on the nine and everything's fine and dandy. Please tell Dad that I'd like it if I could have my allowance a little before the first this month, because I have to dig down for the track team assessment. They voted to tax all of us fifty cents apiece, which is okay, only I haven't got it to spare. To you all, your Af's son, Dudley.

Dad was highly pleased with that letter, for he discovered that he had bettered his usual four pages by two more. There was, besides, he decided, a literary flavor to it that most of his epistles lacked, and he was certain that his father would chuckle about forgetting to post that letter, and maybe he would send the allowance right away. After it was finished, he and Jimmy went down to the beach, and since they had no canoe of their own, and the punts belonging to the school were hard to row and likely to prove leaky, borrowed one of the many that reposed under the trees along the cove. They were in

doubt for well as to which particular craft to requisition, since it was distinctly advisable to select one whose owner was not likely to want it that day. The difficulty was finally solved by Dud, who recalled the fact that young Twining was in the infirmary with German measles. Twining was only a junior anyway, and juniors had few rights, even went perfectly well, and still fewer when they weren't. So Dud blithely led the way to a gorgeous light-blue old town, and together they bore it to the muddy water of the cove and clambered in. It's the best canoe here, too, observed Jimmy contentedly, as he dipped his paddle at the bow. Jimmy took the bow paddle because, or so he declared, there was more responsibility connected with

that position. Dud, while not deceived in the least, never objected, for he had a notion that stern paddling would develop his arm muscles. They say that little bounder has heaps of money, millions and millions, that is, his dad has. Did I ever tell you about the old darky woman who used to work for us? She was telling mother about some man who was terribly rich, you know, and mother said, I suspect he's a millionaire, Dora. A millionaire, Miss Logan, says she. Bless you, hot, honey.

That man's got several millions of theirs. Guess that's the way with Twining's dad, eh? That's a peach of a canoe that always got, said Dud, after he had laughed at Jimmy's story. Too fancy, replied the others that left the cove and headed down the river. He has about everything in it except the grand piano. I suppose it cost a lot, said Dud. I'll bet it did. I told him the other day that it was too pretty to use, and he said he thought it was, too.

Seems he didn't know much about canoes and let Bert Winslow order it, and Bert got all the trimmings the law allows. That's like Bert. I guess it's too heavy to handle well. Here comes Brew Longley and Foster Trey. Don't forget to speak now. A battered green canoe occupied by two youths passed and salutations were exchanged. For one stud managed to get just the proper amount of mixed hutter and friendliness in his greeting.

Somehow, since yesterday, it wasn't so hard to do things like that. Trey, a football player and track team member, laughed as the canoes passed. "'See you've got a canoe now, Jimmy,' he called. Jimmy waved his paddle nonchalantly. "'Yes, it's a poor thing, but mine own. I'll let you use a tray any time you like. I believe in lending to them as hasn't.' "'You believe in boring, too, don't you, laughed longly?'

"'Anything but trouble,' responded Jimmy, over his shoulder. They paused near the old wooden bridge beyond the boathouse to watch an automobile dashed by at some forty miles an hour. and Jimmy sighed as he began to paddle again. I always think every time that the old affair will fall into the river, but it never does. I never do have any luck. Beyond the bridge where the river widened as it wound through the marshes, they met a canoe at about every turn.

Many were drawn to the bank and their crews were usually lying at ease above. About two miles beyond the bridge and within view of Needham Falls they overtook a white canoe, or a canoe that had been white at one time, apparently empty. Since at a little distance nothing showed but an idle paddle in the backs of the seats. That, Muse Dud looks like Ordways, and must have got away from him somewhere further back. We better tow it home, hadn't we? I guess so, got anything we can tie it up with.

Jimmy altered the direction of his craft to run alongside the derelict. Maybe we can use my belt, Dud suggested. But at that moment they came near enough to see into the white canoe and discovered that it was far from empty, since two forms were stretched out flat on the bottom. One had the colored pages of a Sunday paper over his face and was consequently unrecognizable. But the other was unmistakably Nick Blake himself.

Jimmy signaled to stop paddling and the canoe floated silently alongside. A sleep whispered Jimmy. Dudd nodded. Their eyes questioned. Here, plainly, was a heaven-sent-sent opportunity to perpetrate a joke. But what form the joke was to take was not easily decided. Thud watched Jimmy expectantly and Jimmy frowned thoughtfully, benignantly down on the recumbent forms. If, he pondered, there was some way of fixing a line to the white canoe without waking the occupants, it would be a lark to tow it down to the falls and tied up there in plain sight of the trolley bridge.

But Nick O'er's companion would probably wake before they had accomplished that deed. And besides, there was no rope handy. Jimmy was for once at a loss. So evidently was dud, for the latter return Jimmy's inquiring looked blankly. The precious moments passed. And then, while Jimmy still racked his usually prolific brain, Nick's lips opened, although not his eyes. And Nick's voice murmured,

Hello, Jimmy! How well you're looking. Isn't he, Einis? And from under the newspaper came the reply in dreamy accents. Oh, rather, perfectly ripping. End of Chapter 11 Chapter 12 of winning his game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain.

Chapter 12. On the River. You chump, scrawled Jimmy in deep disgust. What do you think you're doing anyway? It's a sad story, murmured, Nick. We were shipwrecked. Six, seven, how many days ago was it, Mr. Ordway? Seven, Mr. Blake. I, seven days ago, sir, and ever since we have been tossed about in this tiny boat at the mercy of the sea and tempest and elements suggested the voice from under the comic supplement.

Aye, elephants, at last, at last. Get that in about no food nor water prompted the other in a hoarse whisper. I forgot to say that there was no time to provision the boat. For six days, seven. For seven days we were without food or drink, and at last, Weak and exhausted. We lay down in the bottom of the boat and died. Oh, so you're dead, asked Jimmy, interestedly. Dead as anything, replied Nick cheerfully. You dead, Mr. Ordway? Fearfully, thanks. I thought so. When one is dead, one's memory is apt to be a bit uncertain, though. That's why I asked. Gentlemen here inquired. Very kind of him, I'm sure. Wasn't it kind of a minus. extraordinarily kind, most polite, I'm quite sure.

The trouble with you fellow, said Jimmy solicitously, is that you've been lying around here in the sun. What you need is a local application of cold water to the cranium. Doesn't he talk beautifully, Anus? It's wonderful, sighed the other. And it's my duty to attend to the matter, concluded Jimmy. Nick opened his eyes then and the colored supplement quivered emotionally. Respect the dead Jimmy warned Nick, or

I'll forget that I'm a lifeless corpse and lay you out with a paddle. Who's there with you? Dudd Baker. Ah, the sprightly Baker murmured Nick. Salutation Baker. Hello, replied Dud from the further end of the canoe. Hello, Ordway. Hugh cast aside the paper and carefully assumed the sitting position.

Hello, Baker, he said. Nick, I fancy we're rescued. Too late answered his companion in disaster gloomily. We're dead. It's perfectly silly to come. come along at this late day and rescue us, Jimmy. Well, if you're dead, it's up to us to bury you. Mind if we don't sew you up in sacks, Nick?

We're awfully shy of sacks. I mind terribly. I couldn't think of being buried at sea without a sack. I suppose you'll tell me next that you haven't even a cannonball to sink me with. He might use a couple of those donuts, suggested Hugh, hooking with one foot at a bundle in the middle of the canoe. Donuts? asked Jimmy eagerly. "'Gutty's in there, fellows?'

"'Yes, sir,' Nick pulled himself up with a groan. "'We're off on a picnic, Jimmy. "'And that reminds me, Hugh, "'that it's about time we looked for a picturesque Silvan Glade somewhere. "'Seeing any of those things, Jimmy?' "'Jimmy, who had been working the light blue canoe along "'until it now rocked companionably beside the white one, shook his head. "'No,' he answered.

"'Let's, sir, let's look at one of those doughnuts, Nick.' Nick viewed him speculatively and then dropped his gaze to the bundle. I wouldn't want to expose them to the air, Jimmy. They get stale so soon, you see. But I'll describe them to you. You're big and fat and sort of a lovely golden brown color, and they've got sugar sprinkled on their circumferences, so to speak. Honest, Jimmy, they're awfully tasty donuts.

You'd like them, I feel sure. Stingy brute, come across, Nick. I'm as hungry as a bear. You got plenty, I'll bet. "'Depends,' replied Nick, clasping his hands about his knees, "'which you call plenty. We've got only a dozen.' "'You can have a couple of my six left, Hugh, reaching for the luncheon. "'One moment interposed, Nick. Tell you what, Inus.

"'Here we are with more food than we can eat, "'and here are two famished mariners miles from port. "'What's the answer?' "'Why, we invite them to dinner, of course.' "'Correct. Turn your old tub around Jimmy and paddle back to the willows, and we'll go ashore and have a banquet. We've only got three chops, but there's lots of bread and butter

and some cheese and a can of peaches. Only we forgot to bring an opener, and so I don't just see... You don't happen to carry a can opener with you, do you, Baker? No, but I think I can't open her without one, replied Dud. Wow, said Jimmy. Nick turned with great difficulty and viewed Dud reproachfully. He shouldn't do that, he said.

I don't mind for myself. I'm strong. But Hugh here won't get that before tomorrow morning at 1139, and meanwhile he will puzzle that poor English bean of his and get faint and dizzy. You shouldn't, Baker, you shouldn't. Get what? asked Hugh innocently. Jimmy laughed and Nick nodded sorrowfully at him. Listen, Innes, he explained patiently. It was like this.

I asked Baker if he carried a can opener with him. Get that? Perfectly. And he said he could open it without one. What's the joke? Nick cast his hands aside hopelessly. What's the use? What's the use he demanded? Come on and let's paddle. I'm starved.

How about getting back for supper, inquired Jimmy. It's way after five now. We get lost or we have an upset or something rejoined Nick carelessly. We discuss that, but I forget now just what we decided. That's all right for you, objected Jimmy, as he and Dud swung the craft around, but what about us? We can't all get upset. Why not? asked Nick, reaching for his paddle.

There's plenty of water, isn't there? But I say Nick, remonstrated Hugh. If we tell them we were upset, we'll have to get our clothes wet, eh? Hmm, that's so. I hadn't thought of that. Oh, well, never mind now. We'll think of something going back. We might let the canoes get away from us and have to chase them suggested dud. Perfect, the blotted Nick. Baker, you have a great mind. Tell you what, my husband.

hearties. After we get to the willows, we'll carelessly let the canoes get away, see? Then we'll catch them further downstream. They won't ask us how far we had to chase him. Even if they do, we can be vague. Maybe we better try to get back on time, said Hugh. Squealer! Nick and the stern reproachfully splashed Hugh's back. There's no fun picnicking if you have to go home right away and eat another meal. Oh, all right, old chap, agreed Hugh. only don't throw any more water down my neck. It's beastly cold. There was silence then for a few minutes

while the two canoes passed leisurely down the winding stream side by side. Westward the sun was dropping close to the greening summit of the low hills, and the April day was almost at its end. There was a perceptible chill in the little breeze that crept across the meadows and made cats' paws on the quiet surface of the water. Early blackbirds were fluttering along the banks

ahead of the canoes, uttering their creaky notes and simulating wild alarm. A fish leapt after a reckless insect and fell back with a startling splash, sending widening circles away in the amber glow. They didn't paddle much, for there was enough current to bear them along. Jimmy frankly shipped his blade and watched the drops trickle. Nick's voice came across a few yards of water. Somebody will please say some poetry, he requested. Now phase the glimmering landscape on the sight, and all the air of solemn stillness holds,

save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, and drowsy tinkling's lull the distant foals. Save that from yonder ivy mantle tower, the moping owl. That'll be about all of that, interrupted Nick. If you don't know anything cheerful, Ionis, dry up. The moping owl. Where do you get that stuff anyway? chap name of Gray wrote it, replied Hugh meekly. Thought so.

Same fellow who did that elegy on a country cemetery or whatever it is. He was a jovial old Johnny, wasn't he? Bet you he'd have been swell company to funeral. If you want something bright and sparkling off for Jimmy, I know a nice little poem about a hanging. It begins. Never mind how it begins. Want to spoil a perfectly good appetite?

I say you fellows, we'll race you to the willows. Dig, Einis! Followed a spirited race around the last bend to where a group of willows leaned out over the shadowed water. Victory was claimed by both crews, and the matter was never finally settled, for Nick tactfully introduced the subject of supper in the middle of the argument

and leapt ashore with the brown paper package that contained the precious viands. Dried marsh grass on the paper from the bundle started a fire at the foot of one gnarled willow and small pieces of driftwood deposited by some winter flood were piled on. Meanwhile, Hugh made the discovery that they had failed to provide salt for the chops, and that Nick had neglected to bring his folding cup.

Jimmy helpfully reminded them that it was an ancient custom, or so he had read, to substitute gunpowder for salt when the latter was not to be had, and so that was all right. Nick called him an idiot, borrowed his knife to sharpen a stick on which to borrow the chops. In payment, Jimmy helped himself to a donut. End of Chapter 12 Chapter 13 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain.

Chapter 13 Confession A quarter of an hour later they were sitting around the bed of glowing coals busily concerned with the chops and bread and butter. The chops were decidedly undone in the middle, although beautifully crisp outside, and Nick came in for some criticism as a cook. But each of the four ate his share, it had proved rather a problem to divide three chops into four equal portions. And so if the proof of the pudding is in the eating, Nick was vindicated.

They had also brought four potatoes to roast, but it was decided that life was too short and appetites too impatient to wait for them, and so Jimmy buried them in the ground, after carefully cutting them into quarters and agreed to share the proceeds of the crop in September with the others, estimating the yield at two pecks. When they were thirsty, they went down the bank, climbed into a canoe and leaned their heads into the river, thus, as Nick pointed out, getting not only a drink, but a bath. The doughnuts now diminished to eleven were served out as dessert, Jimmy, of course, receiving only two as his share, and were consumed with the peaches and cheese.

Jimmy's life was rather the worst for his encounter with the can, but Dud kept his promise of opening the ladder. They speared the peaches out with slivers, passing the can, around the circle until nothing was left but the juice. Then they drank that. Afterwards they tossed the can into the river and threw pebbles at it until it floated slowly out of range. By that time it was fully twilight and the April evening was growing chill, so they built up the fire again and sat closer, huddling together for better protection from the little breeze that whispered through the dead grass and leafless boughs. For a while no one showed much

inclination for conversation, but after a while, Hugh let fall a murmured remark and presently they were talking desultorily of this and that, or at least Jimmy and Hugh and Nick were. Dudd, as usual, had little to say, and finally Nick remarked, Shut up, Baker, and let someone else get a word in. I never heard such a chatterbox. Jimmy chuckled. Isn't he Gabby? he asked. Is he like this in the room, Jimmy? Nick inquired. No, and that's the funny part of it. it. When he and I are alone together, he's just full of words. Can't get them out fast enough. In company, though, he's horribly otherwise. I've been trying to break him of it, but

Jimmy sighed lugubriously, nothing doing. I dare say he believes in waiting until he has something to say offered Hugh. Is that the idea, Baker? Oh, I don't know, that laughed uncertainly. I never seem to think of things when I'm around with a crowd. Well, you don't call us a crowd, do you? demanded Nick. Come on now, loosen up. Spring some of those scintillent remarks that Jimmy is always repeating. Know what he does, Baker? Well, he tells him around and sort of gets the credit for him himself.

Of course, he says you said them, but there's a sort of inflection in his voice that gives you the idea that he put you up to it, or something. If you know what I mean, as Hugh would say. Oh, does full of bright things, said Jimmy carelessly. Only the trouble is he doesn't talk for publication. And you're his press agent, eh? laughed Nick. I have often wondered, he stopped.

Then he laughed softly, and Jimmy was aware that he was regarding him mirthfully in the half-darkness. What's the Bally joke? murmured Hugh. Oh, nothing. That is, Nick fell into silence again. Then, most of the things Jimmy tells sound a whole lot like Jimmy, he stated suggestively. There was a moment's silence, broken at last by death. Dud. They are Jimmy's, he said quietly. Here, don't try to put the blame on me, Jimmy laughed loudly. That's a punk trick, Dud.

Honest confession is good for the soul, said Nick lightly. Come across, Jimmy, what's the idea? Everyone knows you've been touting Baker like anything ever since Christmas recess. What is it, a conspiracy? Jimmy laid a twig carefully on the fire. I don't know what you're talking about, he grumbled. Oh, yes, you do. old man? We're all friends together, you know, and nothing you say will be used against you.

Not all right, Baker? Don't ask him, replied Jimmy. He'd tell you anything. He's incapable of the truth. Say, what's the matter with getting back, fellows? Oh, there's plenty of time, said Nick. Joking aside, Jimmy, just what is the big idea? Go ahead and tell, Urge, Dudd. I don't mind. Besides, they won't talk. Oh, you, said Jimmy in disgust. What is there to tell? Well, all right, fellows. Only this is just between us, understand? It's a little scheme of my own. You see, dud here is, well, he's just as you see him now.

He thinks big thoughts, and he's a nice boy, but he's a graven image when he gets outside his room. Well, he likes fun as much as the rest of us, but he doesn't get it because he always thinks he isn't wanted around. He's shy, you know. At least I suppose that's it. I never was that way and I don't know much about it. Nick and Hugh laughed. So I said one day, Dudd, I said,

You do like I tell you and I'll have you mixing in no time at all. I'll make a regular feller of you, and it won't cost you a cent. All you've got to do is what I tell you. So Dudd said, Opsha, or words to that effect, but agreed to try the scheme.

First thing I did was to make a list of fellows he ought to know. Then we started in and got acquainted. It was heart sledding because just as soon as I got him into a bunch of fellows, he'd get tongue-tight. Well, I saw that that wouldn't do, and so I began to get off the good things Dud said. All of which you made up, chuckled Nick. No, not all, honest. Some I did, of course. Dud didn't deliver the goods fast enough.

And, well, that's all there is to it. Perfectly legitimate, you see. Although Dudd has had his doubts now and then and threatened mutiny once or twice. We've got on fairly well. I haven't exactly popularized him yet, but I haven't done so badly either. Lately he's been sort of kicking over the traces and refusing to pull, but we're progressing slowly. Now you know all about it.

If either of you chaps blabble, punch your head. So that's it, mused Nick. Some scheme, eh, Einis? Rather. I'm glad you know that. said Dudd embarrassed, because it's always seemed so silly for Jimmy to go around getting off a lot of funny jokes and crediting them to me, and then, then for me to just stand around and act like a dummy.

I suppose we went into it as a sort of lark, or, well, I don't know. I suppose it sounds funny to you, chaps, but I wanted you to know. I knew already, said Hugh, that is, I guessed a long time ago. Honest, exclaimed Jimmy. Say that's squared, because when I asked Dudd which of the fellows he'd like to, to, shut up Jimmy, implored Dud. Why? There's no harm in it, you chump. I asked Dud who we'd like to know most, and he said, please dry up Jimmy. He said, Hew Ordway. That's where we butted in on you one night a long while ago. Really? Well, you know, that's

quite a compliment, Baker. I'm afraid, though, you didn't find me. What's the word, Nick? Responsive? Well, yes, or appreciative, I guess. That's better. If I'd known, You didn't expect Baker to tell you, did you, asked Nick. If you really wanted to know a fine, respectable member of the community, though, Baker, why didn't you select me? I can't understand you wanting to know this cold-blooded Britisher. I think we called on you next, answered Dud, laughing. Did you?

Well, thanks for small favors. But look here, Jimmy, it's been fun for you, I guess, but you haven't done Baker much good, you idiot. Have Alice got to work out his own, his own salvation at school? No one else can do it for him. Now you let Baker hoe his own row, and... That's all you know about it, replied Jimmy, tranquilly. That is on speaking terms with about every fellow worth knowing now,

and before I took him in hand... That's all right, but I'd rather have a half-dozen real friends than be able to say hello to everyone. All Baker needs is to put his chin up and get out and mix. Sure, agreed Jimmy sarcastically, that's all. But suppose he can't do it. Suppose he hasn't got the assurance.

Then what? Why, that's where I come in, do you see? You're an ass, laughed Nick. Baker, you take my advice and discharge your press agent. He's no good. Anyway, you won't need him anymore. It's funny about being popular, and whatever you like to call it, mused Hugh.

Funny, I mean, how some fellows are and some aren't, and lots of times the popular chaps aren't the ones you like best, if you know what I mean. Very clear, Onus, almost pellucid, said Nick, just the same. I don't think I ever wanted to be what you'd call popular, interrupted dud. I never could be, I'm sure. All I did want was to know more fellows and not feel quite so much out of everything.

Of course, being a lower-middleer, I dare say it's cheeky to want to mix with fellows in the upper classes. Don't see it that way, said Nick. Very commendable ambition, I'd call it, shows a desire to seek refinement and wisdom, them, and, oh, let's get back, said Jimmy. I'm freezing to death. Besides, you chaps may say what you like, but I know that without my skillful handling of the case, Dudd wouldn't be sitting here tonight listening to you talk a lot of poppycock, Nick. Results are what count, and as a press agent, if you like, I've produced results. Now, someone tell me I haven't.

If you call this a result, began Nick doubtfully. Of course I do. Dudd has shown you two chaps that whether he's a brilliant conversationalist or isn't, he's a perfectly human sort of a chump, and you both like him a little better than you did yesterday, and tomorrow, Dudd can go around and mention to a few fellows that last evening he picnic with Ordway and Blake on the river, and the fellows will think, Now if Baker is with Ordway and Nick Blake, he must be all right, and don't be a rotter, Jimmy, begged Dudd.

Rotter nothing. It's so, isn't it? Mind, I don't say you will tell about it, but you could. You won't, as a matter of fact, because you don't play the game for all it's worth. Honest, Jimmy, you're enough to sicken a fellow, said Nick. If I thought you believed what you preached or practiced it, I do insisted Jimmy stoutly. You don't contradict it, Dud. Come on home before you talk any more nonsense.

I deny the nonsense, replied Jimmy good-naturedly, but I'm perfectly willing to go home. I've been trying to for half an hour. Help me up, someone. My legs are stiff with the coal. I say we mustn't forget to let the canoes get adrift fellows. Oh, rot, said Hugh, if we've got to lie, let's lie decently. Why lie at all, then, asked Dud.

Let's just say that we wanted to have supper on the river and had it. Not a bad idea, plotted Nick. Who knows but that we'll get off easy that way. Faculty will be so surprised when we don't offer any. of the usual excuses that'll probably forget to put us on pro. Anyway, let's try it. I'll try anything once, murmured Jimmy, as he stretched his numbed legs. I wonder, though, if we can see our way back.

Bet you will run into the bank every two minutes. Where the dickens is that canoe? I thought we left it right here. And where's... Jimmy stopped and turned toward the others approaching. Say, fellows, I know an awfully good joke, he drawled. What is it demanded, Nick, suspiciously. Get ready to laugh. All set? Well, the canoes have gone.

The canoes have gone? End of Chapter 13. Chapter 14 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. The Sleeper Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 14. Marooned. Gone! exclaimed you. My word! But how? Cut out the comedy Jimmy said Nick, aren't they there? Really? Well, you come and have a look.

Maybe your sight is better than mine. I haven't my glasses with me and so of course I may be mistaken, but nevertheless and notwithstanding. Well, I'll be switched, muttered Nick, holding a flaring match aloft in the darkness. Now how the Dickens? I guess, offered Dud that getting in and out of them to drink push them off. That's the jolly story, agreed Hugh. They were there the last time I went down." Who took the last drink? asked Jimmy.

You did, didn't you? Did you see both canoes then? Jimmy turned to Nick and the gloom and considered. At last, I didn't notice, he confessed. It was pretty dark then. But I say, interrupted Hugh. What are we going to do, eh? Beat at home, Minus, responded Nick, if you know what I mean.

There's no use looking for the pesky things tonight. I dare say, anyway, they'll rest. run aground somewhere before they get very far. What we've got to do is to foot it back. How far is it, Jimmy? About a mile and a half, answered Jimmy gloomily, and most of the way across this plaguing marsh, unless we strike across that direction and find the Yarrow Road.

That would be worse than looking for the canoe, said Nick. Best thing to do is follow the river as well as we can. Come on! I say, if I fall in, you might sing out so all know which way to swim, suggested Hugh. Tomorrow I'm going to buy an anchor for that canoe, Nick, that is, if I ever find it. Gee, muttered Jimmy. What's the matter? asked Nick. I was just recalling the interesting fact that the canoe we were in belongs to young twining, a little beast, and he will be likely to be quite peevish if it's lost. How inconsiderate, laughed Nick. He's a junior,

isn't he? Yes. That's all right, then. You can point out to him that it's a great honor for him to have his canoe lost by an upper middler. Besides, it'll turn up in the morning. Oh, thunder. I should say so, agreed, Hugh, scrambling under the ditch he had followed Nick into. Where water, fellows? That and Jimmy escaped that time, but during the next half hour or so, they had their share of misfortunes.

There was no moon and the stars were partly hidden by light clouds, and it was impossible to see more than a pace ahead at any time. They never actually tumbled into the river, But they frequently stumbled down the bank and only saved themselves by prompt laying hold of whatever they could reach, as when Nick, walking too close to the edge and finding himself slipping, promptly clutched Hugh's leg and nearly double the catastrophe. It seemed more like an hour than a half hour since they had left the willows before they caught sight of the old bridge looming indistinctly above them. After that the rest was easy, for they had only to break their way through the bushes that clad the embankment and footed along Crumbie Street to the corner of the campus,

their path now illumined by the infrequent streetlights. Under the first of them they stopped to take stock. Every one of them was wet to the knees or above and plastered here and there with the nice, dark, rich mud of the marshes. It was almost eight o'clock, and any hope they may have entertained of reaching their various rooms undetected had long since vanished. Nick sighed philosophically as he turned to continue his journey,

his shoes squish-squashing at every step. Anyway, he said, When we tell them we lost the canoes and had to walk home, they'll just have to believe us. That is the one bright spot in the surrounding gloom. I've always wondered, mused Jimmy, how it would feel to be on probation. You ought to know by this time, chuckled Dud.

You've been there twice already. For some reason, Dud seemed less troubled by the impending disaster than the others. Jimmy sniffed. I don't know, Mr. Baker, where you get your information, but you have been sadly misled. The other occasions to which you doubtless allude, Shut up, Jimmy, warned Nick,

and say we'd better part company about now. You and Baker beat it up here and Hugh and I'll amble careless like over to River Street. I hate to attract a chinch, and I'm that modest. Nighty-night. Same to you, replied Jimmy, and thanks for a pleasant party. Although I must say that your arrangements for getting us home were a bit primitive.

Don't mention it. Farewell, brothers. We meet in prison. Whether by design or accident, Mr. Russell's study door was wide open as Dudd and Jimmy quietly slipped from the stairway well into the first-floor of Trow, and although they didn't think it advisable to stop to pass the time of day with the instructor, they stopped just the same. "'Ah, Logan, is that you?' It was J.P.'s voice.

The two boys retraced their steps and halted at the doorway. "'Yes, sir,' replied Jimmy brightly. "'And Baker, too, I see.' Well, young gentlemen, where have you been? We missed your bright and smiling faces at supper tonight. Mr. Russell seemed to be in a pleasant mood, though one couldn't always be certain from appearances, and so Jimmy, as spokesman, smiled his most winning smile

and answered truthfully, In the mud, sir. Indeed! Yes, I see. All the evidence tends to corroborate your quaint statement. But why in the mud, Logan? Jimmy hesitated an instant, and then decided to make a clean breast of the matter.

Mr. Russell heard him through, smiling pleasantly. And when the tale was told, he said, A most interesting narrative, Logan, on my word. You show a nice sense of dramatic construction. But really, boys, I'm rather afraid trouble will come of this. You know there's a rule about being in bounds by six o'clock on Sundays, eh? By the way, you brought your fellow miscreants back with you, I trust. I refer to Ordway and Blake.

Yes, sir, they're back. replied Jimmy dispiritedly. Mr. Russell's tone now wasn't so reassuring. And they two were in the mud? Jimmy grinned. You'd think so if you saw them. They fell right in a ditch once. Really, Mr. Russell smiled quite broadly.

Well, I suppose it's a grand lark with you youngsters, eh? Dear, dear, what a thing it is to be young. Get those wet things off, boys, and stay in your room for the rest of the evening. Possibly, he caught himself up. then we'll hope for the best. Hmm, better look to your ways for a while, though, both of you. How about that little matter we spoke of recently Baker? Any, uh, any developments?

No, sir, I quit. Wise youth. Go your ways, young gentleman. Ponder on your sins and Mr. Russell took up his book again. Refresh your souls with the sweet communion. The rest was only a mumble. Dud and Jimmy stole noiselessly away. Fortune was good to them on the moral.

They were assembled, a sober quartet, in Dr. Duncan's office after breakfast, and gravely reprimanded and told that only a diligent application to studies could wipe out the stain of their guilt. Promises of unfaltering labor being at once forthcoming from each, they were dismissed with a final admonition to mend their ways, and they thought a sigh of relief from the principal, never at his best in the role of stern authority. After a ten o'clock recitation, Nick and Jimmy hurried up the river in Nick's canoe and recovered the lost craft, twinings being found lodged against the bridge timbers and

Hugh's half a mile up the stream, entangled in a sunken branch. That to all appearances ended the affair, but in reality there was one important consequence that was lost sight of, which was the acceptance of Dud into the circle in which Nick Blake and Hugh Ordway revolved. It didn't happen all at once, and for a week or two, Dud himself didn't really. realize it. But at the end of that period he suddenly discovered himself sitting with Hugh and Nick and Bert Winslow and Ted Trafford, in Nick's room very gravely discussing such important subjects as the value of the sacrifice hit, overhand-pitching, when to use the pinch play,

and the duties of a third baseman on a bun to his territory with a man on second. Perhaps Dud didn't take a very large part in the discussion, but when he had anything to say he found voice to say it, and a few remarks from him on the subject of underhand pitching were well received. But the main thing was that he was there, not on sufferance, but as it seemed quite naturally and as a matter of course. He surreptitiously pinched himself, found he was actually awake, and then, for a moment, was visibly embarrassed. I don't pretend that either Hugh or Nick would have been broken-hearted if that hadn't been present that evening. Nor shall I attempt to guess just how much of the friendliness they displayed was due to sympathy.

On the other hand, they were more than willing to have him there, and when they thought of it were at some pains to make him feel welcome. Ted Trafford took his cue from his host, and Bert Winslow's attitude was one of careless toleration. He still looked on Dudd with suspicion. Jimmy Logan couldn't force any lemon on him, as he once elegantly put it to Hugh. Still, he didn't actually dislike the younger boy, and save from him that he didn't actually dislike the younger boy, and save for an occasional mildly sarcastic comment, occasioned by what he called Dud's cheek in trying to squirm his way into upper-class company in the first team,

he treated the latter decently enough. The evening ended with ginger ale and grape juice, mixed in equal proportions in a pitcher, the scant remains of a pineapple cheese and some crackers. Ted Trafford and Dud went back to Trow together, rather silently since Ted was sleepy, and that had nothing important to say, and parted in the corridor.

Dud reflected afterwards that Trafford might have said, Come and see me some time, Baker, or something to like effect. But he didn't. He merely nodded sleepily, yawned and murmured, Night. That was a bit disappointed, and without cause. Ted Trafford, who was a big good-hearted senior, would have issued that invitation had it occurred to him

that the younger boy would have set any store by it. As it was, the thought didn't enter his mind. If Baker was a friend of Nick and Hugh, why that was all there was to it. Any friend of my friend is the way Ted would have put it. Followed a weak bear of real incident. Dud, like the other members of that picnic party, applied himself doggedly to his lessons in an effort to get square with the office again, and turned out each weekday afternoon for baseball practice.

Sometimes he pitched for the scrubs, and more often, his work consisted of serving them up to the batters at the net, and afterwards being relieved by Kelly or Brunswick, practicing batting himself. The first game of the season came off that Wednesday afternoon, with the second team as the opponent. It wasn't much of a contest. Errors swelled the score of each team and all sorts of delays slowed the game up so that there was time for only seven innings.

Dud took no part, the twirling being performed by Ben Mayett for three innings, and by Nate Lett for the rest of the game. The second team pitches were severely handled, and the first won by the decisive score of 17 to 7. If there was any special sensation in that contest, it was in the sudden eminence of Hobo Ordway as a batter. Hugh, going into the lineup in the fourth inning, came twice to bat,

and on each occasion smashed a long, clean two-bagger into left-center. In the field he had only three chances, but he took them all. It was only in throwing in that Hugh was weak. Jimmy went to right field for three innings, made one rather brilliant running catch of a long fly, failed to get a hit and retired in favor of a pinch hitter in the sixth. After that Wednesday game, life settled down again rather monotonously,

but not uninterestingly for Dud. On Saturday, the team journeyed away and played Portsmouth Grammar School and won handily against the weak adversary. Dud didn't accompany the team as a member, nor did he go along with the half-hundred ardent routers. Neither did Jimmy. Mr. Russell, in refusing their request for leave, intimated that the afternoon might be spent far more profitably in study. J.P. was kindly but firm. Doubtless his advice was well-meant and worthy

of consideration, but I regret to say it was not followed. Instead, the two boys went trout-fishing in three-gallon brook, a mile back of school. Dud used flies and got not even a nibble. Jimmy, with a plentiful supply of angleworms, landed a four-inch sun. as no one, so far as they were aware, had ever caught, seen, or suspected the presence of a trout in the three-gallon brook, and they were not disappointed. The only feature of the excursion not counted on occurred when dud slipped from a rock during the effort to free his line from a snag and landed in three feet of extremely cold water. Fortunately that happened after Jimmy had landed his catch, and so they were about ready

to go home anyway. carried the sunfish back to school dangling from an alder branch. That is, it dangled until they reached the school grounds. Then it was placed tenderly in Jimmy's coat pocket and smuggled to number 19. When he returned from supper he brought salt and the fish was fried over the gas, with the door and transom carefully closed in both windows wide open, and consumed in a peculiarly flabby and underdone condition. Jimmy partook with gusto, or pretended to, but Dud did skisks. can't justice to the repast." Jimmy said he was jealous.

Gus Weston happened in before the penetrating aroma of the sunfish had been entirely dissipated, and asked anxiously what the trouble was. Whereupon Jimmy stopped trying to dislodge a bone that had worked its way in the back of his tongue and described movingly the size, ferocious aspect and fighting qualities of that fish, recounting with much detail the long-exhausting struggle incident to its capture. And Weston diplomatically vowed that he believed every word of it, and had either of them a rattling good detective story to lend him. End of Chapter 14 Chapter 15 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber.

This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 15. Dud serves them up. Between Dud and Starling Meyer existed in armed neutrality. They passed with covert glist. lances, avoided each other when possible, and doubtless caused some disappointment to a certain element in the school, who had been for several weeks eagerly expecting a fracas between the two. The boxing lessons had been abandoned since, as Jimmy pathetically pointed out, there was

no use getting ready for something that couldn't happen. The gloves were returned to their owners, and robbed of self-defense as a principal interest in life, Jimmy gave his attention to playing baseball. It occurred to him about this time that it wouldn't look well for Dudd to make the first team, even as a substitute, and for him to get chucked back to the second nine. So the Monday after the Portsmouth Grammar School game, Jimmy buckled down to make good. Wrightfield seemed the only position open to him, and even to earn that he would have to beat out Harold Boynton, and Boynton, while not an exceptional fielder, was a pretty fair hitter. Therefore, it behooved Jimmy to get busy and learn to lamb him out a bit better.

His first step was to attempt to bribe Brunswick and Dud to pitch easy ones when he was at the net. Failing at that, he sighed and set out to conquer by labor. Jimmy always preferred to take shortcuts. The longest way around might suit some fellows, but he took it only as a last resort. Having, however, made up his mind to the circuitous journey, Jimmy was capable of settling down to the task and seeing it through. On Wednesday, the second team was again defeated, and on the following Saturday, Grafton High School,

supported by a large and noisy mob of pennant-flunting boys and girls, engaged the attention of the first team. The batting order that afternoon gave a line in what was likely to be the final selections. Blake, shortstop, Murtha, second base, Parker, center field, Winslow, third base, Ayer First Base Ordway Left Field

Boynton Rightfield Gordon Catcher Mayett or Letty pitcher There might be probably would be changes later on

in the arrangement of the players for batting purposes But it was generally conceded that the team As made up that day was practically as it would be

six weeks later It was likely that Ben Mayett would occasionally be played in center field For Ben Aside from being a

remarkable pitcher Was a steady outfielder and a good hitter. There were some critics who sneered a Hugh Ordway's presence on the nine, hinting at favoritism, and it must be acknowledged that Hugh accomplished little that afternoon to vindicate his selection for the middle garden position.

Hugh had a bad day, missing one easy fly and failing to reach first base once. His muff and the third inning led in two runs and made the outcome doubtful until the sixth, when a single by Guy Murtha with one down, a sacrifice by Parker, a screeching two-base hit by Bert Winslow, and an error by third baseman landed two tallies for the home team. The score stayed at five to five until the ninth, when the home team started a

rally. Bert Winslow, first man up, was passed. Neil Eyre laid a bunt in front of the plate, sending Bert to second and going out himself at first. Mr. Sargent sent Milford to bat in place of Hugh, and Milford came through with a clean single that landed him on first. Bert, however, was out at the plate by inches only. With two gone, a second pinch hitter was sent to the rescue in the person of Gus Weston. As a pinch hitter, Gus was ordinarily something of a joke, but on this occasion he turned the laugh on high school's pitcher, landing on the first offering and sending it down the third baseline

for a hit that advanced Milford to second. Gordon followed with a pop fly that should have been an easy out, but which second baseman and shortstop managed between them to let fall safe. With bases full and Nate Letty up, Mayotte had gone through five innings and been sent to the showers. Mr. Sargent took a chance and let Nate go to bat. Evidently the latter was instructed to wait out the pitcher, for he stood idly by while two strikes and two balls went to cross.

Then the coach called in the back and Jimmy Logan was sent in to distinguish himself. Anyone but Jimmy would have suffered from nerves, I fancy, for it is something of an ordeal to step up to the plate with two out, basis filled in the pitcher score two and two. But Jimmy approached the task with beautiful assurance. Some said he even swaggered a little. Perhaps he did, and perhaps that swagger was the undoing of the opposing pitcher. At any rate, all Jimmy had to do was dodge two wild deliveries and trot smilingly to first,

while Milford ambled over the plate with what proved eventually to be the winning run. Nick Blake brought the inning to an end a moment later when he sent the long flight to the outfield. Grafton High School begrudged that victory and showed it, at the time by the half-hearted way in which they cheered their successful rival, and later by sending a challenge for another contest on high school grounds. The challenge was accepted, and a vacant date a week and a half later, was awarded her. Since faculty rules prohibited the team from playing away from the school on Wednesdays during April and May,

a special dispensation was asked for and obtained, and the game came off in due time. And high school went down in decisive defeat. The score at the end of the seven innings played being nine to two in favor of Grafton. Before that, however, Leeds High School had administered the first beating to the Scarlet and Gray to the tune of three to zero. It was a good game and Grafton showed up well in all departments except that of heading. Leeds pitcher was a hard proposition, and only four scattered hits were registered by Grafton. On the other hand, Ledy, who started in the box for his head.

team was found for six hits and four innings, one of them a three-bagger, and although Ben Mayad, who relieved him, held the enemy well in hand, the mischief was already done. In the eighth and ninth innings that day, Mr. Sargent used every available player in his determined effort to stem the tide of disaster, even Dud getting a chance to show his batting prowess and wrapping a liner straight into the hands of shortstop as his contribution to the cause. Jimmy, called into the fray in the 8th, managed to get hit with an in-shoot and so luckily earned his base. It was Starling Meyer who came nearest to accomplishing anything in the batting line for Star, after watching two good ones pass him, landed on what was

palpably intended for a wide one and managed to drop it behind first base some three inches inside the foul line. Unfortunately, there was no one on the basis to take advantage of the miracle. As a result of the Leeds game, there followed, beginning on the next Monday afternoon, a series of batting practices that for the rest of the week, barring Wednesday and Saturday, left no time for lineups. There also followed a change in the batting order and a slight shake-up of the team. Bert Winslow took Guy Murtha's place as second batter, Guy following him and Parker slipping into fourth position.

Gordon and Boynton also changed locations. Milford was tried out at first, and for the next second. three weeks, he and Neil Ayer had a very lively struggle for the first sack. Eventually, Ayer came into his own again. Although had batting ability alone entered into it, Milford would undoubtedly have won the place. Jimmy got several opportunities to show what he could do in right field, and Starling Meyer received some recognition in center. South Lake Academy was defeated on the 19th at South Lake, Gus Weston pitching for once a remarkably steady game until he was taken out in the 7th. By that time the contest was on ice and coach sergeant sent Brunswick

in for a couple of innings of experience. Experience came his way too, through the tune of four hits for a total of six bases, but luckily only one run resulted. Track and field sports were by now engaging much of the school's interest. The team had held its handicap games the last of April, had defeated St. James Academy the week before, and was at present very busily at work, getting into condition to meet Mount Morris, Rafton's principal rival on the 26th. Over on the big oval ribbon of gray-blue cinders, the twenty-odd youths who wore the scarlet and gray stripe across their chests,

or who hoped to wear it after next Saturday, sprinted and ran and hurtled, while about the jumping pits a dozen or fifteen others strove mightily with shot and hammer and vaulting pole or worked zealously at the jumps. Nowadays the audience at the first team Diamond was smaller each afternoon, and one heard much learned talk of dual records, and the names of Zanetti and Trey and Keys and Yatter and Musgrave, and many others pursued one from breakfast to bedtime.

Dinny Crowley divided his time as best he could between track team and second nine, while Davy Richards, at last really in his element, loomed large in importance. Davy had a reputation as a trainer of track and field talent to, vindicate, and Davy in the process of vindicating was a fine imitation of a tyrant. Even Mr. Sargent forsook baseball for a space each day and gave his attention to the white men and jumpers, for Pete and his day had held a college record for two years with the hammer and had, as a side issue, leapt his 22 feet odd for the honor of the blue. So for one week at least baseball took a back seat at Grafton, and the real heroes were the

slim-wasted, bare-legged chaps and fluttering white trunks. The ball team met Middleborough High School on Wednesday afternoon and had no trouble in winning a 14-3 contest that offered little in the way of excitement or suspense to the listless spectators. It was an intolerably hot day for May and the audience and players alike drooped. For Grafton, Nate Letty started the twirling, but after his teammates had scored eight runs on the opponents in five innings, Nate ambled off and Joe Kelly tried his hand. Joe was not a success, for the enemy took most kindly to his slants, and after facing two innings of trouble Joe likewise retired, and Dud was given his first taste of hostile batsmen.

With the score twelve to three, Dud was not expected to kill himself, and Ed Brooks, who had taken Gordon's place behind the plate with the advent of Kelly on the mound, was all for an easy life. But Brooks was reckoning without Dud's ambition to win a place on the list of battery candidates. had worn the bench and twirled his glove during so many games that this opportunity presented itself to him as heaven-sent, and he resolved to use all the skill he knew and all the control he possessed. For a fortnight he had been experimenting with his curves again, and that Ben Mayett's suggestion had even attempted a side-arm delivery that looked promising.

He had little fear of being punished much, but he went to the mound and picked up the ball determined to deny any sort of a hit to the opponents. That is why he was. he shook his head so frequently at his catcher, much to that gentleman's surprise. And why when Middleborough's tail-enders faced him in that first of the eighth, he worked so carefully and cunningly that one after another the three last batters on the list retired without even fouling off a ball. The Middleboro pitcher stood like a graven image while Dudge shot two fast ones over the outer corner of the rubber, wasted one for luck, and then ended the inning with a slow ball

it floated as perfectly over the center as though it had been rolled on wires. For the first time during the game, the somnolent spectators showed enthusiasm, as Dud dropped the ball and made for the bench. Brooks squeezed in beside him and thumped him on the knee. Great work, Dud, he said. We made him look like Pikers, didn't we? You left Parker sitting next to him. What did you do, Eddie?

Baker scratched every signal you gave him. Me? asked Brooks sarcastically. No, nothing. I just held him, that's all. You get up there and put your mid against some of of Dudd's fast ones and see how simple it is. Say Dudd, it would be fine if we could send them down in the next inning the same way, eh? Only thing is, that fellow Dullard, who bat's second is a pretty good hitter. He's made two already out of three times up. What's the first fellow like, asked Dudd? Chapman? I guess that's his name. Place third. Oh, he's not dangerous. He wants his base.

sneak over the first one for a strike and then tease him a couple of times with high ones. He'll go after them every time. The dollar's not so easy. He waits for the good ones. Then we'll have to see that he doesn't get them, replied Dudd simply. Well, if you can keep on working the corners the way you did last inning, you're all right. That ump has his eyesight with him. If he didn't, you'd get the worst of it lots of times.

Graft and Talley twice more in her half of the eighth, and then Dudd went back to the mound and faced the small and stocky third basement. But he wasn't hard. Once Dudd thought he had lost his wish, but the ball rolled foul before it reached the third sack. After that there was no more trouble. Chapman, if that was his name, bid at a high one and missed it badly.

Let a ball go by and then again swung too late at a fastman that crossed the plate and retired to scrundled to the bench. But Dallard was more canny. Dallard had to have good ones. Dudd tried him on two that looked fair until they broke, but the batter treated them with contempt. Then Dudd tried him out with a slow and caught him napping. Dullard fouled the next one into the stand and the score was two and two.

Brooks signaled for a straight one, hoping to finish him off, but Dudd shook his head. Instead, he changed his position in the box of might, wrapped his fingers about the ball, wound up, stepped forward and swung his arm wide at the height of his elbow. Brooks had to jump for that ball, for it proved a crossfire indeed, and there was a perceptible moment of hesitation before the empire reached his verdict. But when he did, he said,

You're out! So decisively as to make up for the hesitation. Dallard voiced objections all the way to the bench and let it be known by the manner in which he slammed his bat to earth, that he was totally out of sympathy with that empire. But the crowd cheered the strikeout and jeered the victim, and the next batsman stepped to his place. Then for once, and for the first time since he had profited by Ben Mayett's advice, Dud went back to his hooks and the third batter swung and dodged and swung again,

while Dud brought the game to an end with exactly four deliveries. Two days later there came the final cut in the first squad, and six disappointed candidates were turned over to the second team. One of the six was a pitcher, but his name was not Baker. It was Kelly. End of Chapter 15. Chapter 16 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

Chapter 16, the track meet. It was Saturday afternoon, and Dud squeezed into a seat on the little grandstand between Roy Dresser and Ernest Barnes, was watching the track and field meeting of Grafton and Mount Morris. The baseball crowd had gone off to play the Rotan College freshman team, and by what Dudd considered a horrible error of judgment on the part of the coach, he had not been taken along. Of course he hadn't expected to pitch even one inning against the college nine,

but he did think that Mr. Sargent might have included him among the substitutes. How was a fellow to learn if he didn't watch the team play? And to add to his sense of injury, Jimmy had actually accompanied the nine to play right field. Of course that was only because Boynton was entered into the athletic meeting, and someone had to take his place, but it didn't make Dud any more reconciled. There were moments when he almost wished

that the team would run up against the defeat that was predicted for it. Still, those moments were of the past, for during the last half hour, Dud had been far too excited over the events taking place before his eyes to recall the injustice done him. The sprints, the half-mile, the high hurdles, the shot put, and the high jump had been decided and the rivals were within two points of each.

other, Mount Morris leading with twenty-eight. Just now nine eager youths, four wearing the green and white of Mount Morris and five the scarlet and gray of Grafton, were awaiting the pistol at the start of the quarter mile, and Dud's eyes were riveted on them. Warren Yetter, on whom Grafton's hopes rested, was the second man from the pole, and oddly enough Kirkwell, the Mount Morris crack, was at his right elbow. could see them talking to each other smilingly, but for all of that a bit constrainedly. Then the nine bodies poised.

There was an instant silence and the sharp report of the starting pistol sounded on the still air. The runners leapt away, jockeying for positions in the first dozen strides and swept past the stand like frightened deer. Dud was on his feet, and so too were all those around him. Inarticulate sounds made a background for the strident shouts and yells of encouragement. the grass and Mount Morris youth, an official of some sort, raced beside the runners, dangling a white sweater with a broad green band on it, yelping and urging. Now they were at the first corner, Kirkwell leading in Yetter a yard behind him.

Tanny of Grafton strove to pass Yetter on the outside and was followed closely by a Mount Morris runner. At the next corner the first four were strung out and hugging the rim, Kirkwell, Yetter, Tanny and number 54. sought hurriedly for his program to discover the identity of number 54, realized the next moment that he didn't care, swept his gaze back across the field quickly, and joined his voice in the war that swept from the stand. Yetter was sprinting gamely now. Only a yard separated him from Kirkwell. Tenney was certain at third place. The finish was only a few yards away.

Yitter crept up and up. The shouts increased. The stand was a pandemonium. The officials, packed about the finish line, were waving and shouting, too, all but the judges and timers. Yetter and Kirkwell swept to the line side by side. Or did they? Wasn't the Mount Morris man a little ahead as they disappeared behind the group there? The Chumult had quieted, but now it broke forth again and the shouting came from the other end of the stand. Across the field a half-dozen jubilant Mount Morris fellows were tossing their hats on the air and signaling victory. That was a peach of a finish, said Roy Dresser, with a sigh of relief.

Warren almost had him. That puts some another point ahead, said Dud, grudgingly crediting Mount Morris with five. Gee, I thought Yetter was supposed to have the 440 cinched. I guess he ran it inside his best time, replied Roy. Kirkwell was better, that's all. The announcer was bawling forth the result. Four hundred and forty yards run. won by C.J. Kirkwell, Mount Morris.

W. H. Yetter, Grafton, 2nd. A. L. Tenney, Grafton, third. Time, 52, and 3 fifth seconds. Wow, exclaimed Roy. That's a fifth better than the dual record. I told you, Warren was going, some. Dutt tried to glean comfort from the fact, but those five points stared at him obstinately. They were putting the low hurdles across the cinder for the final heat, while at the end of the oval lithe forms sprang in air to waft themselves over the bar nearly ten feet above the ground, or to go doubled up like an animated jackknife, flying into the brown loam of the jumping pit.

Behind the stand the hammer-throwers were still busy. Thud watch Jim Quinn launch himself upward with his long pole, straighten a tense body and drop across the trembling bar and sighed with relief. The pole vault might decide the meeting, and so far, Quinn was more than holding his arm, own. Musgraven keys of Grafton and Tori and Kapper of the rival school crouched far up the track. At the finish a handkerchief waved. The four figures set, straightened and leaped away from their marks and the sound of the pistol followed them. Down they came, stride, stride, stride, leap. Tori gaining between hurdles, keys pulling him back at the

timbers, Musgrave and Kapper falling behind but fighting gamely for third place. On and on to the growing war of the excited watchers, hurdle after hurdle falling behind. Tori well in advance now, but Keyes pushing him for every ounce of strength in his body. Two more hurdles left. Tori is over! Keys is over! A mad race for the final obstacle, Tori again gaining on the flat, but Keyes head back, feet twinkling, only a yard behind. Up again and over, almost side by side at the next stride. Then the dash to the string, Tori, arms up thrown, breaking it a stride ahead of keys. Mount Morris shouts wildly and Grafton joins, for Ned Musgrave has beaten out his rival handily and again the points go five to Mount Morris and four to Grafton,

and Mount Morris has been conceded first and third places. That is a trifle comforted as he sinks back to his seat and scratches agitatedly with his stubby pencil. Barnes, munching chocolate philosophically, asks the score. 38 to 34 replies, Dud. We're a goner then. We are not. Wait till the mile run comes off. Foster Trey will win that at a walk and we may get second place too. Yes, and Mount Morris will win the bra jump and the hammer.

Barnes pushes the last of the chocolate between stained lips and wiped sticky fingers on a dingy handkerchief. Say, I wonder how the baseball game is coming out. We'll get licked. Here come the Milers. Who's the fellow in the blue and yellow bath row, Roy? Milton. He ought to do pretty well.

He ran fifth last year, and they say he's a lot faster now. I don't see. The bar is now at nine feet, ten, and one-half inches, announces a voice, and they turn their gaze to see a Mount Morris youth rise in air straightened and come hurtling to earth with the bar on top of him. So sorry, murmurs Roy Dresser. Hope he does it again next time.

The megaphone artist trots into the middle of the arena and faces the stand, a slip of paper in his hand. The voices are still as he places the scarlet horn to his mouth. At the end of the fifth inning, deep silence now. At row ten the score stands grafton five, an outburst of cheers quickly stilled. Rotan eleven! A moment of gloom broken by ironic cheers from the Mount Morris end of the stand. What do you know about that? asked Dud wonderingly. They must have hammered Mayot for fare.

Eleven to five. Gee! What I want to know observes Barnes is how we got five. That observes him in faint disgust. Oh, I suppose they gave them to us. Don't you think we can play ball at all? I didn't think we could hit that fellow Gibbs, Barnes answered carelessly. He's a wonder, you know.

Well, even wonders have their off days. I guess May it had one today. Gee, Levin runs. I'm just as well pleased I didn't go, Baker. The crowd will be dead sore when they get back. It costs nearly two dollars to make that trip. We've just simply got to get this meat, mutters dud. We can't get beaten all around today. I've known it to happen, says Roy unfeelingly. Here they go. Must be two dozen of them. In truth, they were exactly fourteen, about evenly divided between the two. two schools. They hustled away confusedly and went to the corner weaving in and out, slowing their

strides. Four times around a quarter mile track is no pleasure jaunt, and they knew it. Foster Trey was well in the rear of the bunch, and he stayed there as long as the pace suited him, but at the finish of the first lap he had crawled up to third place, with town of Mount Morris and Milton of Grafton, leading in that order. The field was already strung out, for the pace had been fairly fast for the Tyros. In the backstretch of Mount Morris youth sprinted from the center of the first bunch and swept into the lead, no one disputing him. But he lasted only to the beginning of the home stretch, and when the leaders came past

the stand again, town was first and trace second. Milton was back and forth place, behind a teammate. Then came three Mount Morris fellows, and after them a straggling line of pluggers. The time was shouted to them as they went by, but there was two more. much shouting from the stand for Dud to hear it. At the next corner, Milton hustled past the third runner and fell in behind Trey, and Grafton cheered that indication of pluck. But by the time the backstretch was once more ahead, Town and Trey were yards to the good, and both Milton and the man behind him were losing ground. There was no sign of weariness shown by either of the leaders.

Town was running a fine, steady race and seemed well within himself. Trey, not so pretty a runner, looked to be tiring, but he kept his position to the fraction of an inch, a single stride behind his rival, his spikes hugging the rim closely. Around the corners they came, into the stretch, to a chorus of cheers and shouts and shrill yells of advice and treaty and encouragement. The gong clanged its announcement of the final lap. Fifteen yards or so behind the two leaders came Milton, fighting doggedly to keep ahead of a Mount Morris youth but losing gradually. By this time, the track showed tired contestants everywhere. Town and Trey were already lapping their rear guard. Stride for stride, the green ribbon and the scarlet passed the turns and

reached the back stretch. There was still no sign of a change of pace, no altering of the steady strides. Now they were halfway through the final circuit, moving together across the green turf like a single machine. But suddenly cries leapt from the watchers. Town had started to sprint. Already a yard separated the two, and now it was a good two strides. They were rounding the third corner, heads back, digging for all they were worth. Trey was falling behind. The spectators in the stand were on their feet, hands outstretched and beckoning, lungs roaring forth shouts of triumph or of despair.

Into the stretch the two white-clad figures swept. Surely Trey had pulled up again. He had! He was running stride for stride with the Mount Morris Man. He was gaining. Why, there was nothing to it but Trey. What a sprint. Two yards between them now.

Three, four. And Trey still opening up daylight in the finish growing nearer and nearer. The stand was empty, the audience piling down to crowd the track at the finish line. It was difficult to see now, but there was a head bobbing up and down a few yards away. And another. Track, track, track, keep back there. Give them room, fellows. Grafton, grafton, grafton, grafton, graft.

Tray, Tray, Tray. Come on, town. Mount Morris, Mount Morris. You can do it. Come on, come on. Then a veritable babble of sound as a white-clad runner stumbles into sight at the end of the throne is caught by ready arms and borne staggering to the turf.

Grafton cheers fill the air. Another runner subsides on the grass. Cries of track, track, let them finish. Everyone off the track. And then Milton, white of fill. face, dragging his unwilling feet behind him, fighting for breath, crosses a line a scant two yards ahead of a Mount Morris youth, and plunges forward on his face. After that they jog in one by one, but no one sees them, for the race is over in Grafton has won first place and

and third and added eight much-needed points to her score. Dudd, separated in the confusion of the rush down from the stand from his companion, waited to hear the announcement of the time, hoping to learn that Foster Trey had made a new record for the mile. But four minutes and 54 seconds was not sensational, and so he followed the crowd to the pole vault. The brajumpers had just finished and Mount Morris had won first place, leaving four points for Grafton, and the figures stood 46 to 44, the green and white still two points ahead. The hammer throw had not yet been heard from, Dudd learned, but Quinn was sure first in the pole vault. Dud joined the ranks of the anxious onlookers and watched while Mount Morris' talent tried and failed to equal Jim Quinn's 10 feet and one inch.

Watched while Hanson and Grafton struggled for third place in the vault off between him and joy of Mount Morris and grieved when he lost out. And then, while Dud was figuring and calculating and staring at the unwelcome result, which showed Mount Morris still a point ahead, a wildly leaping junior shot around the stand bringing an end to suspense. Grafton had won first and second place in the hammer throw. Driver had thrown 139 feet and four inches, and Gowan had done almost as well. And Mount Morris's best was only, but Dud didn't care what Mount Morris' best had been.

He was scrawling a big black eight on his program and shouting to no one in particular. What do you know about that? Grafton 57, Mount Morris 51. Well, I guess, six points to the good. Oh, we're not so bad, not so bad. Fifty-seven to fifty-one. What do you know about that? No one hurt him, I fancy, for there was a great deal of noise about that time. End of Chapter 16. Chapter 17 of winning his game by Ralph Henry Barber.

This Libre Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 17. Baseball, tennis and oysters. There was yet nearly three-quarters of an hour before supper-time, and Dudd, still elated and excited over the track victory, turned his steps to River Street, and, skirting the school grounds, swung west and made for the station. The ball team, unless it missed its connection at the junction, would be in at a quarter to six. Dudd was not alone in his journey to the station, for the carriages bearing the Mount Morris

athletes passed him halfway along the shaded village road, and several boys, for the fortunate youths living nearby who had procured leave of aphs and silver Sunday were trailing along, suitcases in hand. Dud witnessed the departure of the Mount Morris track team and the fellows off her home, and then, seated on a baggage truck, watched the shadows creep down the hillside across the tracks and thought of a great many things. He speculated on what had happened at Rotan to result in Grafton's defeat, wondered whether by any stroke of fortune the Scarlet and Grey had redeemed herself in the later end.

innings, and then tried to imagine himself in the box for Grafton, facing those doughty rotan freshies and mowing them down one, two, three. He couldn't quite visualize the scene, however, and gave up with a sigh. Then he wondered how long it would be before Mr. Sargent would let him start a game, and what would happen when he did? And at that instant there was a whistle far down the track. The few loiterers came to life along the platform and the baggage man requisitioned his truck. Jimmy was one of the first off the train and was all for returning to school in the barge until Dud reminded him that he had walked all the way over to meet him and didn't propose to pay any fifteen cents to ride back. Whereupon Jimmy good-naturedly set out with his chum on foot.

Twelve to seven, he answered and replied to Dud's request for the final figures. What was the matter? Why nothing much? Except that we couldn't hit that picture of theirs and they slammed myatt all over the lot in the third. Why the Dickens Pete didn't yank him out, I don't know. Maybe it's just as well he didn't, though. I guess they'd have battered Lettie something brutal. Those dubs sure can't hit the pill, son. How did you get on? asked Dud. Rotten, thanks. I muffed a peach of a flying let two runs cross. Worse luck. It was in that awful third. The sun got squaring my eyes and just at the last moment. I had the old thing sided nicely until I had to drop my hands to make the catch.

Then it went plumb through him. There were three on bases, and so two of them scored. The other one could have two if he'd had any sense, for it took me about ten seconds to find the ball after I muffed it. But the fellow slowed up a third, and by that time it was too late. Did you hit any? I got one, and it was a corker. I'd have had two bases on it if Blake hadn't held me up at first, a chump.

I wasn't awfully strong with the stick, Dudd, but I got a base every time I went up. You did? How, for pity's sake? Well, the first time I rolled one in front of base and the catcher through to second to get Ordway. He didn't, though, for hobo's irregular flash on the bases, and we were both safe. The next time I got pinked in the arm, the next time I hit between short and third, some little sizzler that was, old scout, and the last time I worked Mr. Pitcher for a pass. Gee, you're a lucky chap, said Dudd enviously. Lucky? Nothing of this sort. Brain, son, brains!

Besides, do you call it lucky to have a long, easy fly go right through your fingers? Huh, luck didn't do anything for little Jimmy today. Say, how'd the meat come out? Heard we won it, but what was the score? They talked track meeting until the campus was reached and then Dudd returned to the subject of the ball game. They tried Starr-Meyer in center for a couple of innings. Parker got his legs spiked and Star wasn't so bad. Made a pretty catch of a long one that went nearly to the fence and managed to beat out a bunt in the ninth.

I suppose the first thing I know I'll have to down him as well as Boynton. Dud looked surprised. Do you think you've got to show, Jimmy? he inquired. Why not? asked the other bristling. Boynton's not much better than I am. He must some two now and then. Of course he's hitting better, but I'll wager he doesn't get to first any oftener. But if they go and lug Star into the business, why that's different?

I can't win out against the whole school. But you say they played Star and Centre, and you're after right, aren't you? I'm after anything I can get, son. A fellow who can play Centre can play right or left, can't he? An outfielder's just an outfielder, you see, and you can't play more than three of them at a time, and get away with it. Just now there were about six of us all trying for three jobs. I wish Starr Meyer would go soak his head and not butt in on baseball.

Dudd laughed. You might suggest it to him, Jimmy. Who pitched besides Mayot? Did Brunswick get in? Nobody. Ben went to distance. They couldn't touch him much after that rotten third. Got a couple of hits in the fifth and about one each inning after that.

They made their last run in the eighth with two down. A fellow cracked a two-bed. down the left foul line and tried to steal third, and did it because Winslow let the ball drop. Then the next fellow hit an easy one to air, and myatt didn't cover base in time, and the chap on third scrambled in. I guess it was just as well Pete didn't Derek Ben after all, because he certainly pitched a corking game after that third inning. Gee, but I'm hungry. Wish I was that training table he added wistfully. They get stakes there. They went over to Nick Blake's room after supper and found Hugh and Bird and Guy Murtha there, and there was much baseball-talked

than many might have beens discussed. Dud, as a non-participant, had little to say, and Hugh, who might have talked a good deal since he had rather distinguished himself by his work at the bat, and on the basis, was almost as silent. After a while, on the excuse of showing Dud a new book, Hugh led the other off upstairs and they settled down full length on the window seat, beside the open casements, and had a fine, chummy talk. Dud could talk well enough when there was but a single listener, and tonight Hugh found the younger boy far from dull. By the time Bert Winslow came in, yawning, they had discovered

numerous bonds of sympathy such as mutual likes and dislikes and an intense desire to make good at baseball. Hugh, entering the game as the very as Tyro, and with a deal of doubt and not much enthusiasm, was now a rabbit fan, and almost imbusingly eager to make a name for himself. Bird, I think, wanted to go to bed, but was too polite to start while there was a visitor present, and so toppled into a chair and joined the conversation. Dud realized that Bert didn't care very much for him, and so tried to get away a few minutes after the other's advent, but Hugh wouldn't have it. Oh, sit down and behave yourself, Baker.

It isn't late. I say, Bert, Baker and I have been discovering that we have lots of things in common, if you know what I mean. Really, Bert stifled he on. Such as what, Inus? Oh, baseball for one, you know, tennis two, and oysters. Oysters? Yes.

You see, I happen to think that a dozen nice cold, raw oysters would taste corking. They would, wouldn't they? Out of season, you chump. Never. That's only prejudiced old chap. Well, anyway, oysters was one thing, were one thing, I should say. English is beastly confusing at times, eh? And then we found that Baker knew my part of the country, down Maryland way, you know.

He comes from Delaware. So would I laugh, Bert. Delaware replied Dud, smiling, is small but select. Where's your home, Winslow? Pennsylvania, Shreveport, know it? Doug shook his head. Some of my folks lived in Pennsylvania once a good many years ago. It's a good state.

They were foolish to leave it, yawned, Bert. Hope they didn't have to. Why, in a way, I believe they did. You see, one of them was an officer in the American Army, and when How occupied Philadelphia, they thought it might not be healthy. Oh, said Bert, Hughes smiled. Still, continued Bert, they didn't have gone to Delaware, eh? I don't think they did just then.

A couple of them were with Washington at Valley Forge. I think the women went to New Jersey until Philadelphia was evacuated again. I don't know just what happened then. We've been living in Delaware only since my grandfather's time. He moved there from Philadelphia to improve his state. Improve his state? You mean he was hard up? asked Bert suspiciously. I can't say.

I've been told it was to improve his state. That's all I know. Hugh laughed. You began at Bert. Honors or even. As judge of the debate, I declare it a draw. Bert smiled slowly. Then,

All right, Baker, he said amiably. You win. Fact is, I don't know anything about Delaware or a thing against it. Sorry if I trot on your toes. You didn't Winslow. I moved them out of the way, laughed Dudd. After the latter had taken his departure and the two roommates were preparing for bed, Hugh heard a grunt from the opposite chamber. What's troubling you, he called? Nothing was the answer.

I was just thinking that that kid isn't such a fool after all, eh? Well, replied Hugh, winking at himself in the glass. I rather fancy he had you, old top. Burr's only response was another grunt, but it sounded assenting. End of Chapter 17. Chapter 18 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber.

This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 18. Dud goes to the rescue. Grafton had now played seven contests with outside teams and had won five and lost two. Six games remained, seven in case it became necessary to play a third game with Mount Morris. On the whole, the nine had showed average strength. The pitching had been good and defensively the team had more than held its own against contenders.

But both coach-surgeon and Captain Murtha would have been anything but displeased if the batting had been heavier or had even shown promise of improvement. The remaining games were all, with the exception of that with Yarrow High School, scheduled just before the second Mount Morris contest, hard ones. St. James Academy especially was looked on as a difficult opponent, and Lawrence Textile School was scarcely less dangerous. Both teams boasted pitchers of reputation, and unless graft-in stick work improved,

she was not likely to pile up much of a score against either visitor. Of course, it could be argued that a team with a perfect defense is in no danger of defeat, but on the other hand, a team with no power of attack can't win games. And Guy Murtha, being captain and in his last year at school, naturally wanted very much to come off Victor in those remaining contests. Fortunately, the St. James and Lawrence Textile games were to be played on Lothrop Field, a circumstance which would aid to some extent. The meeting with Corliss College was to be played away from home,

but Corliss, or careless, as the Graftonians like to call it, while strong, was not the problem that either of the other two was. As for Yero High, well, that was only a practice game to fill in between the first Mount Morris engagement on the 9th of June, which was a Saturday, and the second one, which fell on the following Friday, the Mount Morris Class Day. In case each of the ancient rival secured a game, the playoff would be at Grafton the next day, the teams remaining after the close of the schools to settle the controversy. On the Monday succeeding their defeat at Rotan, the players were given a particularly strenuous afternoon of it.

With the exception of Gordon Parker, whose legs still protested at the injury done it by a Rotan basement spikes, all the players were out and not one was spared, unless we exempt Ben Mayett. Dud put in a hard afternoon, for he pitched six innings for the scrubs and was fairly well hammered. Still, he managed to keep the hits of the regulars so well scattered that Mr. Sargent was satisfied to leave him on the mound until in the seventh, it became advisable to let a pinch hitter take his place. After that, Weston finished up for the scrubs and was so erratic that the one-run lead handed over to him by Dudd soon vanished, the regulars winning out by the score of nine to six. When Dudd heard the result in the fieldhouse later, he tried to be sorry for

Weston, but the effort wasn't very successful. Dudd, you see, was already entertaining visions of pitching a half-game or so against Mount Morris and thus winning his letter. Not that the letter part of it interested him so much, however, just the glory of being in a Mount Morris game would be enough for him. Of course, he couldn't figure out as yet just how that desirable result was to come about. There was Ben Mayatt for the first game and Nate Letty for the second, or the other way around, with Weston to take a hand if needed. As for Brunswick, that wasn't worrying about him.

Brunswick was keeping along at about the same pace he had begun this season on, neither worse nor better, while Dud could honestly assure himself that he was improving from day to day, or at least from game to game. And he didn't have to rely wholly on his own verdict, for others had seen the improvement and told him of it. Ben Mayad had praised him warmly, Captain Murtha had had a good word more than once, and Mr. Sargent had led Dud see that he wasn't blind to the latter's growing ability. But Dud was forced to presuppose a third game in the big series before he could see himself turning back the Mount Morris hitters, and a third game might not materialize.

Of course, if Gus Weston kept on blowing up every time he went to the points, why that would improve Dud's chances a whole lot, and it was this thought that made it difficult for Dud to grieve over the loss of that game to the scrubs. With Weston out of the way, but Weston was an old hand, had been pitching for three years and was just as likely to steady down again the next time and send his stock soaring again.

All that was to be done reflected Dud was to hope for the best, which from Gus Weston's point of view was the worst, and keep right on getting better and better every day. He didn't wish anyone ill luck, but if only Letty might have a slight attack of measles or something and Gus Weston develop a bum wing, well, Dud was forced to admit that it would be providential. But the measles didn't afflict Letty nor Weston complain of trouble in his arm, and practice went on each day and dud pitched or didn't pitch, but always stood in front of the net and took his turn at looking like a silly goat, to use his own expression, while he tried

to connect with the puzzling offerings of Letty or Weston or Brunswick. St. James descended like a wolf on the fold on Wednesday and took Grafton's measure without a great deal of trouble. To be sure, the game went to the fifth inning before St. James solved slansom by that time, Grafton had herself assailed the opposing twirler for three hits and scored one run. But when the visitors did take to Lettie's ways, they took enthusiastically. Nate got through the fifth with difficulty, some brainless base running on the part of the enemy, aiding him out of a tight place. But in the sixth, after the bases were filled with only one out and two runs already across, he was retired from service and Mayett went in to save the day. And Mayotte might have done

had he been backed by errorless fielding, but Nick Blake booted one in the seventh and Ayer fumbled a heave a minute later and two more runs came over. Grafton managed to add to her score in the eighth, increasing it to two when Winslow cracked out a two-bagger after Nick Blake had been passed to first and had stolen second. But that was the last of the home team's scoring, while just to clinch the game, St. James broke through with a couple of hits, one good for two bases, and added a fifth run in the ninth. Grafton tried everything she knew in the effort to start a rally in the last half of that inning, but the best she could do was to get A.R. as far as third base, at which station he remained

while Hugh Ordway reached first on a weak infield hit that bounded erratically, and Jimmy, batting for Boynton, hit into a double, his luck for once deserting him. So five to two was the final score, and it pretty fairly represented the merits of the two teams. St. James had been there with the hits when hits meant run. and Grafton had failed to show any attack worthy the name. In view of the results, it was cold comfort to know that, outside, two errors in a wild pitch by Lettie, she had played an excellent defensive game.

Results were what counted, and another defeat had been scored up against Grafton. That game came off on the last day but one in May, and on Friday June came in with a spell of torrid weather. The heat combined with the knowledge of impending final examinations tended to rather take the starch out of the fellows, and the ballplayers were no exception. Practice became half-hearted, in spite of Guy Murther's impassioned pleas and scoldings, and when Saturday dawn things looked bad for Grafton as regarded that Lawrence textile contest. Most of the fellows were pulling their feet behind them and wearing worried frowns.

The mercury climbed up to 84 at noon that day, and what breeze had made life bearable in the forenoon died away entirely. Lawrence arrived shortly after 1 o'clock, and after getting a taste of conditions in the region of Grafton, willingly consented to a postponement of the start of the game from 2.30 to 3 o'clock. The delay, however, was not much avail, for at the half-hour it was just as hot as it had been at 2.30, and the spectators went to the field, armed with newspapers and fans and all sorts of devices to shield their perspiring countenances. Cook's sergeant again altered the batting order. Parker, well probably able to get in, was not used, and Jimmy took his place in center field.

Hugh Ordway went to third place on the list and Jimmy to seventh. Ben Mayot started the game, with Gordon behind the bat. Lawrence's twirler was a tall, label-looking chap of about 20 years, unless appearances were deceptive, named Fairway. Nick Blake was responsible for an excruciating pun when, during Grafton's third time at bat, he confided to Jimmy that it looked as if that pitcher was in a fair way. to beat them. Jimmy charitably assumed that Nick was affected by the heat. Up to that time, neither team had presented more than three men at the plate in an inning,

the two pitchers going very smoothly and working the corners for all they were worth. But in that last of the third, the luck broke for the home team. Jimmy, surviving Nick's pun, chose a likely bat and took a stand. Being the first man up, it was required of Jimmy that he secure his base by any method short of robbery. Faraway sneaked the first one over on him and teased him with a slow ball, which Jimmy wisely let pass. After that, an attempt to bunt resulted in a foul down the third base side. With two against him, Jimmy took a firmer grip on his bed and bent all his energies to the task. Naturally, Faraway could afford to waste a ball and did so, and it was two and two.

Jimmy took heart. The next one looked good and he swung briskly. Another foul resulted, the first baseman almost making the catch. Another offering curved up to him and again he laid his bat against it and again it went foul. Fairway dragged the sleeve across his perspiring face, had a good look at the signals and unlimbered. The ball shot in, knee-high and looking good, and Jimmy started his swing. But something warned him in time and he recovered just as the ball took a most deceptive drop in front of the plate. Ball three called the Empire.

Jimmy grinned and hitched his trousers. From the bench came encouraging and approving cries. Jimmy stepped out of the box and wiped his damp hands in the dust. Then he wiped him on his trousers. Then he stepped back with bat poised. All right, Ferry, called the catcher. Right over now, old man. Jimmy's smile broadened.

Ferry was such an amusing title for that tall husky youth down there. Then the ball was singing up to him. His bat was swinging at it. There was a slap and Jimmy was legging it to first. But again he had fouled, and again the fates that ruled over the lives of such as James Townsend Logan came to his rescue. The catcher, running back with gaze set skyward, hands poised for the descending ball, managed at the last instant to get the sun's rays fairly in his eyes. The ball struck his mitten, bounded out, and was juggled and dropped to the sod.

A shrill shout of joy arose from the grafton bench. The catcher angrily sped the ball to third and looked for his mask in a very discreet. frontal manner. Jimmy held it out to him. Hard luck, said Jimmy consolingly. Next time I'll put it where you can catch it. The Lawrence backstop grunted. That trifling incident proved psychological, as many trifling incidents do in baseball, and Fairway's next attempt at a strike passed a foot wide of the base, and Jimmy, dropping his bat trotted to base amidst the plot it's a laughter of the spectators. The coach got busy on the instant, Captain Murtha at first and Bert Winslow at third and sent a veritable fuselot of interesting remarks across the diamond.

On your toes, Jimmy, take a lead, watch his arm, look out, up again, out of boy, here we go, go on, go on, whoa! Jimmy hooking a leg back to the bag, grinned, climbed to his feet again, shook the dust from his togs and inched along the baseline. Fairway gave him up after two attempts and turned his attention to Pete Gordon. Gordon was there to sacrifice, of course, and the safest way to do it was to punt. But Pete was the slugging kind of a hitter, the sort who doesn't very frequently connect, but slams out wicked liners or screeching flies when he does.

Bunting, therefore, was not his strong suit, and his two attempts failed, the first one going foul and the second resulting in a harmless swing against the atmosphere. After that, with two strikes against him and only one ball to his credit, Pete was not dangerous, and when he finally hit one it arched amiably into center field's hands and Jimmy retraced his steps to first. Mayotte, however, did better. Per Ben landed against the second delivery and whizzled over the pitcher's upraised glove and safely into the field, and Jimmy slid the second unhurriedly. Nick Blake went out on strikes, and it was Bert Winslow who came through with the long force safety,

wrapping the ball straight down first baseline and a yard to the right of the basement's best reach. Jimmy scampered home, May it reached third, and Bert managed to get to second ahead of the right fieldish throw. But that ended Grafton's chances for the time, where the best Hugh could do was to lift the fly to short left that shortstop got after a run.

At one to nothing the game went to the fifth, Mayet holding the enemy harmless in the fourth and Grafton failing to reach first base in her half. But in the first of the fifth the fumble by Winslow put a runner on first. Mayotte struck out the next two batsmen and Grafton's adherents began to breathe easier. But Fairway, the Lawrence Twirler, who had fanned ingloriously the time before, took a liking to Mayatt's first offering and poked it straight between Blake and Winslow.

Result, an eager youth on third casting longing eyes to the plate. Also, an equally anxious runner on second, Fairway having gone on to that sack during the throat to the plate. Mayotte started in with the head of the opposing batting list by putting himself promptly in the hole, pitching three remarkably poor balls one after another. Then he got two strikes across, neither of which was offered at and tried to follow it with a third. But the heat was beginning to tell on Mayet, and the next attempt, while it looked pretty good from the bench, was a judge to ball and the bases were full.

Weston called Mr. Sargent, get a ball. You too, Baker. Possibly the sight of the two relief pitchers and Brooks trudging off to warm up put my it on his medal, for he fairly stood the next batsman on his ear, fanning him with just four deliveries while the Grafton's sympathizers cheered and yelled. Three disappointed runners left as many bases and turned sadly to their positions. Grafton tried hard to add to her score in her half of the fifth, but Farroway was quite master of the situation. The sixth passed without a thrill, even if Lawrence did manage to work a pass and get a scratch hit. Nothing came of it, for Blake, Murtha, and Eyre pulled off a double and stopped the rampage.

For Grafton, Winslow, Ordway, and Murtha went out in order. The seventh witnessed Mayot's Waterloo. For several litnings he had been in bad shape owing to the heat, and when he faced the first batsman in the seventh it was not difficult to see that he was working on pure nerve. When the first man had found him for a single and he had pitched three balls to the second, Murtha stepped over and held a conference. Maya shook his head and Bert Winslow joined them. Over behind third, Gus Weston and Dud had taken up their work again,

and Will Brunswick had been sent to join them. There's a job open for somebody, remarked Brooks, throwing the ball to Gus. Ben's quitting. The three pitchers, their backs to the bench, never turned, but three pairs of ears were you may be certain, very alert. It was Weston who was summoned, and Gus throwing aside his sweater, which he had worn tied across his chest, lulled onto the field. Dud watched him enviously, first because he had been chosen to relieve Mayot, and secondly

because he was able to approach the honour with such a wonderful assumption of indifference. Weston pitched his trial deliveries, rather wildly as a matter of fact, received the intelligence that the batter had three balls to his credit and no strikes, and instantly supplied him with a fourth. The Lawrence coaches and the Lawrence players on the bench hooted and jeered joyfully as the batsman walked to first. The runner on first jogged down to second. But that was what might have been expected, that passed to the batter, for it is no mean test to go to the mound with the score three against you and keep the batsman from walking. Dud had to acknowledge that, as he in Brunswick and Brooks retired to the thin strip of shade afforded by the little house

in which were stored the tennis nets. But this was not Weston's day. The Grafton's dismay, Gus very promptly passed the third man, working only one strike against him, and behold the bases were filled and there were no outs. So suddenly can the fortunes of battle shift in the game of baseball. Brooks, his gaze on the bench, jumped to his feet. Come on, fellows, he said.

Add it again. Peter signalled. Gee, murmured Brunswick, I don't see much use, warming up a day like this. I haven't a square inch of me that's dry. Never mind your troubles, Willie, shoot him, responded Brooks, grinning as he drew his mid on. One of you guys will have to go in there in about two shakes. They're holding the game now for you to limber up your old arms. Shoot him, dud! Over on the diamond, Captain Murtha and Bert Winslow and Nick Blake had surrounded the unfortunate Weston, Pete Gordon, ball in hand, standing guard at the plate. A faint breeze came up from the river,

and awakened murmurs of relief from the sweltering spectators. Lawrence demanded that the game go on, half a dozen impetuous youths, leaping from the bench to confront the empire. The group in the center of the diamond melted and Weston held up his hand for the ball. Gordon tossed it back to him, knelt, and signaled. All right, Gus, now, he encouraged.

Make him good old man. Let's get this one. Slide him over. The infielders crept up to short field, the runners capered and took daring leads and the coaches shouted themselves hoarse. Gus wound up and shot the ball away. They dropped prettily across the base, but the batter refused it, and the umpire upheld him. Ball! announced the latter.

Weston, hands-on bent knees, stared as though dumbfounded. Then he straightened, turned on his heel and cast his arms derisively apart. Lawrence jeered enjoyably. Pretty good, Gus, called Gordon. Never mind, though, let's have it this time. But Weston, though we took time in pains, shot one in that sent the batsman staggering out of his box and sent Guy Murtha to the mound.

That'll do, Gus, said Guy, this isn't your day, old man. It's so beastly, hot grumbled Weston. Murtha nodded noncommittedly and raised a hand. At the bench, Mr. Sergeant turned to Nate Letty. Better warm up, he said. We may need you. Send Baker in. End of Chapter 18

Chapter 19 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 19. Back to the bench. The coach met Dud at third. He appeared smiling and unworthy, but his characteristic trick of jumbling his words betrayed the fact that he was not as calm as he looked. Think you can go in there and pull us out of this mess baker, he asked.

Take all the time you want and set your gignoles right. I mean, get your wrignoll's sight. Well, go ahead, my boy, and show what you can do. That made no answer, which was perhaps just as well, since had he replied truthfully to the coach's question, he would have been forced to say that he was quite certain that he couldn't do anything of the sort. Instead, he walked toward the mound with a fair appearance of ease

and in a condition of blue funk. Mertha met him, and although the latter smiled cheerfully and tried his best to look as if he thought all his troubles were now passed. It wasn't difficult for Dud to perceive that the captain was a bit disappointed in Mr. Sargent's selection. He would have much preferred Nate Letty, but he had a good deal of confidence in the coach's judgment, and after all, young Baker had shown real pitching more than once. Good boy, Baker, he said cheerfully. Let's see what you can do now. Listen, let Gordon do the headwork, see? Just try to give him what he wants.

They've got three on and no one out, Baker, and the scores two against you. Whatever you do, old man, don't pass him. Let him hit if you have to and try to make him pop up. Do your best, Baker, for we want this game. Guy handed him the ball and dud very trembling at the knees, conscious of the hot glare of sunlight that made heat waves dance along the paths, conscious of the encouraging voices of teammates and of hearty applause from the stand, wrapped his fingers about the leather and scent in his first warm-up ball.

A whoop of joy in to ridging came from the visitor's bench, for the ball had almost eluded the spry Gordon. Beckett came and Dud trying his best to calm his nerves shot it in again. It was all right that time and the next. Then the ball struck the ground in front of the plate and Gordon had to drop and block it. One more, high and wide, ended the practice, and the Lawrence third basement stepped up to the plate again as the arm, the gumpire called play.

From the Lawrence bench and from the Lawrence coachers came a sudden hub of sound, but through it Dud heard Nick Blake's cheerful voice. We're all with you, Dud. Go to it, son. Dud! Nick had never called him that before, and somehow the thought steadied him remarkably. To be sure, his knees were still a trifle wobbly as he studied Gordon's fingers laid against the back of his mitt, but the stage fright was passing. Let's get him, Baker, called Gordon as he arose from his crouch and held hands wide apart. You've got the stuff, old man!

With a man on third watching for the least excuse to race home, a full wind-up was out of the question, and Dud realized that he must depend more on cunning than speed. Gordon had shown three fingers horizontal, and three fingers horizontal called for a low curveball. Dudd, emulating the example of Mayot, surveyed the bassist slowly, pulled his cap down, tried to shut out the wild cries of the coaches, snuggled the ball on his fingers, threw his arm up, took his stride and pitched. At the plate the batter moved up on the ball, hesitated and let it pass. Strike, said the Empire! There was cheering from the stand, yells of triumph from the players in the field, but Dudd scarcely heard them. Gordon, walking down the alley, thump ball and mitt together.

That's a stuff, Baker, he cried. One and two now. Let's have him out. He tossed the ball back, a watchful eye on third, went back to his place, crouched, signaled, and again held hands wide apart. He wanted a drop, and he got it, but it shaved too closely the outer corner, and the umpire judged it of all. Gordon turned indignantly.

What? You heard what I said, returned the, official crisply. Gordon grinned and returned the ball. It looked good, Baker. Let's have it again. But it was one finger this time, and the fast one that sailed straight across the plate caught the batsman napping, and the umpires, strike two, was drowned in a shout of joy from the Grafton sympathizers. That's the pitching dud, called Nick, scooping a handful of dust from the base path and tossing it joyfully into the air. Fine work, Baker. Keep after him. No one walks.

They were all calling encouragement to him now. He almost forgot the shouting, cavorting runners and the ball in coachers. Back came the ball once more, Gordon grinning widely. Then he dropped to one knee and laid four fingers across the big brown mitt. Right in the slot, old man. He can't see him. Outta boy. Let her come. And Dud led her. It was a slow one that did the trick,

A ball that sped away from the mound with all the earmarks of a moderately fast straight delivery but that never crossed the rubber until the batsman's sharp swing had passed harmlessly. Then it descended into Gordon's eager hands and the umpire waved an arm skyward. He's out! How the stand shouted and then how silent the Lawrence bench suddenly became! The third baseman, disgusted in puzzle, dragged his dishonored bat away with him and tossed it contemptuously into the pile.

But that was only one down, and a big, capable-looking youth with a grim determination shown in his tight-set mouth was already waiting. A wide one that went as a ball, a drop that the batter tried for and missed, a second ball, that had attempted to cut the inner corner of the plate with a hook and failed by an inch, and then, in response to Gordon's signal of one finger, a fast one that reached the batsman waist-high in which he met with his bat. crack he was speeding to first the bases were emptying dud hard and mouth turned in time to see nick blake spring two feet into the air and spear the ball and then without a wasted motion dashed across the second sack a scant instant before the runner from first slid feet foremost into it in a cloud of dust nick had played the double unassisted and the side was out grafton stood up in the stand and shouted herself hoarse

Dudd, still a little dazed by the suddenness of the triumph, stood a moment beside the pitcher's box ere he turned toward the bench. Then Guy Mervtha was with him, had him by the arm, and was laughing softly and saying extravagant things that he probably wouldn't have said five minutes later. But Dudd didn't altogether sense them. He only knew during the ensuing minute that Nick had saved him and the game. And if he could have done what he wanted to do, he'd have embraced that youth on the spot. As it was, ignorant that some of the applause was really meant for him, he made his way to the bench and sat down a bit breathlessly, and someone was waving a dampen towel in front of him and there was much talk and laughter.

And so Grafton started her half of the seventh with the score still one to zero and Ayer at bat. Ayer popped innumerable fowls into all sorts of out-of-the-way places, and then, with two strikes and one ball against him, stood inertly by and led a perfectly good straight one pass. He shook his head dejectedly as he turned away. Boynton reached first on second baseman's questionable error, the Lawrence scorer gave Boynton a hit, and went to second a moment later when Jimmy was thrown out at first. Gordon brought the inning to an end by falling out to third basement. Then Dud was back in the box again, and Gordon was shouting

one thing and signaling another, and again the Lawrence coaches were doing their level best to rattle him. But that first of the eighth was easy work for Dud. The luck was all graftens. The first of the enemy beat out a bunt and then was caught by Gordon going to second. Dud scored his second strike out on the next man, using just four deliveries. The succeeding batter proved more troublesome, for after Dud had worked two strikes across he began to lay against the others and foul them off with a fine impartiality. Everything it seemed was fish that went to his net, and Dud was beginning to despair of ever getting rid of him. He slipped up once and sailed one over the stubborn batsman's head

and added a second ball to the score. Then, however, Gordon signaled the low curve and this time the ever-ready bat missed. So did Gordon, for that matter, but he found the rolling sphere and got it to air well ahead of the runner. Dud got a round of applause all to himself this time, as he went back to the bench to pick out his bat. But he was so busy wondering just how much of a fool he would look when he stood up there and tried to hit the redoubtable fairway that he didn't

even hear it. I'd like to tell you in view of what occurred later that Dud picked out one of fairway slants and drove it across River Street for a home run. But nothing of the sort happened, and if Dud didn't look like a fool at the bat on that occasion, it was only because pitchers aren't supposed to be hitters. Dud was an easy proposition for the rival twirler. He promptly forgot everything he had ever learned about batting and swung wildly of the first two offers, held himself away from temptation at the third one, and fan the air an inch above the succeeding ball. He returned to the bench shamefacedly, but no one paid any attention to his fiasco, and it dawned on him that he had done just what they

had expected him to do, and a great big determination arose on him to do better the next time, to learn how to judge a ball rightly and to eventually become that rarra Avis of baseballdom, a pitcher who can hit. But there was it proved no second chance for him today. Nick Blake fanned as effectively, if not as promptly as Dud had, and Bert Winslow was thrown out at first, and a ninth inning began. Once more, Dudd proved his mastery of the enemy, but there were no strike-outs for him this time.

The first Lawrence Batsman hit to Winslow and went out at first. The next man fled out to Ordway, and the third, after Dud had put two strikes across, lighted on a low curve and popped it unexpectedly into short right for a base. Thud made three attempts to catch him napping and failed, and the next minute the runner was sliding to second ahead of Gordon's hurried throw. But Lawrence got no further, for the following batsman, trying hard to hit safely out of the infield,

merely succeeded in smashing a liner into Ayers' hands. Once more, Grafton swunger bats and tried to break the deadlock. The heat was moderating now, and long shadows were creeping across the diamond. But the players of both sides were fagged and wilted and prayed for the end of the contest. But it wasn't to come yet. For Ordway fanned, Murtha flight out to left field. It would have been a wonderful hit of that fielder hadn't raced back like a rabbit and made a one-hand catch that brought applause even from the Grafton adherents.

Air beat out a bunt and Boynton hit a weak rounder to shortstop, and the ninth had passed into history. Dudd was back at his post again, a little tired too, in spite of the fact that he had worked only two innings. He had the head of the list against him now and realized that this was no time for slip-ups. Lawrence began enthusiastically. The little blonde-headed second baseman outwitted Gordon and Dud and walked to first. The next batsman fouled out to air. Then came a sharp rap on the ball sailed over second base, and there were two on and only one out. But things looked better a few minutes later, for Dud scored his third strikeout, turning

the left fielder ignominiously back to the bench. That surely ought to have ended things for all practical purposes, but right there luck took a hand in the game. The next batsman was anxious to hit, and Gordon knew it. In consequence the latter signalled high ones and Dud tried to serve them up. They caught him on the second for a strike, after the first had gone as a ball, and then Dud fooled him with a low one that barely crossed and the score was two and one. It seemed all over but the shouting and Gordon risked all on the next delivery. One finger was the signal and

dud sped the fast one and breast high with not a thing on it but steam. The batsman leaned against that nice ball and drove it far and high into right field and although Boynton was under it he missed a catch. And although he recovered it quickly and sped it back to second and Guy Murtha pegged it on to third, the runner there was safe. from the chap who had hit took advantage of the play and slid to second unchallenged. Lawrence caught hopefully at the chance before her. A pinch hitter took the place of the center fielder. Gordon had no line on the new man and had to guess his tastes. A high one was refused and was judged a ball. A curve that didn't cut the outer corner went as another ball.

Gordon signaled for a drop when the batter bit at it and had one strike against him. Then another drop failed to please the umpire and Dud was in the hole. Gordon called for a high one over the plate and Dud tried to put it there, but he didn't. The ball went wide and Dud saw with dismay the batsman trotting to first and heard the triumphant yelps of the enemy. Another pinch hitter was up and Gordon, a little anxious of countenance, now was asking for a curveball. Dud responded and scored a strike, the batter hitting hard but uselessly. Then came a ball, then a second. Gordon was calling all sorts of encouragement.

Guy Amirtha came over and told Dud to take his time. His teammates were assuring him that he could do it. The enemy's coaches, back of first and third, were howling and dancing like Comanche Indians. The runners were running back and forth along the paths. Pandemonium was fairly loose, and the din thumbed against Dud's ears excruciatingly. He felt his courage ebbing out of his courage, fingertips. He wanted to ask Martha to let him quit, to put someone else in, but was more afraid to do that than he was to go on. Gordon was pleading for a straight one. Dud glued his eyes to the

catcher's chest, took us half wind up and sped the ball. And even as he released it, he knew that he had failed again. Ball free! called the umpire through the din. Gordon was hurrying down the alley toward him, shaking the ball at him, his eyes blazing. Settle down, he was. Settled down, he growled. Put him over. You can do it. Now get on to yourself. Dud took the ball, nodded dazedly, and turned back to the mound. Murtha was there, Murtha and Winslow too, and the captain was looking over past third base and juggling a pebble in his dirt-grimmed hands. When he turned, his gaze sought Dud grimly. Guess you better let someone else in, Baker, he said. Sorry, but we need this old man. Dud passed him the ball, tried to say something. He

didn't know what, and turned, white-faced and with hanging head toward the bench. End of Chapter 19. Chapter 20 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 20. Jimmy encourages. That game with Lawrence Textile went to 13 innings and ended still a tie one-to-one to allow the visitors to get their train.

Nate Letty, going to the rescue with three on, two out, and the pitcher's score one and three, pulled out of the hole very neatly. Instead of attempting the difficult feed of striking the batsmen out, Nate dropped one over knee-high and the ball went straight up from the swinging bat and straight down again into Gordon's mission, and Lawrence saw her golden opportunity vanish. After that for three innings, although the suspense kept up every moment, neither side got anywhere near a score. Letty and Fairway, the latter showing fatigue and substituting control for speed,

were masters every minute. Fairway's work to the very end was such that the spectators applauded him every time he left the mound or went to bat. After that hair-raising nerve-wracking tenth inning, grafting could feel only satisfaction at the outcome. Even Captain Murtha had no regrets, and if coach sergeant was disappointed he made no sign. Perhaps, aside from the Lawrence players, the only disconsolate one was Dud.

He had hurried from his shower straight to his room, his main desire being to get out of the way before the game ended and the fellows came piling into the field house, and so he didn't learn the outcome of the contest until Jimmy arrived half an hour later. By that time, Dud's common sense had come to the rescue, and he was able to review his performance in the pitcher's box, without being prompted to suicide. After all, he had fared no worse than Gus Weston, he told himself comfortingly, and even Ben Mayett had begun distributing passes before he had been taken out, although, of course, Ben had far more excuse for giving out, since he had pitched six innings.

Dud was still wondering what had happened to him. He had been all right until Buoynton had made that memorable muff. After that he hadn't been able to get the ball where he wanted it. It wasn't that his arm had tired. It had been just as good as when he had started. And as Dud recalled it now, he hadn't been nervous, not any way until he had issued that first pass in the tenth. It just seemed, looking back on the fiasco, that the ball had suddenly simply refused to go where it was sent. He wondered whether Mr. Sargent would ever give him another chance, whether the fellows were secretly laughing at him.

Well, he had surely afforded Bert Winslow a fine opportunity to say, I told you so. Bert had all along been politely contemptuous of Dud's ambition to make the first team, although of late he had been very decent to him indeed. He rather hoped he wouldn't run across Bert for a day or two. Dud didn't make the mistake of feeling himself disgraced, at least not after the first few miserable minutes, but he did feel that he had failed pretty badly as a pitcher, and that before the whole school,

and he dreaded having to face the fellows again. He was pondering the idea of remaining away from down, hall that evening when Jimmy came tramping along the corridor and entered. Hello, you! Where'd you get to? Jimmy skimmed his cap to the bed and threw himself tiredly into a chair. Did you see the game out? Dutch shook his head. What was the score, he asked dejectedly. Just the same as when you ducked, one each. Jimmy gave a brief but graphic history of the final three innings. Why didn't you come back and see the rest of it, he concluded?

I guess I would have if I'd known they weren't beating us. I'm glad they didn't. Did anyone say anything? Say anything? What about? About me, I mean. Oh, that's what's worrying you? I thought you looked a little bit downhearted. Don't you let that bother you, son. They all have to go through with that before they arrive. You did pretty well on the hole. Three strikeouts, wasn't it? And then you pulled us out of that hole in the seventh.

Don't be a clam dud. No one expects a green pitcher to go into a game like that and twirl like a veteran. Why, the row of those fellows kicked up even made me nervous, a way out in the field. It wasn't that, said Dud sadly. I don't know what it was. Of course I was rattled just at first, but afterwards I didn't pay any attention to the noise. I guess Mr. Sargent thinks I'm a pill. Rott, I'll bet you lasted longer than Pete expected you to. Of course, I'm not saying that it wouldn't have been a bully thing for you.

if you'd gone the distance. You'd have had the whole school inviting you to dinner. But you did pretty well as it was. And say, talking about that, being popular, I mean, and making a hit, that little meeting with Hobo and Blake was a lucky thing for us, wasn't it? Look at the way they've taken you up, Dud. Fine, what? I suppose so, agreed the other rather listlessly. They've been awfully nice to me. You bet! And a lot of their crowd, too. Why, say, but I don't somehow care so much about being a regular fellow as I did, Jimmy. I'd rather be a good picture. Isn't that human nature demanded Jimmy, apparently of the ceiling?

Just as soon as the fellow gets what he wants, he doesn't want it. You make me tired, Dud. Here I've schemed and labored for you. I know, and I'm awfully much obliged, said Dud soberly. Only, please don't do it anymore, Jimmy. I've had enough of it, I guess. My dear demented friend, you've just started. You mustn't think that just because Hobo Ordway and Nick Blake and Bert Winslow

and a few of that close corporation have taken you up that the battles won. Far be it from such! The funds only started, son. You've got two years here yet and you want to make hay while the sun shines. Just you leave it to me. No, you leave it to me now, said Dud. I guess it's like Blake said. Every fellow must hoe his own row.

and I haven't got time to be popular, Jimmy. I just want to get so I can pitch like Ben Mayett. Say, that's hitching your wagon to a star, Ben being the star. Maybe you're right, though. There's always the danger of having fellows think you're trying too hard, and they don't like that. Maybe your scheme is the best, dud, foxy too, I call it. I haven't any scheme deny the other impatiently.

I just want to quit thinking anything about whether fellows like me or don't like me. I guess if they do it will be because I don't care." That's what I'm saying," said Jimmy, grinning exasperatingly. Just let them think you don't care a fig and they'll flock to you. Yep, that's a good idea, Dud. Jimmy, if folks didn't know you better, they think sometimes that you were a regular, regular... Feller? asked Jimmy helpfully.

Bounder. Oh, thank you kindly. And such is gratitude. Never mind, son. All you need is food. Let's get to it." I don't think that is, I'm not very hungry. Not hungry. You're not sick, or you, Dud shook his head.

Then what's wrong with you?" Well, if you must know, replied the other desperately. I don't want to go over there and see the fellow's grinning at me. Grinning at you? What would they be doing? Say, for the love of lemons, dud, get that idea out of your bean. Why, no one's gritting at you, you three-plight chump? Why should they?

Didn't you go in there and save our bacon for us? Didn't you work three innings like a regular Maddie? Sure you did. Then what? And I went to pieces too, and filled the bases that time, said Dud bitterly. Even if they don't grin, I shall know they want to. Piffle. Honest, Dud, I didn't know you were such a chump.

Look here. You've been wondering again. Don't tell me, I can see it. You've got your eye-wonder expression on. You stopped thinking about Dud Bessie. and wash your dirty face and hands and come to eats. I'll guarantee you that you won't get grinned at once, old man. If I see any fellow trying it, I'll punch his head.

After all, Dud only wanted to be reassured and had no real intention of missing his supper, for he was undeniably hungry. And so, presently, they were off to dining hall together, and things were just as Jimmy had predicted. There were no grins, save an occasional friendly one, and no one paid much more attention to Dud than usual. They slipped into their places at table, neither had been called to the training table yet, since the combinations at that board were very limited,

and Jimmy in high spirits bandied remarks with the others between mouthfuls, and Dud tried hard to forget anything that had happened since luncheon. There was naturally much talk of the game and much criticism of various plays as there always was, and Jimmy as a participant was listened to with respect, if not with entire credence. At the training table across the hall there were no signs of depression if one could judge by the talk and laughter. In fact, the whole school was looking back on the afternoon's contest as something very much like a lucky victory.

And perhaps it was. At all events, the comparison of the scores, showed that Lawrence had made more hits and fewer errors than that the renowned Mr. Fairway had behaved more credibly than the four graft and pitchers judged together. When Dudd and Jimmy left the dining hall, they ran into Nick Blake and Bert Winslow in the corridor. Dud had determined to avoid any such meeting, but fortune ruled otherwise. Hello, James T, greeted Nick. How's Trist Speaker Jr. tonight? Hello, Dutt Baker.

My arms are a trifle lame, respond to Jimmy, when a fellow makes all the hits in a game. Ha! ejaculated Nick mirthlessly. Again, ha. You make me laugh, Jimmy. He's a regular funny fellow. isn't he, Dud? How are you feeling, by the way? Say that was some twirling you did in the seventh, my lad. How about the tenth? asked Dud, smiling wanly. Well, no harm done, you know, said Nick cheerfully. They all get there sooner or later, and I dare say if you'd stayed in, you'd have pulled yourself out all right. If we hadn't needed the game so much,

observed Bert, you'd have stayed in, I guess. I was hoping Guy would let him. It's a bull good thing for a pitcher to have to dig his way out, Baker. Gives him confidence, you know. If I was captain of a team and a pitcher got in a hole, I just let him stay right there and crawl out of it. Just let him have to do it, and if he's the least bit of good, he will. My notion is that if a pitcher thinks he's going to be relieved any time he goes bad, he's going bad too plaguy often. That sound like sense to you, Jimmy? I haven't heard a word that sounded like sense since I got here, answered Jimmy gravely. If someone would suggest something to do more exciting than hearing, lid, and form, jabber over

some subject like, resolved, that Marcus T's Cicero was faster on the basis than his brother Quint, or that the penguin is mightier than the swordfish. That's so, it's the bait night, isn't it? said Nick. Who's going? Youbert? I suppose so, you? Well, if there was anything better. There's a moon, said Jimmy tentatively.

Go on, pray. Your words interest me strange. strangely prompted Nick, assuming an attitude of suspense. And there's a river. I get you. Will you go, Bert? Bathing? I guess so. Let's find Hugh. You'll come, Baker? Thanks, but I've got... That stopped abruptly. Jimmy smiling sweetly had surreptitiously kicked him on the shin.

Yes, he'll come, said Jimmy. As this happens to be a Saturday night, Dud, your excuse of having to dig Latin or something is very poor. Let's find a crowd, fellow. Let's not, said Bert. I'll round up Hobo and Ted Trafford. They went off a minute ago. That's enough. By the way, though, I suppose you fellows know that the rules forbid it? No, honest, Jimmy was evidently as pained as he was surprised.

Did you know that, Nick? News to me, Jimmy. I was never so surprised on my life. Are you sure of what you tell us, Bert? Oh, go to the Dickens. Come on then before the moon goes down. or the river evaporates that at Jimmy. I'm going to suggest fellows that we avoid publicity as much as possible.

The last time I had anything to do with that old river, it nearly got me into trouble. I feel that I ought to record here that Dudd's conscience made itself heard, and that refusing to transgress the rules of the school he persuaded the others to forego the enterprise. I'd like to record that, but I can't, for Dudd's conscience must have been asleep, and ten minutes or so later he was following the others, and Pop Driver, who had been discovered in the company of Hugh and Ted Trafford and persuaded to join the party, across the Green and Lothbert Field to the beach, as the scanty expanse of sandy shore bordering the cove was somewhat ironically called.

And I am forced to relate that the Moonlight Bathing Party was a huge success, that it lasted until nearly ten o'clock and that faculty remained forever in ignorance of it. So it would seem, for once the transgressor went. unpunished. But perhaps not after all, for Nick cut his foot open on a muscle shell or a piece of glass, and Ted Trafford cut an awful cold that lasted him nearly until school closed. Possibly the reason that the others escaped retribution was just because their crime was not, after all, especially wicked. End of Chapter 20. Chapter 21 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Librevox recording is in the public domain.

Chapter 21, On the Mound. Dead wondered, Jimmy wasn't there to stop him, what Mr. Sargent would say to him on Monday regarding that performance of his in the Lawrence Textile game. As a matter of fact, Mr. Sargent said absolutely nothing, either then or at any other time. There was very light practice that afternoon, most of it batting, and the fellows were dismissed early, many of them returning after changing to the practice diamond to watch the second team put away the Grafton High School nine. It wasn't a vastly exciting affair, however, for the second, with Joe Kelly pitching, had things about its own way. Thud and Jimmy departed

at the end of the seventh inning, leaving the home team five runs to the good, and spent a half hour on the river in Nick Blake's canoe. Jimmy asked permission when they returned, and so that was all right. Jimmy was troubled today, and made Dud his confidant, as they paddled slowly along under the drooping boughs. His trouble concerned Starling Meyer, but will let Jimmy tell it in his own inimitable way. Someone, said Jimmy morosely, has told Starr he could play baseball. That's all right, too, but what's the use of making me let go the second and then dumping me in just when the fun begins? How do I know I'll be dumped? Well, I don't, I suppose. But listen, if that chap keeps on budding in, where

will I be? Wardway and Boynton and Parker are sure of the outfield places, unless they break a leg or a neck or something. Well, sure, that's okay. They're better than I am. I know that. The only chance I get is when one of them is out of the game. One of them's likely to be out now and then, and so I get a whack. All right, say we, but here comes this, this Indian mire, budding in and snooping around for the crumbs, too. That makes two of us, three if you count Ben Mayett. and Pete's likely to put Ben in center or right any chance he gets because Ben can bat like a whale. If Star Meyer would mind his own business, which is playing hockey and running creation, I'd have a fair chance to get into one of the Mount Morris games, wouldn't I?

Sure I would. Parker isn't very spry on that game leg of his, and I've noticed that Boynton is looking sort of like a friend of mine looked before he went into a decline. And Hobo might fall out of his canoe any day and get drowned, if he'd only use it more. I must adjust it to him. He doesn't get enough exercise. Why the Dickens can't Star keep out of it?

That's what I want to know. Something told me away last winter that I'd have trouble with accolute before the year was over. I thought I was the one, said Dud slyly. Jimmy grunted, so did I. Well, anyway, one good thing is that faculty hasn't forbidden me to take a fall out of him.

But you can't very well thrash a fellow for just playing ball, Jimmy. I can beat him up for interfering with my affairs, respond to the other with dignity. Bet you anything you like, he will work around Guy Murtha and Guy'll take him along to Coral the day after tomorrow. I suppose Parker will be back by then, suggested Dud.

Parker? Oh, I dare say. But listen, Dud, between you and me now. I don't believe Parker stands awfully high with Pete. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't get back again regularly, I mean. and if he doesn't, why, maybe little Jimmy T. Logan will have a chance, eh? That is, if Meyer doesn't persuade guy that he's a ball player beforehand. You're hitting better than Star, aren't you? No, I don't think so. Wish I were. Still, I get my base a heap off in her.

I suppose shooting at hockey helps Star hit the ball. Say, do you know, duh, darling, I am going to be sort of peeved and disappointed if I don't get into one of those Mount Morris games. I wasn't awfully keen at first, as you know, but now that I started I'd like to make good. Besides, he added gloomily. The family will be here for that second game, and I'd feel like an awful chump if I had to swing my legs on the bench all afternoon.

You'll be in good company, said Dud. Meaning you? asked the other, as he turned the canoe back toward home. Oh, you'll get your chance, Dud. Mount Morris has got some hitters, they say, and as she has, neither my it, nor Nate Letty will last the games through. As for Brunswick, I guess he's a goner for this year.

There's Weston, though. That's so, too. I wouldn't be a bit surprised to see Gus turn around and pitch a corking game someday soon. I guess the trouble with Gus is that he's too temperamental. He and I are alike that way. If the weather isn't just right or the moon's in the wrong quarter or the tide's too high or his shoe pinches him, Gus can't pitch a little bit.

But someday all the signs are going to be just, right, and Gus will slip on a pair of old shoes, and he will go out there and make him eat out of his hand. Jimmy paused. Then, maybe, he added cautiously, you can't tell about Gus. Like me, he has the artistic temperament. Well, said that after a long silence, and as they swung the canoe into the cove, I hope you get into all the Mount Morris games, Jimmy, and do finally.

And I hope, he added wistfully, that they let me pitch an inning or two in one of them. I, I'd like that. And I responded Jimmy, hope is how you gets your hope. Easy on, let her run, Sonny. It looked the next day as though Jimmy might be right about Gordon Parker, for although that youth was back for practice with his leg evidently as useful as ever, he did not get back into the outfield when the first and second lined up for the practice game. Instead, Boynton played in right, Jimmy and center, and Ordway and left until the fifth inning,

when Starr-Myer took Jimmy's place, much too. that youth's disgust. Letty and Weston pitched that afternoon. Ben Mayett had been more affected by the heat on Saturday than he or anyone else that suspected at the time, and was said to be nursing himself for the next day's game with Corliss College. Say for the pitching to the batters and practice, neither Dud nor Brunswick did any work that afternoon.

Dud watched the game from the bench and listened, during the last two innings to Jimmy's frank expressions of hurt feelings. Every time a fly ball went into center field, Jimmy watched it hopefully. Hope he muffs it. Hope he muffs it. Isn't that rotten luck? Anyway, that's a bum throw in. If I couldn't do better than that, sometimes I wouldn't try to get an honest man's job away from him.

Say, you're next, Churchill. Knock a long one into center, will you? Put it about 50 feet over Myers' head like a good fellow. But in spite of Jimmy's hopes and criticism, Star played a good fellow. good enough game in center and managed to get a rather lucky hit the only time he went to bat. Jimmy tried to bribe manager Barnes to score it as an error for the second team shortstop, but failed. There was an early and rather hurried dinner for the players the next day, and the team, 18th Strong, bowled away to the station shortly after 1 o'clock.

Much to his surprise, Dud made one of four pitchers to accompany it, and Jimmy too was of the number. Jimmy's satisfaction, however, was somewhat spoiled by the presence of Star Meyer. Parker was left behind, so too was Ben Mayett, still suffering from what the school physician had diagnosed as a touch of heat. Ben was instructed to keep out of the hot sunlight and, when playing, wear a fold of paper inside his cap. Mr. Sargent, however, had no intention of allowing Ben to pitch again until he was so far recovered as not to require that paper.

The first of the series with Mount Morris would be played on Saturday, just three days later, and so Ben had been instructed to stay right at home and be very, very good to himself. Letty, Weston, Brunswick, and Dud would undoubtedly manage between them to dispose of Corlis, for Corliss, although called a college, was little more than a preparatory school and was not considered dangerous. Corliss lay an hour and forty minutes away by railroad, although the actual distance was about 38 miles. else. The team had to change at Needham Junction first, and later on at North Taunton, and in consequence was somewhat weary when it finally disembarked from the Charlie card that had brought

it from the Coralus Station to the nearest point to the school. They paraded up a tree-shaded street, passed some yellow brick building that looked uncomfortably hot and glary today, and eventually reached the field, a very ambitious affair, enclosed with a brick wall and containing a permanent stand of concrete and a picturesque building of the same material roofed with red tiles. The fellows secretly admired that field, but they pretended to consider it too dressy, and made a good deal of fun of the commodious and well-appointed building into which they were shown. There they had a room all to themselves and three shower baths as well. By the time they had changed to playing togs, the stand was well sprinkled with

spectators, and a welcoming cheer greeted them as they took the field for practice. Only some dozen and a half graftonians had accompanied the nine, for examinations held many at school and others were too poor to pay for the trip. But the handful of patriotic youths gathered themselves into a small but devoted group in a corner of the big stand, and from the first appearance of the scarlet and grey on the diamond to the end of the contest made enough noise for thrice their number. All four pitchers were set to warm up, the fielders practiced. Will Brunswick, by this time reconciled to his fate, went through the motions in a mechanical fashion, but the other three set to work hard, each hoping to get the call.

After the Coralus players, a rather hefty lot of blue-stockinged and blue-sleeved youths had taken the field and completed their warming up, Mr. Sargent had a consultation with Guy Murtha and Pete Gordon. Dud pretended no interest as he sat on the bench between Hugh Wardway and Neil Eyre, but secretly he was a very anxious boy. Manager Barnes was getting the batting order now from the coach and Dud while answering a remark from Hughes strained his ears to hear. Blake, Winslow, Ordway, Murtha, Eyre, Bointon, Meyer. That felt sorry for Jimmy then.

Gordon and, I'll give you the pitcher later, Mr. Sargent, nodded to Nick Blake. Started up, he said. Nick went to bat while Mr. Sargent arose and, after watching, watching the work of the opposing pitcher, a broad-shouldered and rather slow-moving fellow named Walters, for a few moments, moved along and spoke to Nate Letty. Dudd's gaze followed, although he tried not to let it. The coach and Letty spoke for several moments, their eyes all the while on the corless twirler.

At last Mr. Sergeant nodded and Letty settled back in his seat, turning to his companion on the left, Boynton, and making a remark that brought as Dudsaw a look of surprise to the face of the right fielder. Mr. Sargent remained behind the bench, watching Nick Blake trying to find something useful to him amongst the slow, wide curves that the blue-legged pitcher was offering. Nick finally slammed one across the diamond, but was an easy out, shortstop to first. Bert Winslow raised a long fly to left field and likewise retired, and Hugh Ordway, after fouling off a couple, was badly fooled in a drop and fanned. As the players arose from the bench to trot into the field, Dud, who had forgotten the coach, for the moment, felt a hand on his shoulder.

Baker, I'm going to let you start, said Mr. Sergeant. You've pitched to Brooks a good deal, haven't you? Would you rather have him handle you than Gordon? He knows my stuff pretty well, sir, stammered dud, but it's just as you say, sir. The coach called to Ed Brooks. You catch Baker, Brooks, he said. Let's see what you can do, my boy. Study your batters and watch the bases.

Barnes put Brooks down for Gordon and Baker last. All right now, you two. Show what you can do. Dud started for the mound, drying on his glove, but Brooks overtook him on the way. Say, Dud, don't let slip up on signals, eh? he said anxiously. If you don't get him, sing out. And if you use that sidearm pitch, signal beforehand, will you? I'm always afraid of that getting by me. Lift your cap in front and I'll know, see?

All right, dud. End of Chapter 21. Chapter 22 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieberwark's recording is in the public domain. Chapter 22. Dud comes back. Dud started out with one idea, which was to redeem himself. He was pretty sure that Mr. Sargent would not expect him to go more than five innings, six at the very most,

and he determined to use every bit of strength and science he possessed during those six frames, to pitch himself out if necessary, but at all hazards to show form. He was nervous at first and showed wildness with his practice balls, and after that made a bad start by passing the first man up for Corlis. But subsequently he settled down nicely, and although he had no strikeouts to his credit in that first inning, he allowed no hits, and the runner-on-first never left that bag. Grafton got two hits in the second, one rather scratchy, but failed to score.

Corliss once more got a man to first on a hit that took a bat bound in front of Nick Blake and once more watched him die there. In the third, after Grafton had retired in one, two, three order, Dudd began to find his control, and he and Ed Brooks dispose of the Corliss pitcher and the first two batsmen on the Blues list with no trouble, Walter's fanning, the next man popping a fly to Neil Eyre, and the next being thrown out at first by Bert Winslow. Grafton got her first run in the fourth inning.

Hugh Ordway was passed, Martha sacrificed him to second, and after Neil Eyre had struck out, Boington slipped a fast grounder down the alley between shortstop and second, and Hugh romped home and beat the throw by a yard. Starr Meyer flight out to center field. That added speed to science in the last of the fourth

and two of the Blues best batsmen fan wildly, and the little group of Graftonians in the corner of the stand cheered themselves patriotically and appropriately scarlet a face. The succeeding batter drove a liner into Captain Murtha's glove and the fifth inning began. Ed Brooks allowed Waters to put him in a hole with the first two deliveries, and then, after disdaining a couple of wide ones, swung despairingly at a third, and somehow managed to get it on the tip end of his bat and landed safely behind shortstop. Then began a fuselot of the corollus pitcher that ultimately spelled retirement for that youth.

Dud, who had rolled a week when down the first base path and bid an easy out the first time at bat, now tried twice to bunt and failed. After that there was nothing to do but take a good healthy swing and try to get the ball out of the infield. With the score two and two, Dud cut loose and poked a hit past third baseman that put Brooks on the third sack and himself on first. Blake bunted and the pitcher fielded, the latter making the mistake of holding the ball too long to protect the plate. When he finally tossed to first he was too late and the bases were full. At this interesting juncture, Bert Winslow ought to have stepped into the limelight with a smashing home run or a three-bagger at least. What the best Bert could do was to bounce

one away to shortstop and Brooks was an easy out at the plate. But the bases were still filled, with only one man down, and there were cries of lifted hobo, knock it in the nose hobo, as Hugh went to the plate. Walter, showing the strain now, Pitched two wild heaves which his catcher barely stopped and then slipped one across in the groove. Hugh swung at it, but was too late. A third ball followed and grafted and yelled exultantly. But again Walter's made good, Hugh not offering. Everything depended on the next delivery, and as the ball left the pitcher's hand, the three runners on the path started away. They need not have hurried, though, for the ball went low and wide and Hugh walked, Dudd crossing the platter with the second tally for the scarlet and gray.

By this time, Corliss had two pitchers warming up, and it was easy to see that Walter's minutes were numbered. Captain Murther brought affairs to the crisis by landing on the pitcher's second delivery and lifting it high and far to right field. It was well over the fielder's head, and that youth failed to get under it. Two more runs tallied and Guy took second. After that, Walter's passed Ayrn and was promptly derricked. The new twirler, Hoyt, had difficulty in getting underway, and before he succeeded two more hits than as many runs had been scored. Of the hits, Boynton contributed one and Brooks won.

Starmier made the second out and Dud the third, Dud being robbed of a hit by a pretty running catch of a short fly to center. The score was six to zero when the last half of the fifth started, and there seemed to be no doubt as to who owned the game. Dudd was beginning to feel tired, but believed himself fit for another inning or two if necessary. But things broke bad at the start. The first of the enemy to face him showed no eagerness to hit, and before he knew it, Dudd was two balls to the bad.

Then, although he managed to get a strike across, he followed with a third ball, and the final result was that the Coralus youth smashed a hotliner straight over third base and took two bases on the hit. The succeeding batsman fouled out quickly to Winslow. Then Brooks tried to catch the runner off second, and the ball got away from Murtha, who took the throw, and the runner reached third. Dud felt himself slipping then and shot an inquiring look toward the bench.

But Mr. Sargent was evidently still unworthy, for Letty and Weston were both there and no one was warming up. Dud gritted his teeth and went on. The batsman had a strike and two balls on him when Dud, trying to break a high one over the inner corner, lost control of the ball and it went straight for the batter's head. But Dud's shout of, look out, was not necessary. The man at the plate dropped just in time

and the ball sailed past Brooks and brought up at the net, the runner on third sprinting home. Murtha and the others did their best to steady Dud again, and Ed Brooks, walking down to place the ball in Dodd's hand, said, That was my fault, Dud. I ought to have got it. Sorry, old man. Don't mind it, though. Let's have this fellow, eh?

Dud nodded. It was nice that Brooks to call it his fault, but of course it hadn't been anything of the sort. Dud glanced again toward the bench as he went back to his place on the mound. He wished that Mr. Sargent would get his relief ready. He wondered why he didn't. He was giving way to a sort of fright now, although he didn't show it unless by the longer time he took to grip the ball and study Brooke's signal.

About him the infield players were speaking. words of encouragement. The batsman had him in the hole. He must make him hit. But something told him that he was worked out, that there was no use trying, that today was to be just a repetition of that other day when he had gone to pieces there on Lothra Field with the whole school looking on. Brooks had signaled for a straight ball and Dud tried to pitch it. Instead of being straight though it was a hook, but across the corner of the plate and the umpire was charitable to Dud. Brooks, looking anxious, threw it back slowly and again spread his hands.

The little group of Grafton Routers cheered. That, however, took no joy of the doubtful decision. Luck had aided him that time, but this time he told himself he would surely fail. And fail he did. The ball passed well inside the plate, and the batsmen, staggering away from it, dropped his bed and trotted down the path.

Corliss was cheering madly now, sensing the fact that the Grafton pitcher was at last weakening. Guy Murther hurried to the box and told Dud to take his time to let them hit. Dud muttered agreement, conscious chiefly of disappointment. He had expected Guy to take the ball away from him. What, he wondered, almost angrily, was the matter with them. Couldn't they see that he was through? Why did they want to keep him there when he was only making things worse every minute?

None out now and a runner on first. The next batsman didn't wait for a pass but lighted on Dud's first offering. and sent it rolling toward third. Dud and Brooks and Winslow all started for it, but it was Bert who scooped it up and pegged it to air, and Bert wasn't set for the throw, and the ball went a yard away from the first baseman. The first runner dashed to third,

and the next slid into second base. Thud went despairingly back to the mound to face the next ambitious blue-legged youth. The hit meant two more runs for Corliss, he told himself. Surely then they'd let him go out. But the hit didn't come just then. Instead, it was a short fly that left the bat, and Nick Blake ran back and got it safely and slammed at home.

But the man on third didn't try to score. Then the hit did come, after Dud by some miracle, had induced the bassman to swing at two wide balls, and it sped into short center field and two joyful corless runners tallied. Dud looked inquirely at Murtha and got only a, Never mind that, Baker! Go to it! Then his eyes sought the bench, and there sat Lettie, hands and pocket. and Gus Weston chatting unconcernedly with Barnes over the scorebook, and Mr. Sergeant, leaning forward with hands clasped loosely between his knees and his straw hat pulled

over his eyes. Dud couldn't understand it at all. Did they want to get beaten? Couldn't they see that he was throwing the game away, that he wasn't any good after all that he never had been? Settle down, Dud, called Nick Blake. Ady boy! Let's have him, old top.

One gone, chanted Captain Murtha. have the double fellows. Dud turned desperately to his task again. He tried to remember what the fellow facing him now had done before. Struck out, hadn't he? Or was he the chap who had smashed out that double? Well, it was up to Brooks, and Brooks wanted a drop. Dud tried to catch the runner at first and failed twice and then pitched to the plate.

The drop was good and the batsman swung at it. That's the stuff, called Brooks cheerfully. He can't hit him, Dud. Right across now. Show him a good one. The wide and low one followed and then another. Two and one now, and Brooke showing three fingers for another drop. Dud tried it and failed, and the umpire announced,

Ball three! Corlis shouted and stamped and clapped. Dud had none to waste and he took all the time he wanted for the next. But it slanted away erratically and the batsman tossed his bat behind him and sprang gleefully toward first, while the runner at that station went on to second. Merva came to the box. Look here, Baker, what's the matter with you?

Are you trying to present them with the game? For the love of Mike, put some of them over. Let them hit them, I tell you. We'll take care of them. Maybe, muttered Dud, you'd better let me out, Martha. Let you out? Is that what you're up to? Well, listen, Baker, you're going to stay in here

until you get the third man if it takes all afternoon. So you might as well get busy. You can throw the game away if you'll. want to, but you're going to stay right here, son. Understand that?" Dudd viewed him astonished. Then he nodded. "'All right,' he said finally. I'll do my best." "'That's the talk,' responded the captain kindly.

"'Get a grip in yourself, Baker. You're just as good as you were an hour ago, man. All you've got to do is to think so. Now settle down and make him eat out of your hand.' Dud gave up trying to understand things after that. They meant to keep him at it until he had retired the side. That was the principal thing to think of. He wasn't to look for relief but must earn his own salvation. Well, in that case he knew where he stood, and that was something of a comfort.

At least he wouldn't have to look over toward the bench every few minutes. Either they thought he could hold what he had, or they were just keeping him in to punish him. Either way it didn't much matter, he decided. All he had to do now is to retire two more batsmen in some way or other. That realization seemed to simplify matters remarkably. Dud turned and studied the bases, a runner on second and a runner on first, and went out. Why, that wasn't so bad. A double play would end the trouble, or a hit anywhere in the infield would probably account

for one. He mustn't let the batsman bun toward third, though, for that would draw Winslow off his bag. Better give him low ones than try the inner corner. If only he could get a slow ball working again, he might squeeze out of the hole he would in. Two fingers, said Dud to himself, but that won't do it. He wants to dump one down toward third. Thud shook his head and Brooks laid three fingers across his mitt.

Dud nodded. Yes, a drop was the best. If he could make it go, he had to doubtfully to himself. But he did make it go, and the batsman professed intense astonishment when a strike was called. Brooks signaled for the same thing again, and again Dud essayed it, and again he earned the decision, for this time the batter swung viciously at it without, however, any result. Dud breathed easier. With two strikes across he could waste a couple and perhaps fool the batsman with a hook. Brooks showed two fingers and Dud served to curve waist high but wide of the

plate. Then another, a little closer, but still not tempting. Dud refused two signals and at last got Brooks to show four fingers. Then Dud nodded, glanced behind him to where Murtha and Blake were running the blue-legged youth back to base whenever he tried to steal the start and wound up. Forward shot his arm and away sped the ball, straight for the plate and fairly high, and a round swung the bat and swept through empty air.

For the ball had been a slow one and the batterhead hit inches ahead of it. Dudd stopped slipping then, brought up with a round turn, in fact. If he could still make that slow ball of his go right, he could fool any of them. He wondered what it got into him. Why, he was just as good as ever. What a silly fool he had been to think anything else. They were shouting shrilly and triumphantly over in the corner of the stand,

and Brooks was grinning all over his round, freckled face. Dud spread his hand in the dust and followed the ball and waited calmly for the next batsman. He was no longer afraid, no longer doubtful. He had, he told himself exultantly, come back. Brooks asked for a curve, and Dud refused it. A fast, straight ball instead was what the batter saw speed past him. Perhaps though he didn't really see it, for it fairly sizzled with the steam that Dud had put on it. After that a low curve broke badly, and then a second one barely trimmed the outer corner of the rubber,

but the batsman swung at the ladder and missed it. A foul back of the plate just escaped Brooks and spoiled what Dud had intended for a third strike. Two and two now, and the corless coach are shouting imploringly for a hit, and the runners dancing on their toes eager to be off. Dudd might still waste one if he liked, but his fingers, when the ball came back to him, curved themselves around the ball cunningly in response to the catcher's signal,

and Dudd stepped forward and pitched. And every ounce of speed he had went into that delivery. Straight as an arrow it flashed to the plate, cut it squarely and halves and thumped into Ed Brooks mitt. The batter never even offered at it, and his bat was still at his shoulder when the umpire waved him aside. Dutt, walking across to the bench, heard the cheers of the tiny band of Grafton and ruders and smiled a little.

Those cheers sounded awfully good to him just then. He had come through and the only desire in his heart now is to be allowed to finish. And finish he did, and went straight through to the end of the ninth without further punishment. In those four succeeding innings the enemy made just three hits, one of them a two-bagger that netted nothing beyond a journey to second base. Six strikeouts were added to his credit and he made two assists. And in the meanwhile, Grafton sweetened to total with three more runs, so that when Dudd ended the game by causing a corallus pinch hitter to fly out to Boynton and left,

the score stood nine to three. End of Chapter 22. Chapter 23 of winning his game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 23, Ben tells us a second. secret. The team missed connection at North Taunton coming back, and had to kick their heels about the platform there for more than an hour, reaching school finally just before eight, a very tired lot. There was a cold supper awaiting them in the dining hall, and after that

had been demolished few of the fellows had inclination for anything but bed. Jimmy, who had remained on the bench all the afternoon, was in a particularly pessimistic frame of mind, and Dud's last conscious memory was of Jimmy, pajama-clad, seated on the edge of his bed, muttering dire threats against Starmier. Thursday was a busy day for Dud, with examinations beginning in real earnest. In the corridor of school hall at noon,

he was hailed by Roy Dresser. Say, Baker, Maya's looking for you. Told me to tell you to drop around to his room if I saw you. As there was still a half hour before dinner, Dudd turned his steps toward Lothurpin, and climbed the flight of slates that, that led to the second corridor. Ben Mayett roomed with Nate Letty in number eight,

and both occupants of the two-room suite were in when Dud entered. He hadn't seen Mayet for several days, and he was surprised to find him stretched out on the couch looking rather pale and fagged. Hello, Dud, he said. Mind if I don't get up. I'm feeling a bit rocky today. Pull up a chair.

Dudd replied to Lady's greeting and found a seat. Lettie went on sorting some books at his desk. "'Nate,' continued Mayet, "'has been telling me about your good work yesterday, Dud. "'I was awfully glad to hear it, son. "'How's the arm today?' "'Quite all right, thanks. "'Oh, it's a little stiff,

"'but I guess it will limber up this afternoon.' "'Better go easy with it. "'Nineenings has quite a stretch the first time. "'You've never gone the full limit before, eh?' "'No, and I thought for a while yesterday "'that I wasn't going to be able to. "'I guess Ledy told you what a mess I made of that fifth inning.' Ben nodded.

I wonder, he ruminated, how many of us have had an upset in that fatal fifth. It seems that the fifth is crucial. Anyway, I've always had a sort of superstition about it. If I can last out the fifth I can go the limit, but almost every game I pitch something happens in that inning. Sometimes it's only a stumble and sometimes it's a regular fall-down. I dare say you thought it funny Pete didn't pull you out yesterday when you went bad, eh? nodded his head. Yes, I expected him to, and when he didn't, I, well, I sort of thought he was

keeping me into, to discipline me. I suppose he was. Not exactly. We were talking you over the other evening. I guess it was the night after the Lawrence game. And Pete said he guessed you wouldn't stand a full game this year, but that you might next. I told him you could stand at any time if you'd let you do it. You put Baker in a game that's on ice, I said, or a game you don't particularly care about winning and let him see himself through. Every pitcher has got to get into trouble once and dig out again before he finds himself. After he has done it once, he knows that he can do it, and after that he does it. Pete thought I might be right, and Guy said he was certain of it.

Great Scott, don't I know? Haven't I been through it? I've stood up there with the crowd yelping and been so scared I couldn't have to see the plate. Just had to trust to luck when I let him go that they wouldn't fly over the backstop. Don't you feel, now that you've stood the gaff, that you could start out this afternoon and pitch nine innings without getting wobbly?" Yes, I think I could respond to Dud cautiously, but I mightn't. When a fellow stuff stops breaking right for him and a play goes wrong in the infield and there are a couple on the bases,

Right you are, said Letty, I know the fielding baker, it's the deuce. It sure is agreed, Ben, but what I'm trying to say is that a chap has got to get good and scared and get over it before he's worth a hang in the box. You had your scare in the Lawrence game, that I could see just how you felt, but they had to pull you out to save the game. You had another one yesterday, and they didn't have to pull you out,

and you found it was up to you to crawl out of that hole all by yourself, and you buckled down and did it. You didn't know it, but if we'd been trimmed 30 to nothing yesterday, you'd still be in there pitching them over when the game ended. That was Pete's plan from the first. If Baker's in shape, he said to me, I'll put him in and let him pitch the whole game. I'm glad I didn't know it, laughed Dud.

I'd have been frightened stiff if I had. Wouldn't have blamed you a mite, said Nate. To tell the truth, Baker, when Pete told me on the bench there yesterday that he was going to put you in for the limit, I thought he was crazy. I didn't expect you to last more than four innings. I don't mind telling you now because it turned out all right and you fooled me beautifully. I apologize. You pitched as nice a game for a rookie as I ever saw in my life old man, and that's a fact. I wish I could have seen it, said Ben.

Fact is, Dud, I sort of look on you as a pupil, although I never really taught you a thing except a little common sense. You had everything you've got now when I got you after that day in the cage, but... You taught me how to use what I did have, said Dud stoutly. If it hadn't been for you, I'd never have made a good little bit. Well, all right, thanks for the testimonial. What I wanted you to see about today was this. Nate and I talked it over and we decided to put you wise to what's up. Pete probably thinks it's better to keep quiet about it.

Anyway, it wouldn't help any to let it get over to Mount Morris. So you keep it to yourself. I'm dished for the rest of the year, Baker. When I was a kid, I had a sunstroke. A lot of us were on the beach one beast of a hot day and we were doing stunts and racing and going on the way kids will. You know. Well, I keeled over and was. sick for two or three days. I'd rather a narrow squeak of it, I believe. I've never had any trouble

since, though, until Saturday. It was beastly hot that day, and I guess I was feeling sort of punk anyway. Well, the result was that I had to give up, and after I got to the field house, I was sick as a dog and felt like the dickens. Now the doc says I've got to keep out of the sun all summer. Oh, he says there's no harm in going around if it's just ordinarily warm, but I'm supposed to wear some sort of a ventilated hat or stick a newspaper in it or something. If the day's all right, I'll have a try at twirling Saturday, but I'm pretty sure I'll be good for only four or five innings. That means that Nate here will have to finish out.

Or Nate may start and I'll go in if it's necessary. Anyhow, there's the second Mount Morris game the next Friday, and in case they get one away from us, we'll have to play them again the next afternoon. See what I'm getting at, Dud? You've got to take your turn in one of those games, old man. You can't figure it any other way. Gus may get a whack, of course, and if Gus happened to have a good day, it would help the situation a lot.

For my part, I don't believe we can count on finishing the series this year in two games. Mount Morris is good, and she's got a pitching staff that's every bit up to ours. So there it is. Nate will have to pitch part of the Friday game, at least, and if he does, he won't be up to twirling again the next day. We want to win the series naturally, and we've been talking it over. And we decided that it would be the best thing to put you next to what was up and let you get accustomed to the idea. I don't know how you are that way, Dud, but I know that a good many fellows if they were

suddenly called on to go in and pitch in a deciding game with the rival team, would have nerves so badly they wouldn't know a drop from a jump. Dud took a long breath. Gee, he said. Can I do it? Yes, I'm sure you can, after yesterday. Yesterday's experience was just the sort of medicine you needed. Don't you think so yourself?

Yes, I do. At least I don't think I'd ever go to pieces quite so badly again, Ben. But pitching against Mount Morris. Cha, said Letty. Mount Morris isn't so different from Coralus. They play a little better, that's all. The big thing is to just go in and tell yourself and make yourself believe that you're a heap better than any batsman they can put up.

Isn't that so, Ben? Yep, I think it is. Confidence is a big factor in pitching dud. And we want you to spend the next week or so accumulating a lot of it. You're not likely to have to work Saturday, although you never can't tell what'll happen in a ball game. Anyway, you won't have to work more than an inning or two. I'm pretty sure I can go four and eight isn't likely to break down under five, I guess.

I wish to goodness we had one south ball on the bunch. Brunswick's a left-hander, offer Dud. I know, but he isn't ready. yet. I guess he'll come around nicely next year. Well, that's the outlook. Now if you take my advice, you'll do a little work every day, Dud. Not a great deal, but enough to keep silky.

And you'll get used to the idea of going into one of those Mount Morris games and doing a lot of pretty pitching. I'm going to get out of here tomorrow and we'll have a tryout, just you and I, Dud. I want to see that crossfire of yours again. If you can make that good it might be a big asset against some of Mount Morris's right-handed It batters. How is your hitting nowadays, Dudd?" Pretty poor, I'm afraid, replied Dudd ruefully.

Try and brace up with it. You never can tell when a hit will mean a whole lot to your team. And a pitcher that can smash out a safety now and then, especially when it's needed a lot, is pretty useful. That's the only thing that got Ben his play, said Letty dryly. It helped a lot anyway, laughed Ben, especially when I started in with the second and didn't have much more than my glove. But you try to meet him between now and next Friday, Dud.

And by the way, better not let Pete Sargent know that you're on. Maybe he will give you a hint himself in a day or two, but until he does, you let him think you don't suspect anything. But Dud got no hint from the coach that week. The next day, Friday, Ben lugged Dud off to the practice diamond after the teams had gone in and put him through his paces. Dudd's round-arm delivery interested him considerably, and Ben had to have a try at it himself.

without, however, getting any such result as Dud did. I like that, said Ben. If you can make it a bit more certain, Dud, you'll have a good ball there. I know if you pitched that to me and I didn't know what was coming, I'd back out of the box. Let's try it again. Dud put in every moment at batting that he could find opportunity for, but he didn't seem to make any improvement. He could land on some of Brunswick's offering fairly well,

but Gus Weston or Letty nearly always got them past him. He wasn't used in the box on Thursday and had only two innings of work Friday, but his pitching arm was back in shape and he assured himself over and over again that he was quite ready to face Mount Morris or anyone else. Nevertheless, his heart had a way of jumping into his throat sometimes when he suddenly remembered what might happen a week hence. Jimmy wasn't much used to him at that time, for Jimmy was having hard work with examinations and was besides much disgruntled over Mr. Sargent's preference for. for Starr Meyer in Centerfield. Even when the day after the Coralus game he dwelt on what he termed Dud's coup, he was only half-hearted. You own the school now, Dud, he proclaimed,

Your middle name is popularity. Didn't I tell you that if you followed my advice and specialized on pitching a baseball, you get to be a regular feller? Sure I did! And you've gone and done it. Dudd, though, failed to discern any enormous popularity. Of course, those who had seen the game were war. in their praise of his work, and those who hadn't been present looked on him a bit more

interestedly. But if he had expected to wake up on Thursday and find himself suddenly famous, and as a matter of fact he hadn't thought of any such thing, he would have been disappointed. No one patted him on the back and told him how good he was, and no one particularly sought the honor of his society. But the Corliss contest had not been a very important one, and the school had fully expected to win it anyway. fame was to be garnered only in a game with Mount Morris.

Saturday dawned hot and breathless, with an unclouded sky overhead. There were no examinations that morning and the fellows had nothing to do but look forward to the afternoon's contest with their old rival and speculate on the outcome of it. A few heroic ones played tennis and the canoes were pretty busy, but the heat made idleness almost a virtue. It was rumored at dinner time that Letty would start in the box for Grafton and that Mayet would be held in reserve. End of Chapter 23.

Chapter 24 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Librevox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 24, the first game. When at two o'clock the invading hordes swept down on Grafton, it looked as though Mount Morris Academy had arrived in toto. Of the 180 odd students enrolled at the Green Bank School that year, fully a hundred hundred and 150 swarmed over from the station after the arrival of the train. It came in hilarious mood, marching along Crumbian River Streets,

four breasts and waving small green megaphones, through which they hoped to later roar the enemy into subjection. Green and white, the Mount Morris colors, I am aware that white is not a color, but how else can I put it? We're much in evidence in the shape of penance and neckties and armbands, while a frivolous fox-terrier led the procession, straining at his leash attired in a green blanket with the school monogram in white. Altogether that invasion was notable and picturesque in Grafton,

looking on from the windows of Lothrop and Trow, or from along the campus fence, cheered approvingly. Mount Morris cheered back and waved her penance, turned into school street and disbanded at the gate. Subsequently, those who had acquaintances at Grafton were to be seen climbing stairways, while others wandered around in critical survey of the school buildings. Add some 200 Grafton fellows and another hundred sympathizers from the village and roundabout,

and you'll understand that the seating capacity of Lothrave Field that afternoon was severely taxed. Politely, but not over-eagerly, perhaps, Grafton yielded the grandstands to the visitors and townsfolk and found accommodation on the grass. Only a band was lacking to make the occasion complete, and I'm not sure that a band would have had much chance with all that cheering and singing. The game started at 2.30, or to be exact, four minutes after the scheduled time. The sun was pretty hot, and what slight breeze crept up now and then from the river did little to mitigate its ardor. Nate Letty began proceedings by slipping a strike over on the head of the Mount Morris batting list,

and the scarlet and gray cheered what they were pleased to consider a good augury. The enemy retired without reaching first, and when the teams changed places, it was seen that Mount Morris, instead of putting in her best pitcher, Saylor, was going to use Molton. Moulton was a left-hander and Grafton had taken very kindly to his pitching last year in the second game of the series. Salor was evidently to be saved for use against Mayot. But it was soon apparent that Moulton had progressed in the gentle art of pitching of baseball since the previous season, for Blake and Winslow both fanned and the best Ordway could do was to fly out to second baseman. Save that the cheering and singing and coaching were in their enthusiasm sufficient to mark the occasion as one greatly out of the ordinary,

no one would have suspected anything unusual from the first few innings of the contest. Both teams played hard but ragged ball, and the rival scorers had to jot down many errors. And yet, since every spectator was thoroughly partisan, those scoreless innings were not without their interest. There were some brilliant plays by both sides, a running one-hand catch by left-field reporter of the visitors that deprived Guy Murtha of a two-bagger, a superb throw to second by Gordon of the home talent that cut down a green-legged runner, a double by Blake in A.R. That brought the fourth inning to an inglorious, or glorious, according to whether you sported

greener scarlet, ending. And the two pitchers, neither seriously threatened, also deserved laurels. To offset such commendable incidents, however, there was a sickening muff of an easy toss by Murtha at second, the dropping of a foul by air after he had it nicely in his hands, the booting of a hit by Winslow and a solid ivory play by Gordon in the third when he called for a pitch out and then pegged the ball over first baseman's head when the runner was halfway to second. the visitors made quite as many slip-ups, and I think more displays a bad judgment of the

kind that counts in results but do not show in the error column. Letty met his first batch of trouble in the fifth, the crucial fifth as Ben Mayotte had called it two days before, when he passed the first man up and allowed the next to hit safely past Winslow. After that he struck out the next two batsmen, but couldn't prevent a run coming over when the following Greenleg popped a Texas leaguer behind Winslow. Nick Blake made a valiant effort to get that hit, but the best he could do was to scoop it up and get the man at third.

Grafton got men to third and second in her half, but they died there. That ended the scoring until the seventh, and it was in the seventh that Liddy gave way to Weston in the first half, and that the home team put the game away in the second period. Mount Morris began by getting a scratch hit that put a runner on first. The next man tried to sacrifice, But Letty threw wild to Blake at second and both runners were safe. A short fly to left field settled in Hobo Ordway's hands and he held the runners.

Then Letty let down and passed the next batter on four consecutive balls and the bases were all occupied with but one out. Letty showed nervousness and risked a tally by trying to catch the runner at second. Only quick work by Blake sent the man at third doubling back to that base. With a strike and two balls on the batter, Nate let go of a wild one and, although Gordon managed to partly block it, the enemy scored her second run. Letty pitched another ball, worked a strike across and finally passed the batter.

It was then that Gus Weston, who had been warming up to Brooks for two innings, was hurried to the rescue. Gus started erratically by pitching three wild ones in a row, and then settled down and struck out the green leg and got a fine salvo of applause from the 300, anxious Grafton sympathizers. Another five minutes of suspense followed, during which Dudd and Jimmy, and the other non-combatants,

sat on the final two inches of the bench and clenched their hands and yelled their heads nearly off. In the end, after the batsman, who happened also to be Mount Morris's captain, had three balls to his credit and two strikes against him, and had fouled off exactly five offerings, a screaming fly to center field that Starmier caught ended the trouble. But if it ended Grafton's trouble, it only began Mount Morris's, for it was the last of the seventh that saw the downfall of Moulton,

the green and white's second-best twirler. Gordon led off with a sizzling shot to write that the fielder had to take on the bound and was secure on first. Weston went out, second to first. Nick Blake tried the first thing that came his way and bounced it off Moulton's shins, advancing Gordon and arriving at first without question. Winslow came across with a two-base hit to left, that sent Gordon home with Grafton's first tally, and a minute later, Hugh Ordway slammed one

down the third baseline, scoring Winslow and putting himself on second. That was enough for Moulton and he disappeared, a tow-headed youth by the name of Witten taking his place. Witten, though, was easy from the first moment and a hit-followed hit, interspersed by a couple of infield errors, until Grafton had crossed the platter with six runs. And the eighth, Gus Weston almost reduced heart disease among the home team supporters by passing the first batsman, hitting the next on the leg and then committing a most apparent balk and moving the runners to third and second. Ben Mayett drew in his glove about that time and moved down the field with Brooks, but

Ben's services were not needed after all, for a weak grounder was pegged home for the first out and Gordon shot the ball to first for the second. A fly to Boynton, which he juggled for one awful instant and then captured, brought the suspense to an end. In the grafton half of the eighth both Winslow and Ordway hit safely. Mirtha flight out to center, Ayer got his base on a fielder's choice that failed to catch Winslow at third, and the sacks were again filled in the stage set for a tragedy. But the best Boitin could do was to pop up an infield fly, and it was left to coach sergeant,

assisted, very capably assisted, by one James Townsend Logan. to produce the appropriate climax. It was Starr-Myers' turn at bat, but Starr had failed all the afternoon to do more than reach first on one occasion by virtue of a fieldish choice. So Mr. Sargent looked about him for a pinch hitter. There was to be sure Ben Mayett,

but Ben was down the field gently tossing the ball to Brooks. Perhaps it was a gleam of eagerness in Jimmy's eyes that decided the coach. At all events, Star Meyer, armed for the starry, struggle, was call back halfway to the plate, and it was Jimmy who jumped to his feet, seized a bat at haphazard, possibly afraid that the coach would change his mind if he gave him a chance and fairly leapt to the plate. Jimmy got a fine round of applause and a lot of advice as to what to do. It was evident that many of the audience would be satisfied with nothing less than a home run,

but on the other hand the advice he got from the bench and the coachers was to just tap at Jimmy. Jimmy did not so well as the stand demanded and did better than his teammates advised. He smote it. He didn't smite at once, though. He let Witten put one straight over that looked too low to Jimmy, and just right to the umpire. And he let Witten follow that strike with two deceitful hooks that looked fine at first and then didn't. And then, when Witten tried to sneak one over again opposite his knee pads, Jimmy did his smiting.

Jimmy got that ball on the one square inch of his bat best calculated to produce results, a square inch located about four inches from the end, and he put all his content for Mount Morrison Whitten and, incidentally Starrmeyer, into his swing, and the ball traveled away with a crack that was heartening indeed to the three impatient runners, shot over second baseman's upthrust glove, still ascending, went curving into center field at a place where neither the guardian of that territory, nor his left-hand neighbor had any chance of reaching it, and finally dropped to earth to roll joyfully along the sword pursued by two pairs of agitated grain legs.

Need I narrate that all grafton arose as one in shrieked hysterical delight? Or that the bases, filled a scant moment before, were speedily emptied? Or that Jimmy, finding them empty and having his choice of any, decided to annex second, and then, urged on by coaches more capable of judging the demands of the moment, spurned second and set his heart on third, and would have gone tearing home if Guy Murtha himself hadn't seized him forcibly and thrust him back to the bag. Well, perhaps you wouldn't have guessed the latter details,

but I fancy you'd have surmise the others. That hit of Jimmy's went down in local history as one of the famous hits of the national pastime. It wasn't that it won the game, or the game was already captured. Had he struck out, Grafton would still have been returned to Victor that afternoon. But there was something beautifully satisfying about it, one might almost say artistic. The audience was on the key V for it. The setting was right to the most minute detail, and it was made when and where it would do the most good. To be sure it might have been a home run and so scored four tallies instead of three, but

I maintain, and I am supported by Dud and Nick and Hugh in half the school, that there is nearly always the element of luck in a home run, whereas Jimmy's three-bagger was a solid, meritorious, honestly earned hit, as sole satisfying as any homer ever lifted over a fence. Perhaps you think I am dwelling over long on the glory of that performance and to the holding up of the game. But as a matter of fact, it ended the game there and then to all intents and purposes. To be sure, Gordon did get to first on a pass while the cheering was still going on, but nobody cared, any more than they cared a minute later when Gus Weston fanned.

Anything that might happen now would be an anti-climax. The audience was satisfied, surfeited. Mount Morris had no fight left in her and went out in one, two, three order in the ninth. Subsequently there was chaos and noise, and the sight of numerous scarlet and grey-hosed heroes bobbing abode above a sea of joyful faces and open mouths. Mount Morris trod a subduedly off the field, after returning Grafton's cheer, and was next seen attired in street clothes being borne in hacks to the station, a number of rather tired-looking but still smiling young gentlemen whom fate had used unkindly.

And yet, as they passed Lothor Pall, they tossed a final cheer behind, and there was a grimness and determination in the tone of it that seemed to say, Make the most of your triumph, Grafton. Our turn comes next. End of Chapter 24. Chapter 25 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieber Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 25. Left behind.

Grafton jubulated and made glad. Nate Letty spent a sorrowful evening and refused the comfort offered by his roommate. Gus Weston was inclined to be talk about. about his share in the victory, but no one took Gus seriously. Of all those who had taken part in the contest, it remained to Jimmy Logan alone to be triumphant. Jimmy triumphed and made no bones about it. I don't mean that he went around throwing his chest out or figuratively crowning himself with Laurel and with Bay. Oh, not at all. Jimmy was not self-assertive in the least. He only smiled when Laudation came his way, and strove to impress others as being firmly of the idea that

what he had done had been nothing to speak of. Absolutely nothing. Only now that it had been mentioned, wasn't it a joke on Starr Meyer? Starr hadn't made a hit in the game and had fielded, well, anyone knew what Starr's fielding was like. And then, just when he had a chance to really do something for himself and the team, Pete had yanked him away from the plate. Not however that in Jimmy's belief Starr would have done anything. Probably quite the contrary and otherwise. Star, he reflected compassionately, must be feeling rather cheap, eh? Jimmy fairly haunted Star's waking hours for the next day or two. No matter where Star went, there was also Jimmy.

Jimmy with a sympathetic mane and a sly twinkle in his eye. Star ran across him in corridors, on the green, on the campus, on the field, everywhere. And on Sunday afternoon, trying to find sanctuary in the library, he hit himself behind an atlas of the world in a secluded corner, only to hear a few minutes later the sound of footsteps on the floor and to glance over the top of his book into the sweetly condoling countenance of Jimmy. Star dropped the Atlas with a mutter of despair and sought his room. There were plenty who predicted that Jimmy had ousted Star from the center field,

and Jimmy himself believed that he had. And yet when Wednesday came around, bringing final examinations to an end in Yarrow High School to the scene, Jimmy again decorated the bench and it was Star who, who ambled out to center field. And oh, the chagrin of Jimmy! There isn't much to tell of that game. Yarrow had been selected because she was not calculated to make hard work for Grafton,

and she proved the wisdom of the selection. Brunswick started in the box for the scarlet and grey and lasted three innings and a third of the next. Then Dud went to the rescue and stopped the onslaught of the enemy. He was instructed not to exert himself and didn't need to, but possibly for fear that he might, Gus Weston relieved him in the eighth. Meanwhile, Grafton kept her plate clean and scored eight runs on her own account. Except that it kept the players in form and took the place of a game with the second,

which team, by the way, was at Greenbank receiving a rather conclusive drubbing from the Mount Morris' second nine. That contest might just as well have not been played. Yarrow High was not enough of an opponent to test Grafton's ability in any line. But it served to keep the enthusiasm up, if anything was needed for such a problem. purpose, and gave the scarlet and gray something to while away the time with. The next day was to be graduation day, and many fathers and mothers and assorted relatives and friends were already on hand. The glee and mandolin and banjo clubs discoursed in the gymnasium that evening, and there was a dance afterwards. The dance, however, was not for the

baseball players, or at least only a few numbers of it, for they were supposed to be tucked in bed at ten o'clock. Let's hope that most of them were. I know, though, that there are a Jimmy wasn't. Jimmy at that particular hour was perched rather precariously on the footboard of Dud's bed, explaining at great length and with a fine flow of language as opinion of Starrmeyer and coach sergeant and Guy Murtha and all others who in any way represented authority in baseball affairs. Jimmy wasn't nearly through when Dud fell asleep. Graduation day dawned fair and only mildly hot and went, as many had gone before Grafton and as many would later. There were the The exercises in the hall at eleven, at which some thirty seniors receive diplomas and some

one hundred and eighty others applauded deafeningly. Several that we know were among the fortunate young gentlemen. Ted Trafford, captain of last fall's football team, Roydresser, Guy Murtha of present fame, Joe Leslie, class president, Gordon Parker, Nate Letty, Ben Mayott, Neil Eyre, Jackson Eddie, of track and football renown, and some others doubtless. And, I had almost forgotten, Pop Driver! Yes, Pop actually received his diploma at last and bore up very modestly under the acclaim

that almost swept the roof in the building. And there was a royal luncheon in dining hall at 1.30, and after that spreads, as the fellows like to call them, in various dormitory rooms, and still later, lemonade and sandwiches and cakes set out on a long table in front of Manning. In the evening, Forum and Lit held their big debate of the year, and lit one hands down, and the admiring fathers and mothers and sisters and ants and,

oh, all the rest of them, clapped and beamed and were extraordinarily proud. And then there were more refreshments, and at last, everyone went home, somewhere. The exodus began the next morning, but less than half the students deserted. Most of them accompanied by compliant parents and trained for Greenbank at 1110 or 1225 to see the ball game. At a few minutes after 12, Grafton was pretty well deserted. Mr. Crump, the worthy head janitor, remained, I think, and possibly a stray member of the faculty. But Dr. Duncan went, and J.P. went, and Jimmy Rumford,

and, oh, just about everyone. And so we might as well go, too. The team, 15-strong exclusive of manager and assistant manager, and Mr. Sargent and Dinny Crowley and Davy Richards, left on the later train. A five-minute wait at the junction, spent in working off a little extra enthusiasm, and then they boarded the main-line train and were hustled away toward Greenbank and whatever fate awaited them.

Of course, most everyone hoped for a second victory, since it would leave them free to go home for the summer, but there were one or two enthusiasts who were willing to see the series go to three games. Among the latter was Dud, for Dud wanted very much indeed to pitch in one Mount Morris contest, and he saw no likelihood of doing it unless that third game was played. Most of the fellows proclaimed their belief the Grafton would again take the measure of her opponent this afternoon, but secretly they doubted it. Mount Morris had nearly always taken one game,

and today, playing on her own field, surrounded by her graduation crowd and smarting under the defeat of last week, she was certain to make a fine fight for victory. Mr. Sargent, Murtha, Barnes, and Mr. Crowley occupied seats together and spent most of the time between Needham Junction and Greenbank laying plans for the contest. Dud and Jimmy sat together further back in the coach, Jimmy doing his best to make Starmier uncomfortable by staring at the back of his head. There was a good deal of talk and laughter and some horseplay,

for the fellows had the coach pretty much to themselves until Webster was reached. There was a delay at Webster, for a branch-line train with which the express-made connection had not arrived. Most of the fellows disembarked to stretch their legs and harry the station agent, and Jimmy and Dud were of the number. Jimmy insisted on taking his stand on the platform opposite the window at which Star sat, and staring him out of countenance until Dud dragged him away by main force. I'll bet, chuckled Jimmy as having promised to behave, he obtained his release from his chum's grasp. I'll bet that Star will be glad when he hikes out for home. I never knew a fellow who disliked to be looked at as much as he does.

Look, Dad, said Dud. You're enough to drive the fellow crazy. I wouldn't be surprised if he dreams of you at night. You and your basilisk stare. I think the word is basilisk, replied Jimmy sweetly. Not that it matters, however. Not that anything matters except whether I beat that chump out for the position of center field today. Say, where are you taking me? Suppose the train starts up. It won't. You heard the trainmen say we were waiting for the low. and that comes in over there on the other side of the station. Let's see if there are any fish in the stream. Who cares whether there are or not? But Jimmy followed along the embankment to lean beside, dut over the railing of the culvert and stare into the little brook that flowed beneath. I see a frog down there, if that will do you any good.

I like to catch him and put him down Star's neck. They had wandered some 40 or 50 yards back from the rear car, which the team had taken possession of, of, and consequently, when the bell clanged far down the track and the command of, All aboard! reached them, as it did at that moment, they didn't waste time in expressing surprise or consternation, but set off as fast as a feet would carry them. That trainman panted Jimmy will come to a bad end. Whether the conductor failed to see them, or whether he gave them credit for an astonishing

celerity they never knew, but the train began to move before they had covered half the distance between the culvert and the last platform of the rear car. Running over ties is not conducive to speed, and for a moment or two they despaired of reaching their goal. But they did reach it, just when the end of the station platform threatened to defeat their efforts, and Jimmy, leading, grasped a handful of iron railing and gave a spring. What happened next was always very confused in their minds.

They had noticed that the rear platform was occupied by someone, but had not recognized who that someone was. As Jimmy's fingers closed about the railing at the steps, a rubber-souled shoe was placed against his chest, and the very next thing Jimmy knew, he was rolling over on the platform, and Dud was rolling over with him, and the train was rods away. Jimmy was rolling over on the platform and dud with him.

Struggling somehow to his feet, Jimmy gave chase, shouting like a wild Indian and causing a stupendous commotion amongst the few occupants of the platform. But all he got for his pains was an ironic farewell wave from the figure in the doorway of the last car. Dudd, rather pale the face, joined him, dusting his clothes and staring dazedly after the disappearing express. Jimmy, Wildeye, turned sputteringly. Did you see who that was, he demanded?

It was Starr Meyer. He pushed me off the step. He kicked me off. I might have been killed. You wait. You wait till I... But Jimmy was fairly gibbering now. Thud handed his straw hat to him.

Never mind about that now, he said impatiently. The question is how we're going to get to Greenbank. How far is it? I don't know. You wait till I get my hands on that... Let's find out, interrupted Dud anxiously. The game's at 2.30 and it must be half-past one now. Maybe there's another train that will get us there in time, Jimmy.

Jimmy stopped his mouthings and hurried after Dud to the waiting room, unconscious of the curious regard of the small audience. The agent was most unsympathetic. He had been chivied by the fellows and made sportive, and he seemed to think that it served those two young rascals just about right. His replies to their anxious questions were short and discouraging. No, there wasn't another train to Greenbank before 248. No, he didn't know how they were going to get there by half-bast two.

His tone implied that he hoped they wouldn't. Yes, they might be able to get a carriage. to drive them over. There was a livery stable about a mile down the road there, and the distance to Greenbank by rail was nine miles. They retired to consider. A mile walk to the livery stable didn't appeal to them, and Dudd suggested telephoning. Fortunately, there was a booth in the corner of the waiting room, and Jimmy possessed a nickel. They crowded in, and at last, after much delay, got the stable. But the voice at the other end was not at all reassuring. They had carriages enough and horses enough, but just now there wasn't anyone to drive them.

If they could wait until two o'clock, maybe Billy would be back from Chester. Jimmy impatiently suggested that they could drive themselves, and the stable could send a man over to Greenbank on the train to bring the team back. But that didn't appear feasible to the man on the telephone. Mr. Libby, it appeared, had gone to the city. Mr. Libby to gather was the proprietor. If Mr. Libby was there, maybe he'd let him have a rig, but the speaker's declined to shoulder the responsibility.

In short, the only course was to await the return of Billy at two, or maybe half-past, or three at the latest. Jimmy hung up the receiver impatiently. I suppose there isn't a trolley, murmured Dud. They consulted the agent once more. He showed peevishness at being required to awake from his nap and opened the window again and took evident pleasure in informing them that the nearest trolley line

was four miles distant and that it didn't go to Greenbank anyway. leastways not direct. It went to West Shoreham first. The window descended with a venomous bang. Dut and Jimmy, hands and pockets, wandered disconsolately back to the platform. There was an unoccupied baggage truck there, and they seated themselves on it and swung their legs

and stared forlornly at a field of potatoes. I don't know, murmured Jimmy hopelessly. Dudd consulted his watch. It was now one forty-six. In three-quarters of an hour the game would start. And they wouldn't be there. Of course, it wasn't very likely that he would have had a chance to pitch today anyhow, but there was always the possibility.

Dudd sighed deeply and Jimmy echoed the sigh. It had just occurred to him that there was now no question as to who would play center field. If I ever lay my hands on that skunk, broke forth Jimmy, I'll just about... But Dudd interrupted by sliding off the truck and walking away down the platform. Where are you going, called Jimmy? I'm going to Green Bank, answered Dud. How?

Walk. Walk. Walk nine miles? Why, it'll take hours. All right, replied Dud over his shoulder. Let it. But I'm going to get there just the same, Jimmy. But here, hold on. Jimmy followed at a trot. What's the use, Dud? We won't get there until the game's most over and can't help it. I started out to see that game and I'm going to. Besides, a fellow might as well be walking as sitting around on that platform. I can do nine miles and two hours, I guess.

Two hours! Oh, Jiminy! Jimmy looked longingly back at the shaded platform. What do you say, demanded Dud? Coming along? I suppose so, said Jimmy in a weak voice. I don't see what good it is, but... All right, Dud, I'll have to try at it.

Nine miles. Gee! Come on, then, said Dud. Let's hike. End of Chapter 25. Chapter 26 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Lieberbox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 26, the borrowed handcar.

It was hot and the walking was hard. They took to the path between the tracks, but even that was far from being an ideal surface. Now and then a sleeper, longer than the rest, protruded to trip unwary feet and for long stretches at a time they walked over ballast. When they had been on their way only a few minutes, a locomotive whistle sounded in the distance behind them, and Jimmy was for turning back. It might be, he thought a train to Greenbank,

but Dudd destroyed his hope. It's that branch-line train, he said, the one we didn't wait for. I'd like to push it off the track, muttered Jimmy. If it hadn't been for that, we wouldn't be in this fix. After another ten minutes' conversation ceased altogether. They were too hot and tired for talking. The track, with strange perversity, ran for a long way through a cut and what breeze there was

failed to reach them. They watched eagerly for the mile-posts at first, but they were unusually far apart, they concluded, and they soon got tired of looking for them. A wooden trestle made the going easier while it lasted, for there were planks to walk on, but it ended all too soon and they were back on cinders and broken stone again. By the end of the third mile they retired to the ditch at one side to let a long freight trundled past. Jimmy morosely observed that of course the pesky thing had to be going in the wrong direction.

They reached a small station at about half-past two and made an assault on the water tank in the little room. Perhaps fortunately the water had not seen any ice that day. They rested a few minutes and then went on again. A hundred yards down the track Jimmy uttered an exclamation, and Dud turned to find find him pointing dramatically at a handcar, reposing on a couple of ties laid at right angles said the rails at one side of the way. What do you know about that? asked Jimmy in odd tones.

What about it? asked Dud. Why, you chump, all we've got to do is slide that on the track and get to Greenbank in no time at all. And get arrested for swiping railroad property. We won't swipe it. We'll just borrow it, said the other indignantly. I guess, responded dud dubiously, it's harder to work one of those things than it is to walk. Besides, we couldn't lift it onto the rails. I'll bet we could, and all you have to do is to just work those handles up and down like a pump.

You on one side and eye on the other. It may be hard, and it'll be a mighty pleasant change. We're certain to get in trouble if we try that, Jimmy. Come on. We've done half the distance, I guess, already. Oh, come on, Jimmy was already struggling. with the hand car. We can lift it easy enough, Dud. It isn't heavy. Here, we'll toss this junk off, and Jimmy ruthlessly slid a box of spikes and some tools to the ground. Give us a lift, Dud.

Dut hesitated an instant longer and then went to Jimmy's assistance. The car was lumbersome, but they had no great difficulty in trundling it along the ties and then swinging it to the rails. Fortunately, a bend in the tracks hid them from the little station. Climb aboard, said Jimmy joyfully. Bend your back, dud. Let her flicker. She didn't flicker much at first, though, and it proved to be surely a case of bend your back. They did a good deal of grunting and perspiring before the handcar found its gate. After that it wasn't hard to keep it going, except that the continual raising and lowering of the bar

soon began to tie her arms and shoulders and backs. But Jimmy, although the perspiration was soon trickling down his nose, was full of encouraging. There's another mile post coming, Dud. Say I'll bet we're making fifteen miles an hour, eh? More like ten, panted Dud. Wish we come to a grade so we could quit a minute. Bound to be one soon, I guess. Keep it up, we're doing finely.

And there was one soon. It began a few rods beyond, but instead of being a downgrade it was the other sort, and for the next ten minutes they had their work cut out for them. was all for abandoning the hand car and taking to their legs again, but Jimmy pointed out that when they had once reached the top of the hill they'd be able to coast down the other side of it. But Jimmy was wrong about that, for when the grade did come to an end, only a level track awaited them. Still, after propelling that thing up a quarter mile rise, even leveled track was a vast relief, and they let the car run a minute while they dropped the handles and mopped their

streaming faces. What time is it now? asked Jimmy, using a wilted collar of about his neck. They had long since removed their jackets and hats and haths and bundled them at their feet. Two minutes to three, answered Dud. How much further is it do you think? Only about two miles, I guess. Say, suppose we come to a station. We'll have to beat it by in a hurry, eh? Either that or let this thing go, but there isn't likely to be another station before Greenbank, I guess. Let's hit her up again. They hit her up and overtook another mile post and were arguing breathlessly as to the distance they had covered, when a sudden roaring clattered down the track behind them put the question out of mind.

Train, heled Dud, who was facing the rear. Stopper Jimmy. Jimmy threw his body across his ascending bar after one glance behind him. A short blast of warning came from the approaching locomotive, and then another and another. The handcar slowed and stopped, and before it had ceased its momentum, two badly scared boys were on the ground beside it. We've got to get her off, cried Dud. Quick, Jimmy. On came the train, still whistling.

But now they could hear the grating of brake shoes as the engineer put on the air. Dud had his end of the handcar clear of the rails, but at Jimmy's end the wheels were cut. Give me a lift. Here, panted Jimmy, and Dud sprang to his aid. Neither dared look back up the track, but they could feel the rails pulse as the locomotive bore down upon them, while the screech of locked wheels was deafening.

It seemed minutes before they managed to wrench the handcar from the track, although it was in reality but a matter of seconds from the first warning blast to the instant that, pushing the handcar down the slope beside the railway, the two boys literally threw themselves after it. There was a roar, a maelstrom of dust, the sound of releasing brake shoes and the freight gathering speed again rushed by them. Clank, clank, thump, thump! Car after car went past while Dudd and Jimmy, white-faced, breathless and trembling from their exertions,

crouched in a tangle of bushes beside the half-overturned handcar, deafened, choked and blinded with dust, shuddering grateful for their escape. Meanwhile, some two miles distant, Grafton and Mount Morris were battling valiantly on a sun-smitten diamond before the gaze of nearly a thousand excited spectators. The fourth inning was drawing to its close. It had been a slow contest, filled with anxious moments for both contenders. Every inning so far had seen runners on the bases, and yet only one tolly had been scored in that for the visitors. In the first of the second, a pass had been followed by a clean hit,

and a bad error by Mount Morris' second baseman, and Captain Murtha had dashed over the plate. But since then Saylor, for the green and white, and Nate Letty pitching for the visitors, had managed to stave off runs, although more than once a hit would have spelled disaster. Neither Saylor nor Letty had gone unpunished, for there had been hits aplenty for both teams, but neither Grafton nor Mount Morris had been able to hit safely when a hit would have meant to run.

Errors had been frequent, and each team had been about equally guilty, although the green and white slip-ups had proved more costly. Now, with two down and Gordon on second, Nate Letty was trying his hardest to solve the mysteries of the sharply breaking deliveries of his rival. Here again a hit would send a tally across, and here again the hit was not forthcoming. For Nate, after getting sailor in the hole, fouled off his second strike and then lifted a high one to first basement. The fifth began with the tail end of the Mount Morris batting list coming up and Letty beginning to show where. Strikeouts had been few when Nate had in nearly every case been obliged to serve at least seven balls.

Mount Morris had displayed a positive passion for knocking fouls. Nate's first two offerings were not good enough and the third went bounding off the batsman's cudgel into the stand. Then came a third ball, and simultaneous with the umpire's decision, Ben Mayotte left the bench and began to warm up with Brooks. Nate had to let that batter go. The next one flied out to Boynton. Then came another hit, the seventh for the home team, and first and second were occupied.

Nate was slipping now, and from the bench coach sergeant was watching him as a cat. Watches a mouse. One ball. Two balls. A strike. Another ball. Mr. Sargent arose and Guy Murtha hustled in from second to the mound. Back of first base, Ben Mayotte removed his coat and moved into the field.

Nate passed him the ball and Ben clapped the other on the shoulder as he turned toward the bench. Mayot pitching for Grafton, announced the umpire. Weston had joined Brooks and was tossing the ball to him desultorily, his gaze on the diamond. The cheers from the visiting contingent died away and Ben took up the task. The batsman accepted the first ball and slammed it across the diamond to Nick Blake. Nick dashed a second and made the out, but the oncoming runner from first spoiled his throw in the double. Two down and men on first and third, but Ben had the situation in hand and the next batsman fouled out to Winslow.

Once more, Grafton put runners on the bases, Winslow first, after Blake had retired by the strikeout route, and then Ordway, the latter beating out a bunt by a hare's breath. But then Murtha, swinging like a Hercules, only succeeded in driving a liner into shortstop's glove and Neil Errs fly to right was an easy out. Mount Morris's first batsman struck out amidst the joyful whoops of the Grafton supporters, but the next man hit safely to short left and was advanced by a bunt which Winslow, coming in for on the run, scrambled.

A double steel followed, Gordon pegging to Winslow too low, late. Mayot had trouble finding the plate and the bags were filled again. But Fortune had not yet turned her back on the scarlet and grey. The Mount Morris left-fielder, doing his utmost to bring off a sacrificed fly, only hit a weak bounding ball to the pitcher's box and the runner was out at the plate. But Gordon's throat to first was too late to get the batter. Mayatt worked the strike over and followed it with a ball. Then a healthy swing failed and the score was two and one. But a second ball followed and then a third, and Grafton saw trouble ahead. The next was a strike, not offered at, and Ben gathered himself together for a final effort. When the ball left his hand, it sped

straight for the center of the plate with nothing on it but speed. There was a crack of wood against leather, and out and left field, Hugh Ordway, shading his eyes for an instant, turned and raced back. A swift turn, a change of direction to the right, and then a breathless, silent moment in the stand. Down came the ball. Hughes stepped forward a pace and then a mighty shout of joy and relief arose from the flaunters of the scarlet and gray penance. With his back almost at the wall of the red brick dormitory, Hobo Ordway had pulled down one of the longest flies in the history of the duel contests. The seventh began with Grafton still one lone tally to the good. Boynton was an easy out, shortstop the first, Starrmeyer fanned, Gordon got a lucky hit that glanced from Saylor's glove and roll safely past second basement.

Myatt received a salvo of applause as he made his first appearance at the plate, and there were demands for a home run. But Ben was not the old Ben today. Those on the bench realized that he was playing on his nerve and Mr. Sergeant viewed him anxiously. Ben let Saylor put a strike and two balls over before he offered. Then came the hit-and-run signal and he swung at a fairly wide one while Gordon streaked a second. Ben missed entirely, but the catcher's hurry throw was low and Gordon was safe. Ben spoiled the next one, and Saylor made it three balls and Grafton howled and whooped expectantly. But Ben's attempt to wallop failed, for the ball only glanced from his stick and rolled slowly toward third.

Pitcher and third baseman both scurried for it and Seler fielded it. It was too late to get Gordon and the pitcher pegged across to first. Ben, running hard, sent at the throw and dived feet foremost to base with the result that he collided with the basement and that youth dropped the ball. Had Gordon started for home at that moment, he could have reached it safely, but he didn't and a golden opportunity was lost. Nick Blake let two go by, one a strike and the other a pitch-out. Then on the next delivery, Mayant sprinted to second and challenged. Nick tried to hit but failed and found himself in the hole.

Sailor coaxed him with a drop and then a wide and high one, and Nick refused both. It had to be good then and it was, and Nick let go at it and dashed for first, while Gordon tore in from third and myatt legged it to third. But Nick's effort was vain, for the Mount Morris third baseman speared the ball a yard in the air. The green and white was not yet acknowledging defeat, and proved it by the way she went after the redoubtable might in the last of the seventh. Ben was slow and careful today, lacking his usual certainty in dash,

and after the first man at bat had smashed to drive down the first baseline for a single, the home team batters lost their awe of him and began to make trouble. Ben retired the second man after much trouble by making him fly out to Meyer, and Meyer held the runner at first by a quick return. But the next man found something to his liking, and sped it straight over second and the runner on first went on to third. Ben's trip around the basis had been his undoing and he knew it, and after he had pitched two balls to the succeeding batsman,

he turned and spoke to Murtha and a consultation followed. Mr. Sargent was already on his feet beside the bench, a nod of his head and Guy Weston tossed the ball to Brooks and walked toward the mound. Ben came out with hanging head and staggered when he reached the bench, and Davy Richards, a supporting arm around him, led him off to the dressing room. Weston sped in his warming-up deliveries and then faced his task. A man on first and one on third, one down and two balls on the bassman was the situation, and Weston didn't better at any by pitching two balls in succession and adding a third runner to the

basis. On the bench, Mr. Sargent watched dismally. Brunswick, his last chance now, was warming up, but it was a question whether Brunswick could do any better than Weston. Mr. Sargent was thinking hard things of Dudley Baker at that moment. And consequently, it was something of a surprise to him when Dud's voice came to him across his shoulder. I'm terribly sorry, sir, then was saying breathlessly.

But we got left at that place where we stopped, Logan and I, and we walked most of the way and stole a hand car, sir, and we just got here. Mr. Sergeant's surprise turned to cold disapproval. Very nice, Baker, he replied scathingly. It may comfort you to know that you've probably lost the game for us. I had meant you to pitch today, but... Yes, sir, thanks, and I'm all ready to go if you'll let me. All ready to, Mr. Sargent surveyed the boys to shoveled the tire and flushed tire,

and flush tired face sarcastically. You look it. Why, you couldn't find the plate in the condition you are. You try me, sir. I'll be all right in three minutes, sir. Just let me get into my togs, Mr. Sargent, and give me a chance. Will you, sir, please?

Weston had just served another ball to the new batsman. Mr. Sargent hesitated only an instant. Then, I'll give you a chance, Baker, he said quickly. Hurry into your togs. Churchill, show Baker where to change. I'll hold the game up as much as I can, but hurry. Yes, sir, I won't be three minutes. And Jimmy, sir?

Logan, I mean. May he? Yes, yes, only don't stand here. Hurry, I say. Mr. Sargent sped Parker to where Brunswick was warming up, and in a moment Brunswick was listening to the coach's instructions. In the box, Gus Weston, ball and hand, waited uncomprehendingly. Then Murtha took the sphere from him,

slapped him on the shoulder, and sent him disgustedly to the, the bench. Brunswick pitching for Grafton called the umpire. But Brunswick's pitching was an extraordinary affair. If coal molasses is slow, then Brunswick was molasses frozen to a state of solidity. It took him the better part of sixty seconds to get from bench to mound, and once there he had to talk long and earnestly with Murtha and Winslow. And then he went at his warming up very, very slowly, with a wait between each delivery. Mount Morris protested. it volubly, and the stand hooded, but Brunswick was not concerned. Before each delivery, he examined the ball rather as though he had never seen anything just like it before.

And then, having assured himself that it was all right, he studied the plate and the catcher, and some time later he pitched. Just how long it took him to send those five practice balls to Pete Gordon, I don't know, but I'm certain that he established a record that afternoon for dawdling. And finally, just as he pulled his cap down for the 20th time, and he was and the bassman was impatiently pawing the dirt and waving his bat, an interruption occurred. The brand-new scarlet-legged player appeared on the scene and walked toward the box. Brunswick dropped the ball and turned away, and Mount Morris found the mystery explained. Gordon was yielding his mask and protector to Ed Brooks and the umpire, removing his own mask,

stepped again in front of the plate. For Grafton, he announced, Baker pitching, Brooks catching. Play ball! End of Chapter 26. Chapter 27 of Winning His Game by Ralph Henry Barber. This Libre Vox recording is in the public domain. Chapter 27, winning his game. Basis filled and only went out.

Two balls and no strikes on the batsman. A hit meant two runs across. All this guy, Murtha, explained in quick, troubled words to Dud. And Dud, tired of face but eager eye. nodded quite as though Guy had explained that it was a fine day and that the weather prediction was for a continuation of present conditions. Then Guy went back to his place and the graft and sympathizers stopped cheering and Dudd sped his five balls to Brooks, each one just where he meant it to go.

Once more the batsman took his place and Dudd pitched. Stay right! bawled the umpire and waved an arm aloft. The batter thumped the rubber with his bat. Then Dud launched the ball forward. Again it sped straight and true across the platter and knee-high. Strike two! The batsman grew wary. He no longer fidgeted, but put his whole mind on the next delivery. Dud fumbled his cap, took his half wind up, and shot his arm to the right and a round in a swing. The ball flashed to the plate and the umpire hurled his handle off with a mighty gesture. He's out!

Strident protests from the retreating batsman and from the Mount Morris bench. Tears wild and triumphant from the grafton seats and from the field. And another green stocking player faced his fate. A ball, a strike, another ball. Then a drop that was swung at and never touched. Two and two in Mount Morris watching her opportunity slip from her grasp. Then, while Dud swung his arm up, came a quick cry from behind him. He's off!

The man at third was streaking to the plate. But so was the ball, and although the batsman swung at it, it lodged safely in Brooks mid and Brooks, dropping to his knees, blocked the ambitious runner afoot from the plate. Can you keep it up? asked Mr. Sergeant, wonderingly, as Dud sank to the bench and Davy Richards flourished a towel in front of his face. I think so, sir. I'm going to try awfully hard, answer Dud. Well, go easy on yourself this inning.

Let them hit a little if you like. There's another inning coming and maybe several. Yes, sir. Dudd's gaze straying along the bench caught sight of Jimmy. Jimmy dressed for playing with an anxious regard fixed on the coach. If you could, sir, said Dudd. I wish you'd let Logan in. It wasn't our fault that we got left, sir, at least not wholly,

and Jimmy's crazy to play. Logan? Maybe in the next inning. I'll see. Here, what's this? This was Star Meyer picking himself up from the water bucket, having in some way tripped over one of Jimmy's feet as he passed. Jimmy was all sympathy and apologies, but Star only muttered. His haughtiness was wholly lacking and the fellows viewed with real concern the almost-abject manner with which he righted the empty pail and retired into the far end of the bench. But Jimmy, catching Dud's eye, winked wickedly.

The eighth passed into history without witnessing a rubeckon. for either side. Grafton got Ordway to first on a pass and he went on a base when Ayer lifted one to left for the second out. Then while Boynton was at bat, Hugh was caught napping a second and another chance to score passed into oblivion. Mount Morris's first man got a hit and was thrown out at second on an attempted steel, Brooks making as pretty a peg to Murther as one could hope to see. The next man struck out miserably. Then followed a scratch hit that came near to being an error for Blake. The next man, Saylor, fly it out to Murtha and ended the eighth. Bointon

started for Grafton and the ninth by beating out a weak hit and the scarlet pennants waved again. Meyer, bat on shoulder and stepping to the plate was recalled. Logan batting for Boynton called the umpire. Jimmy swung at the first ball, disdain the next two, had a second strike called on him, started for the next and changed his mind and was glad of it, and was finally passed when what Saylor had meant for a strike over the inner corner went wrong. With two on bases, Brooks was the man of the hour. But Brooks was no hitter and only stood there while Saylar fooled him on two slow ones that went for strikes, wasted a wide one on him, and

then made him bite at a drop that actually dusted the plate. Although Brooks played the game to the last and sped for his base, the ball was recovered by the catcher and got there well ahead of him. Dudd had as much hope of hitting safely as he had of knocking out a home run, and he knew very well that he would be doing only what was expected of him if he struck out as badly as Brooks. But he wanted very much to do something a little better than that. As he dug his toes and face sailor, he recalled Ben Mayant's remark that a pitcher who could hit was pretty useful.

And Dudd wanted to make himself just that. And so he tried as hard as he knew how to keep his eyes on the pitcher and study him and then on the ball and study that. And so see if, One ball, said the umpire. Dud took a breath. All right, so far. It had been too high and he had known it.

He wondered if Sailor would try it again or, Stryke. Well, that has certainly fooled him. He thought surely it was going wide. Sailor has some curve on that one. Thud glued his eyes to the ball once more, swung and missed. Strike two.

That was awful. He was as good as gone now, unless... Two balls. Perhaps Sailor would miss it this time. Then it would be three balls and two strikes and Sailor would have to pitch. Just why Dud offered at the next delivery he didn't know then and couldn't have explained later.

It had all the earmarks of a fast one on the outside of the plate, but for some reason, Dud let go at it, and the ball curving inward, met his bat fairly and screeched off into short center. Low enough to have been speared by a second baseman had even two yards nearer its path and long enough to send Boynton and Jimmy hustling home. Jimmy beat out that throw by inches only,

but beat it nevertheless, while Dud seeing his chance streak to second, and Grafton went fairly delirious with joy. Nick hit safely in advance Dud, Winslow fouled out to the catcher and Hugh Ordway, putting all the strength into a terrific swing, sent a screeching fly far into right field but not far enough to be out of reach of the guardian of that territory.

A long, hard run and a brilliant catch and the half-inning was over. Mount Morris tried hard enough in that last period to catch up, but she had little chance. That had no trouble in striking out the first batsman. The next hit safely through second-based territory. The third went out, Winslow to Air, And the fourth, Mount Morris' last hope, swung at a high one, was fooled by a drop that he didn't like and that was labeled a strike,

held off another and at last, just as the shadow of the grandstand had reached the edge of the plate, slammed the straight, fast one directly at the pitcher's box. Dudd couldn't make the catch, it was too hard for that, but he knocked it down, found it leisurely enough, and tossed to air. And as the big first baseman nestled the ball in his glove, the stands flowed onto the field and the game was over. Half an hour later, tired and very, very happy, Grafton was returning home. Dudd, hero of the hour, but a very retiring, modest, even uncomfortable hero,

was wedged between Jimmy and a car window. There was much talk, much laughter, much noise, and James Townsend Logan was accountable for fully his share of it. Jimmy had just finished recounting the history of their hand-car adventure and the subsequent heart-breaking hike to Green Bank to as many fellows as could cluster within hearing. Blake, sitting on the arm of the seat, one hand fondling Jimmy's damp locks, put a question.

Where he asked is Starnow, Jimmy? Jimmy grinned, felt carefully of a large lump under his left eye and made answer solemnly. He's coming by the next train. He was delayed. I hope, said Nick gently, that you didn't damage. him, Jimmy. Jimmy turned and smiled broadly up at the questioner. You wait till you see him, he said in a deep, ecstatic whisper.

Mr. Crowley, pushing his way along the aisle, paused to thrust a hand over Jimmy's shoulder. Baker, that was playing ball, my boy, he said happily. Shake hands. You pitched a fine three innings, and what's more, you won your own game boy. Dudd murmured his thanks, aware of the kindly smiling looks from the clustered faces, and turned his own face to the window. It occurred to him just then that Mr. Crowley's expression was capable of two meanings.

Yes, he told himself contentedly he had at last won his game. End of Chapter 27. End of winning his game by Ralph Henry Barber.