The baseball game between the Towners and the Spanish Head boys came off on the following Wednesday, strictly according to schedule. By that time Toby and Arnold had somewhat recovered from the excitement incident to coming into possession of so much money and were able to give their minds to the event. Toby was the satisfied owner of a passbook on a New York bank which showed him to have on deposit the sum of one hundred and fifty dollars, subject to interest at four per cent., while Arnold had that morning witnessed the laying of the keel of his knockabout in Mr. Tucker’s shed. Of the two, perhaps it was Toby who was able to give the most thought to playing ball that afternoon.

Long before the contest began it became evident that they were not to lack an audience. Mothers, brothers, sisters, and friends of the Spanish Head fellows came to the number of nearly one hundred, and the road along the field was well lined with automobiles and traps. The townsfolk turned out in far fewer numbers, but some of them came, among them Phebe, looking very pretty in a new muslin dress and accompanied by two girl friends. The accommodations for spectators being limited to one small tier of seats, the visitors from the Head watched the game from their carriages and cars. Mr. Trainor, appropriately attired in an ancient Yale sweater, officiated to every one’s satisfaction and got, as it appeared, a whole lot of fun out of his job!

There was a marked contrast between the rival nines when, at a few minutes past three, they faced each other on the somewhat dusty field of battle. The “Spaniards” to a boy wore uniforms, and although only two of their number were dressed alike—the two being Arnold and Frank Lamson in Yardley Hall attire,—they presented a rather more neat and pleasing appearance than their opponents. Of the Towners fully a third met the demands of the occasion by removing their coats, rolling up their sleeves and turning up their trousers, another third compromised by wearing portions of uniforms, and the rest were appropriately attired in baseball togs of a sort. Toby, I regret to say, was of the second class, appearing in a grammar school shirt and his everyday khaki trousers. He had fully intended dressing the lower portion of him in baseball pants and blue stockings, but the search for the stockings had been only half successful. That is, he had found only one of the pair. The idea of presenting himself before the public with one bare leg had occurred to him, but had not appealed.

All being in readiness, and one of six new balls philanthropically supplied by the umpire having been shorn of its tissue and glistening foil, Frank Lamson walked to the pitcher’s box, his team mates arranged themselves over the field, and Mr. William Conners, better known as Billy, stepped to the plate. And after Frank Lamson had whizzed a few balls across by way of warming-up and George Dodson had pegged the last in the general direction of second base, and Arnold Deering and Hal Mason had sprinted half-way to center field to get it, Mr. Trainor called “Play ball!” in a very umpirical voice. And, lest you look for that word “umpirical” in the dictionary, I’ll tell you right now that you won’t find it. I just made it up!

I have no intention of following that very notable contest inning by inning. You’d find it tiresome, and so would I. Besides, only four of the nine sessions supplied real interest. The others often supplied runs and errors—plenty of errors—but no great excitement. The Spanish Head contingent of spectators were well-bred enough to only smile discreetly at the sight of “Tubby” Knowles sliding to second base in that first inning, but I’m certain that they really wanted to laugh outright. Tubby was, as his nickname suggests, rotund, and he wore a pair of trousers of an interesting black and brown plaid that were very much too large for him around the waist and almost as much too long for him in the legs. Picture Tubby, then, when, having reached first by an error, subsequent to Billy Conners’s retirement, he saw his chance to win glory and another base by a steal. Tubby’s run was a series of convulsions in which every portion of his anatomy took part. It wasn’t a fast performance, but it was earnest and whole-hearted—and whole-bodied! Tubby’s strange plaid-attired limbs fairly twinkled along the path, Tubby’s mouth opened itself wide, Tubby’s eyes fixed themselves almost agonizingly on the middle sack, and Tubby stole!

Down sped the ball from Dodson’s hand. Arnold blocked the bag. Tubby threw his hundred and forty pounds of body recklessly forward—and confusion ensued! Over and over rolled Tubby, in the manner and with all the grace of a rolling barrel. Plaid trousers filled the air for an instant; plaid trousers and dust together, that is. And then Mr. Trainor, trotting up, spread his hands and cried “Safe!” very loudly indeed, but with a strange break in the middle of it, and Arnold gazed as one stricken with bewilderment while Tubby, breathing loudly, pulled himself to the bag and sat upon it in triumph!

I’m not accusing Mr. Trainor of partiality or blindness or any other fault undesirable in an umpire, but it did look as though that ball met one of Tubby’s wildly waving legs before Tubby reached his goal. Still, Mr. Trainor was where he could see! And Mr. Trainor had a nice sense of justice! And, out or not out, Tubby certainly deserved that base!

And yet, in spite of Tubby Knowles’s heroic act, the Towners failed to score in their half of the first. Tubby got no farther than that hard-won second sack, for Tony George struck out miserably and Gus Whelan only popped a weak fly to shortstop. Nor, for that matter, could the Spaniards do any better. Tim Chrystal’s slants were by no means crystal when it came to seeing through them, and both Tracey Gay, who led off for the visitors, and Arnold himself, who followed at the plate, fanned very promptly, and when Sam Cushing had been easily tossed out at first the inning ended.

In the second the Towners scored their first run on an infield error, a hit, and a sacrifice fly, Manuel Sousa crossing the plate with the initial tally of the game. The Head came back a few minutes later with two runs, however, and so the Towners had but a brief enjoyment of their lead. Two to one the score stood until the fourth. Then things happened.

Frank Lamson had pitched a very creditable game so far. He had a couple of curves that broke nicely for him and he had a canny way of mixing them in with his straight ball that made them more serviceable. Something that he called his “fade-away” was less successful and usually “faded away” several feet in front of the plate. But he got to the fourth inning with only some six hits set down against him in the scorebook, and as those six had been well scattered he had been in no danger. But in that memorable fourth, Tony George, coming to bat for the second time, took a sudden and unexpected liking to Frank’s very first offering and sent it screaming away into deep right field about three yards beyond the point that Tracey Gay reached in his frantic effort to get to it. That hit yielded two bases on its merits and a third when Tracey threw in wildly and the ball rolled past first base. Tony got to third with seconds to spare.

Toby stationed himself at first, hitched up his trousers at the knees, and coached loudly and incessantly, while Billy Conners, back of third, followed his example to the best of his ability. Harry Glass stepped to the plate and seemingly dared Frank to “put ’em over!” Just what did happen during the next ten minutes is not for me to attempt without the scorebook to refer to. I know that Harry Glass tried to bunt and was thrown out at first and that “Snub” Mooney took his place. You’re to bear in mind that during these proceedings Toby’s voice was cannoning across the diamond and that Billy Conners’s voice was flying back like a startling echo! And this had its effect on Frank Lamson. Snub tried hard to find something to his liking, but Frank only put one good one over and Snub walked. Whereupon Toby’s voice arose to greater heights.

“All right, fellows! We’re on our way! He hasn’t a thing! Watch that, will you? Take a lead, Tony! Take a good one! Oh, more’n that! He won’t throw it! He wouldn’t dare to! He’s tired out. O-oh, what a bluff! Come on again, Tony! Now then, Tim, whale it! If you don’t want to hit, wait him out! He’ll give you the base if you wait! Here we go! Here we go! Here we go!”

Tim, being a pitcher, was not supposed to hit, but this time he did, and the ball went straight between Arnold, playing second, and the shortstop, and Tony trotted home. Tim went to first and might almost have reached second. Then Toby, batting last, whacked out a two-bagger that scored Tim. Billy Conners put Toby on third with a scratch hit down third base line, and Jim Lord dropped a foul and Toby scored. After that, well things got confused. Errors multiplied and Frank gave some two more passes and there were some more hits, one, by Gus Whelan, a three-bagger. When the inning was at last over the Towners had accumulated a nice lead of five runs, and the score stood 7 to 2!

Tim Chrystal had his bad innings as well, and Toby, who was catching him, and doing a very good job, too, spent some anxious moments. The sixth was especially trying to Tim and the Towners, for in that inning the visitors got to Tim for four hits with a total of six that sent three more runs over. Meanwhile Frank Lamson had settled down again and the Towners made no more circuits until the eighth. Then, when Harry Glass got to first base on the third baseman’s fumbling of an easy ball and was sacrificed to second by Snub Mooney, Tim Chrystal took it into his head to bunt and laid the ball down in front of base. George Dodson faked a throw to first and then wheeled and pegged down to third to get Harry Glass. Harry, seeing a world of trouble ahead, doubled back to second again, found Tim speeding along from first, changed his mind as the ball passed him into Arnold’s hands, and streaked once more for the corner sack.

By that time about half the Spaniards had gathered along the base line to take a hand in the festivities. Back and forth sped the ball and back and forth dodged Harry, always escaping by a hair’s breadth. Now and then, by way of adding an extra thrill, some one would fumble and Harry would get a new chance of life. But in the end they got him, though goodness knows how the official scorers scored that play, and George Dodson, somewhat relieved, tossed the ball along the ground to the pitcher’s box. As it happened, Frank Lamson had been taking part in the pursuit and was as far from the ball as any one, a fact which struck Tim Chrystal, on second now, at that instant. Tim promptly legged it for third. Three or four dismayed Spaniards hustled for the ball. George Dodson got to it first, scooped it up and hurled it to third. But, as the third baseman was several yards from the bag, the ball continued busily into the outfield and Tim continued on his way rejoicing, bringing home the eighth run for the Towners and joy and hilarity to his friends.

Again, in their half of the eighth, the visitors decreased the lead. It was Arnold who was directly responsible, for he got a two-bagger off Tim and stole third standing up a minute later. Then Pete Lord smashed one at Manuel Sousa that that youth couldn’t handle cleanly and Arnold beat the throw to the plate by inches only. After that another hit, and an error by Tony George, gave the Spaniards one more tally. And the ninth began with the score 8 to 7, the visitors but one run behind.

The Towners tried desperately to add to their margin of safety, but Frank Lamson, although he passed the first man up, struck out the next, made the third fly out to center fielder and himself tossed the ball to first for the final out. Toby was very glad that the opponents were down to the tail-end of their batting list when that last half of the ninth inning commenced, for Toby felt that it would be rather too bad to lose the game after securing the lead they had secured in the fourth. Many of the spectators from the Head had trundled away by now, for it was close on 5 o’clock, but the townsfolk stayed loyally on.

Frank Lamson was first up, and Frank, who had not distinguished himself greatly with the stick, was bent on getting at least one good whack. Besides, he had the feeling that, on the whole, Tim Chrystal had out-pitched him, and he wanted to do his bit to spoil that youth’s record. And after Tim had got two nice strikes across and had only wasted one ball in the operation Frank saw something coming that looked good and let go at it. Toby, watching the ball streak safely into short left field, remorsefully told himself that that was his fault, for he had called on Tim to “sneak one over,” and Frank had outguessed him.

Then Hal Mason, center fielder, bunted and Tim threw wide and Hal was safe. Toby knew he would steal and watched him closely. But with Frank Lamson on third he didn’t dare throw down to second. Instead, he pegged hard to Tim and Tim very neatly relayed the ball to third and Frank was caught a yard off the base. After that Toby breathed easier, for with one out and two strikes on Catcher Dodson things looked brighter.

But Tim fell down badly and Dodson walked to first and the head of the visitors’ batting list came up. That was Tracey Gay, and Tracey had at least two hits to his credit to the best of Toby’s recollection. Tracey was evidently bent on sending a fly to the outfield, for he dropped two fouls outside the base lines before Tim had had a ball called on him. Then, with the Spaniards’ coaches howling at him, Tim got nervous and the first thing Toby knew the bases were full with only one out!

“Here’s where we run away from you,” said Arnold as he stepped up and tapped the plate with his bat. “Sorry, Toby.”

“That’s all right, Arn.” Toby smiled, although it was an awful effort. “I’m not worrying any. You’ve got to hit out of the infield to get a run, so go ahead and let’s see you do it.”

“Oh, I might stand here and let him pass me,” laughed Arnold. “I won’t, though, if he will give me a chance to hit.”

“You’ll get plenty of chances. Just be sure you don’t miss them, Arn! Play for the plate, fellows! Next man now! Let’s have ’em, Tim! Right over, you know!”

A wide one that Mr. Trainor very properly called a ball, a drop that went as a strike by the narrowest of margins, a high one that floated past above Arnold’s shoulder and then——

Whack!

Toby’s hands dropped emptily. Down at second Harry Glass was leaping into the air. From third raced Hal Mason. Every one was shouting at once. There was a slap as Harry’s upraised hand speared the ball. Then the sphere was speeding back to the plate. Toby straddled the base, tossing aside his mask, and held out eager hands. On came the runner, fast and hard, threw himself off his feet and slid in a cloud of dust. Smack came the ball into Toby’s mitten. Toby, plucking it out with his right hand, dropped to his knees, blocking the plate, and jabbed forward with it. Then Toby and the runner were tossed apart, the dust arose in a yellow cloud and somewhere above it a voice cried “He’s out!”