SUBSTITUTES' DAY

A gong clanged. The umpire brushed off home plate with his little whisk broom. When he turned to face the stands, the fans stilled expectantly.

"Ladies and gentlemen," he announced, "the batteries for to-day's game are: for Lakeville, Payton and Jones; for Belden, Bonner and Clark."

Substitute No. 1

Out in center field, Nap Meeker looked up at the blue sky and said, very solemnly, "This is my lucky day." More than one hundred years before, history has it, the little Corsican for whom Nap was nicknamed went forth to battle with these same words on his lips. To both boy and soldier, perhaps, they marked the summoning of courage for what was to come.

For Nap dreaded the impending game. He had little skill as a player, and none knew it better than himself. This afternoon, for example, he would much have preferred to bury his nose in some unread biography of Napoleon, and live for an hour or more in those stirring times when ambition and accomplishment vaulted straight to a throne.

But he had accepted the challenge to play. As a Boy Scout, he could do no less. Loyalty to his leader, to the team, and to the school, were in his mind as inflexible as must have been the loyalty of Napoleon's soldiers to their leader in those other days. Nor was that the limit of Nap's resolution. If he were to play at all, he must actually help to make victory possible. He must offset his lack of technical skill with strategy. He must out-guess, out-plan, out-general the opposing team. For hadn't his hero once said that most battles were won in the council room, before a shot was fired?

As a result of the toss, which Bunny had won, Belden batted first. Nap shuffled about nervously as the Lakeville captain took his three practice pitches and Bi shot the last ball to Jump, on second, who swooped low to tag an imaginary runner. Then the umpire lifted his hand. "Play ball!" he said; and the game was on.

It was hard for Nap to remain inactive during the first half of that initial inning. He wished he were a star pitcher, like Bunny, with the balance of each play hinging upon his delivery; failing that, he even found himself hoping a fly ball might come sailing to him. But nothing happened to test his mettle. The first Belden batter fanned on three pitched balls; the second fouled to Bi, who calmly slipped off his mask and smothered the little pop-up without moving from his tracks; the third grounded out to Roundy, who made the play unassisted. Then Nap trotted in from the field, only to watch Specs, Jump and Bunny retired in one-two-three order. He trotted back to center field again. In a way, he began to understand what Napoleon meant when, with the war raging elsewhere, he chafed in the city and said, "Paris weighs on me like a leaden mantle."

But in the second inning, opportunity beckoned to Nap. A Belden batter shot a stinging grass-clipper straight at S. S., and that youth allowed it to trickle between his legs. The next batter flied over second. With the cry, "Let me have it!" Nap came charging in for the catch.

It was not a difficult ball to handle. Jump might have backed under it easily. But Jump's play just then, with a runner on first, was to guard the keystone sack. All this Nap sensed in an instant; all this—and something more.

The batter was merely trotting toward first. He had no hope of an error; he could already see the play reported, "Flied out to center field." But Nap, racing toward the falling ball, was fairly quivering with the hope of a strategy that filled his heart to bursting.

He was under the fly now. He lifted his hands for the catch, stealing a final glance to assure himself that the batter was still only half way to first; then, abruptly, he took one backward step, allowed the ball to hit the ground, caught it as it bounced, and shot it unerringly to Jump.

There was no need of shouting a warning to Jump. He was baseball wise. He knew what to do. Plumping one foot on the bag, and thus forcing the runner who had been on first, he whipped the ball to Roundy for the second put-out, before the astonished batter could galvanize his legs enough to beat the throw. Nap had out-witted batter and runner. There were now two out, with nobody on base.

All the Scouts cheered. Bunny shouted some unintelligible word of thanks and congratulation, accompanied by a broad grin. Stalking back to his position in deep center field, Nap said softly to himself, "I'm glad I did it if it pleases him." Perhaps this was some hazy recollection of Napoleon's message to Josephine. "I prize victory," he had written, "since it pleases you."

The last Belden batter that inning swung at three wide balls without ticking a foul.

For Lakeville, the last half of the second began well. Bi laced a clean single over short. Roundy laid down a perfect bunt, and beat out the throw to first. S. S. walked on four balls. And it was in this tense situation, bases full and nobody out, that Nap came to bat for the first time.

Just at that moment, he would have given a million dollars for the skill to lash out a long hit. But he knew, deep down in his heart, that he could never do it. Agonizing recollections of his usual attempts, resulting in feeble grounders to some waiting fielder, seared his mind. Already he could foresee the havoc he might create. In all probability, he would bat into a double or even a triple play, that would wipe clean the bases, like some remorseless scythe.

His hands slipped up on the handle of the bat. Bonner, the Belden pitcher, wound up and threw. Before Nap's worried eyes, a little swish of white catapulted over the plate. The umpire jerked a thumb over his right shoulder. "Strike one!" he said. And Nap had barely seen that ball. No, he could never hit it out.

Bonner pitched again. It was a ball this time, purposely wide of the plate—a coaxer. Nap stood like a statue.

"Ball one!"

A third time the pitcher wound up and threw. A third time Nap did not offer at the ball.

"Strike two!"

On the bases, the runners took swift leads with each lift of the pitcher's arm, scurrying back like scared rats as the ball thudded into the catcher's glove. They were curiously silent. Nobody shouted for him to hit it; each of the three, Nap knew, was afraid he would. Like him, they feared a double or triple play might result. After all, if he stood there and allowed the third strike to be called, it would be better than forcing some runner.

He shook himself angrily. How far would Napoleon have gone if he had chosen to wait impotently? His first rule of warfare was, "Time is everything." At the thought, Nap gripped the bat more firmly, edging closer to the plate. And then, quite accidentally, he caught the signal that passed from runner to runner—the quick lifting of a finger that meant "Steal!"

Almost before he could realize that Bunny and the rest had conceded his inability to help in this crisis, and had determined on the desperate expedient of a triple steal, the Belden pitcher was preparing for his last delivery. Nap watched the wind-up with set, fascinated eyes. It was like a snake coiling to strike.

Before the circling arm had completed its queer gyrations, each runner was in action. Nap saw the pitcher's smile freeze suddenly. Like a gun discharged at half-cock, the ball leaped from his hand and came whistling toward the batter. In that tick of a second before it reached the plate, Nap found himself.

He could not swing and hit it. To try that would be utterly futile. Moreover, Bi could never reach home before the catcher had clamped the ball on him. But there was one thing Nap could do. Gripping his bat loosely, he held it stiffly before him, squarely in the path of the pitch. Ball sogged against wood and bounced back into the diamond. At the sound of the impact, Nap raced for first.

Not till he had reached the base safely, and run beyond it and turned to the right to come back, did he know what had happened. The little bunt had proved so totally unexpected that the Belden players were caught flat-footed. Bi scored. The pitcher, scooping up the ball, shot it toward third, in an attempt to catch Bunny. It was a bad throw, low and to one side, and the guardian of that sack did well to cuff it as it passed, checking its momentum enough to stop it a dozen feet beyond the base line.

Without hesitating, Bunny followed Bi to the plate, scoring on his very heels. S. S. quick to take advantage of the break of luck, scampered to third. The runs were over, and there were still two on bases, with nobody out.

But here, unfortunately, Lakeville reached the hopeless end of its batting list. Bonfire popped up an easy foul. Prissler—well, Prissler fanned ignominiously, just as everybody expected he would. Prissler was no ball player. And Specs' best was a liner straight to the shortstop.

In spite of these minor mishaps, Nap sauntered out to center field with a song on his lips. Twice in that one inning, by tactics comparable to Napoleon's best strategy, he had helped the team. What was it the little Corsican had said after recapturing Italy? "A few more events"—yes, that was it—"a few more events like this campaign, and I shall perhaps go down to posterity." Nap crimsoned guilty at the inference; just the same, his chin shot out pugnaciously. Give him another chance, and he would wind up this ball game "with a clap of thunder."

But with that one big inning ended Nap's opportunities. Not another ball was batted to center field; not once, in the innings that followed, was Nap on base. It was hard to remain inactive, like—like being weighed down by a leaden mantle; but the memory of the trapped ball and the squeeze play was quite enough to warrant his remarking occasionally to himself, "This is my lucky day."

The score:

Substitute No. 2

S. S. Zane wanted to help win that game. In the last half of the third inning, when Jump dumped a Texas-leaguer into the outfield and perched proudly on first, S. S. ran out to the coaching line.

"Take a lead!" he called shrilly. "Down with his arm, ol' boy! Watch him! Watch him!—Slide!—Nice work! He'll throw it away yet. He's no pitcher! See, he's scared green! Make him pitch, Mr. Umpire! Cowardy-calf! I tell you, Jump, he's got a yellow streak! He—"

"S. S.!" It was Bunny's crisp voice.

The coacher turned. At the crooking of his captain's finger, he walked back to the bench. "What's the matter?"

"You are supposed to be coaching the runner," Bunny told him quietly. "That doesn't mean jeering at the pitcher. We don't play that kind of game."

S. S. hung his head. "I—I'm sorry, Bunny. I wasn't trying to rattle him. I just forgot what I was saying, I guess."

There the incident ended. Bunny went out to the coaching box himself, and devoted his attention wholly to Jump. Back on the bench, S. S. swallowed hard.

"I didn't mean anything," he told himself gloomily. "But Bunny's right, of course. Coaching that way isn't good sportsmanship." He eyed the Belden pitcher. "Wonder how I can make it up to Bonner."

The opportunity came in the very next inning. Lakeville failed to score in the third, and the Belden team came piling in for the first of the fourth.

It began disastrously for Lakeville. There was a patter of hits and an appalling total of errors. The first batter shot a stinging liner just inside third, which eluded S. S. altogether. The next flied to short right field, and Prissler lost the ball in the sun. Then Bonfire allowed a grounder to escape between his legs. Jump bobbled an easy chance. Roundy dropped a perfect throw. Specs sailed a ball ten feet over first on an attempted put-out. Before Lakeville could settle down to the grim business of retiring the side, three runs were over the plate, and the bases were still full.

When Bunny fanned the next two batters, S. S. was elated, but not particularly surprised. He knew his captain was at his best in a pinch, and he said as much to the Belden runner on third, who happened to be Bonner, the opposing pitcher.

If this were a diplomatic effort to make friends with Bonner by starting a conversation, it failed dismally. The boy merely nodded, without saying anything at all, and immediately proceeded to edge his way off the base toward home. S. S. covered his embarrassment by slapping his bare hand into the palm of his glove.

What happened next was wholly unplanned.

There was no guile in the heart of the neatest Scout of the Black Eagle Patrol. When he saw that the Belden pitcher's shoestring was loose and dangling, he called attention to it in the most matter-of-fact, good-turn way in the world; and when Bonner glanced down, standing a few feet off third base, and Bunny suddenly snapped the ball to S. S., the latter caught it mechanically and tagged the runner before he could scramble back to safety, solely and simply because baseball instinct told him that was the thing to do.

But it was the third out. It nipped a promising rally. And it had all the earmarks of a carefully planned trick. Bonner looked at S. S. just once, with such scorn in his steel-blue eyes that S. S. wished with all his heart the earth might open up then and there and swallow him from sight.

But he did not abandon his ambition. Sooner or later, he would prove to that fellow that he could play real ball, and that he was not the kind who resorted to questionable tactics to win a point.

The last half of the fourth inning was uneventful. Only three Lakeville batters faced the pitcher—Nap, Bonfire, and Prissler; and, as S. S. confided to Bi, nobody could expect them to do anything. They justified his expectations in every way by fanning unanimously.

Belden threatened again in the fifth inning. With runners on second and first, and one out, the Lakeville infield played close, to shut off a run at home. As luck would have it, the batter lashed a stinging grounder toward S. S.

It was a hard hit ball, that even Sheffield, Lakeville's regular third baseman, would have done well to knock down, much less to field cleanly for an out. S. S. missed it altogether. Under the circumstances, this was a pardonable error. But his sudden leap, backward and to one side, which threatened a collision with the Belden runner coming from second, made the play look bad.

The runner halted instinctively for a fatal moment. S. S., now between him and the plate, lunged awkwardly for the ball, without getting his hands anywhere near it, and it shot between his legs against the Belden boy.

"Out!" boomed the umpire; "hit by batted ball."

The Belden coacher on third clucked, just clucked. He did not say a single word. But when S. S. identified him as Bonner, whom he had already twice offended, he realized what the boy was thinking. And it was ridiculously wrong! S. S. had not missed the grounder deliberately; he had tried with all his scant skill to get his hands on the ball.

What was the use, anyhow?

S. S. did not bat in the last half of the fifth, which proved a quick inning. There was a caught fly, a screaming single that kindled hope, and a fast double play that snuffed it as abruptly as it had flamed. Then Belden came to bat again.

Bunny disposed of the first two batters by forcing them to hit weak flies to the infield, but the third lined far out to right, and pulled up at third before Prissler retrieved the ball. Playing deep for the next batter, S. S. saw the Belden captain stroll up to the plate, grinning cheerfully. He hoped with all his heart that Bunny would fan him; if he did, S. S. resolved to take revenge for Bonner's implied insults by making some casual remark about the way not to hit 'em out. He was beginning to hate that complacent, smiling youngster.

As S. S. waited for Bunny to pitch, his keen eyes, trained to observe by scoutcraft, detected something that made him chuckle outright. The bat which Bonner was waving belligerently over the plate was the same one Bunny had used in the preceding inning, when he hit into a double play. At the time, S. S. had marveled at the weak grounder his usually reliable captain dribbled to the shortstop's waiting hands, and he had found the answer in the broken bat, which had cracked in its impact against the ball. And now, blissfully ignorant of the defect, Mister Blue Eyes expected to drive in a run with that decrepit bit of ash. Why, he couldn't hit it out of the diamond in a thousand years!

Bunny pitched a ball just wide of the plate. The batter eyed it without swinging.

S. S. chuckled again. But suddenly, without any reason at all, the gurgle died in his throat. Something stronger than his own desire seemed to yank him out of himself, and words that came quite without bidding formed on his lips and were spoken.

"Hi, Bonner!" they said to the boy at the plate. "That bat's busted."

The Belden captain lifted a wary head. He was clearly suspicious of some fresh trick, and he never took his eyes off Bunny. S. S. guessed he expected a strike might be sneaked over if he turned away. But when Bunny waited politely, the boy banged the end of the bat against the plate. It rang hollowly, and he promptly discarded it for another.

In another minute, when S. S. saw the grounder come zipping toward him, he wondered why on earth he had warned the batter. This hit ball was going to be hard to handle. But he set himself, with legs close together this time, and waited for it to reach him. He even had time to judge its speed, and to follow its course through grass and dust, and to decide that he could get the runner at home. He glowed with confidence.

Just at the last, though, the ball hit a pebble and bounced high over his head. With a frantic upward fling of his gloved hand, S. S. speared it neatly. But the unbraced feet and the chug of the ball were too much for his balance. He toppled over backward, and sat down with a pronounced thump.

It was clearly too late to throw across the diamond to first. If the play were to be made at all, it must be at home; and S. S. realized in a flash that by the time he came to his feet and threw, the runner would have scored. There was just one thing to do, and he did it. Still sitting awkwardly on the ground, he drew back his arm and shot the ball with all his might to the waiting Bi.

The runner slid. But good, old reliable Bi Jones, straddling the plate, took the perfect throw and clamped the ball on him a long ways from the rubber—oh, a good three or four inches, S. S. decided. He nodded at the umpire's decision. The fellow was out, of course; S. S. knew it all the time.

Coming in to the bench, he passed Bonner, who was grinning a little wryly. "Thanks," the Belden captain said to S. S.

"For what?" snapped Zane, quickly on the defensive.

"Why, for telling me the bat was broken. I liked that. You didn't suppose I was thanking you for throwing out Clark at home, did you? That was a dandy play, let me tell you, even if it was against us; yes, sir, as pretty a stop and throw as I ever saw."

S. S.'s face glowed like a full moon. "Oh, it wasn't much," he said carelessly.

But it was. He knew it was. So was the warning about the bat. He had helped save the game, and he had proved to the doubting Bonner that he was a good sportsman. He liked that laughing, blue-eyed, freckle-faced boy; he wished he would move to Lakeville.

The score:

Substitute No. 3

Prissler, at the tail-end of the batting list, had already struck out twice, and he expected to do it again when he faced the Belden pitcher in the last half of the sixth inning. Instead, he walked on four balls.

Somehow, it did not seem quite fair. He had done nothing to deserve the honor of being a base runner, and he felt a little sorry that the rules permitted him to profit by the pitcher's wildness. He was on first, precisely as he would have been after hitting safely. Yet he had made no hit; had not the skill, indeed, to make one. In some unaccountable manner, he had gained an advantage he did not deserve.

Prissler had batted first in that inning. Specs, up next, flied out. Jump fanned. There were now two out, with Bunny at bat.

After allowing the first pitched ball to sing past without offering at it, Bunny met the second squarely. At the crack of the bat, Prissler dashed for second.

"It's a homer!" shrieked Specs excitedly. He was coaching off third. "Come on, Prissy! Come on!"

Both the shortstop and the second baseman were facing the outfield, watching the soaring ball. Prissler touched the bag and wheeled toward third. At that corner of the diamond, Specs was executing a war-dance, with wildly swinging arms.

"Go on in, Prissy!" he yelled, waving him toward home. "Come on, Bunny! Come on!"

Prissler crossed the plate standing up. Bunny, close behind, flung himself toward the white rubber in a headlong slide. It was nip and tuck between ball and runner, but the latter beat the throw by inches.

"—safe!" came the tag of the umpire's decision. At the word, Prissler experienced an irresistible desire to turn a somersault; and did it, moreover, to the profound amazement of the Lakeville team, which had never seen him so undignified before.

But it was excusable. Not only had the Lakeville boys tied the score, but they were now leading by one run.

After the decision, the Belden catcher straightened up, with the ball resting in his big glove. He wrapped the fingers of his right hand about it, and drew back his arm for the throw to his pitcher. Then, as if changing his mind, he shot it to the third baseman, who caught it and stamped a decisive foot upon the sack.

The umpire shook his head. Prissler, watching the pantomime, wrinkled his brow. He wondered what it all meant.

"But I tell you he didn't," the third baseman said angrily. "That first runner didn't touch the bag at all. He cut across 'way out there."

Again the umpire shook his head.

Now Prissler began to understand. They were claiming he had failed to touch third before starting for home. He tried to remember. He had been running from second, toward Specs, who had waved him to keep on. He had answered the signal by turning in the direction of the plate and—

"He is right," Prissler told the umpire suddenly. "I did cut across the corner of the diamond without touching third."

He could not understand the stunned silence that followed. Specs' jaw dropped in consternation. One of the other fellows coughed unnaturally. In the eyes of the two or three Belden players within hearing grew a queer light of grudging admiration. With an effort, the umpire found his voice.

"Runner is out at third," he ruled.

So, after all, the two runs did not count. Technically, Bunny's long hit could be scored as only a two-bagger, although he had circled the bases before the ball could be relayed home. Moreover, the inning was over.

The seventh began badly. Perhaps Bunny was still winded; perhaps the disappointment kept him from pitching his best. Whatever the reason, the first two batters hit safely, the third advanced them with a neat sacrifice bunt, and only Jump's bare-handed catch of a liner prevented immediate scoring. Then, in his eagerness to keep the ball out of the groove, Bunny walked another, filling the bases, with two out.

In right field, Prissler stooped nervously and plucked a blade of grass. Without quite understanding why, he felt he was indirectly to blame for the threatening situation. It dated back to that play at third, upon which the umpire had reversed his decision.

"But I was out fairly," Prissler told himself wonderingly, kicking at a tuft of roots. "I couldn't say anything else, could I?"

He looked up just in time to see the Belden batter swing viciously against a pitched ball. It was a low fly, and it lifted straight toward right field.

In his first flurry of indecision, Prissler stood stock-still, thereby proving himself a poor fielder. Any expert player would have been upon his toes and away before the crash of meeting bat and ball had dwindled to an echo; for it was obvious that the fly must fall in short right field, just beyond reach of the second baseman.

But Prissler's tardy recognition of this fact was only momentary. In another instant, he was in action, racing with all his might toward the falling ball, and noting, out of the corner of his eye, that the Belden runners were circling the bases like some human merry-go-round. If he missed the catch, at least three runs would score.

But it looked impossible. The ball was falling like a plummet, well out of reach of his extended hands. He pumped his legs desperately. Bunny might have made it in time, or Specs, or some of those other fellows who had the knack of sprinting. He was afraid he couldn't.

With only a tantalizing step or two to cover, Prissler saw that the ball was nearly level with his eyes. He threw himself forward, in a very frenzy of determination. He felt himself falling. But he never took his eyes from that white comet. As he plunged to the earth, in a great welter of dust, his hands thrust forth spasmodically.

Something drove hard against his glove, slapping it to the ground. Instinctively, his left hand leaped to cover the precious ball. A shoulder hit wrenchingly, toppling him over in a curious tumble, from which he recovered with astonishing agility, coming to his feet like some jack-in-the-box, and trotting on into the diamond, with the ball held proudly aloft.

Instantly, there grew a confusion of shouts.

"He didn't catch it!"

"Trapped it; that's what he did!"

"No, he didn't, either!"

"Certainly, he did!"

Prissler smiled. He knew. He looked at the umpire for confirmation. But the official was standing there motionless, with a questioning expression on his face that said, as plainly as words, "I don't know whether the ball was trapped or caught." Prissler seemed to go cold all over.

But the umpire was a very wise man. He looked the boy straight in the eyes.

"Did you catch it?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said Prissler, "I did. I caught it fair and square."

"Batter is out!" declared the umpire, with just a hint of defiance in his voice. He expected a volley of protest.

The Belden third baseman looked at the Belden catcher, and they both looked at their blue-eyed, freckle-faced captain. Each one remembered the other play in which Prissler had figured. To their credit, be it said all three smiled bravely in the face of their bitter disappointment.

"If he says he caught it," the Belden captain nodded soberly, "we know he did." The catcher and the third baseman agreed. Not a single Belden player questioned the evidence.

This decision, when you come to think it over, was about as splendid a tribute to the honesty of a player as baseball history records. But Prissler saw nothing remarkable about it. He had caught the ball, and it was no more than fair that the batter should be called out. What pleased him most was the fact that the runs which had crowded over the plate did not count.

The score:

Substitute No. 4

Long before the spectacular ninth inning, you might have thought Bonfire Cree had done his share. To him Bunny was indebted for many pitching hints: this Belden batter could not hit a ball around his knees; this one was dazed by speed; this one crowded the plate and must be driven back by in-curves; this one swung awkwardly at shoulder-high pitches. Moreover, he had solved a certain sequence of deliveries by the Belden twirler. Perhaps Bonner himself was unconscious of any order in his pitches, but he began always with a coaxer, a little wide of the plate, following it with a straight, fast ball, squarely in the groove, and then with either an out or an in curve. Quite naturally, this knowledge gave the batter an advantage.

All this aided greatly; but still Bonfire was not satisfied. He might have observed and tabulated these facts from the bench. They had nothing to do with his own playing; and through eight long innings, he had failed to distinguish himself at bat or in the field.

Just before the ninth inning began, with the score still 3-2 in Belden's favor, he turned to Bunny. "I am like a coach who never made the team," he said, smiling a little wistfully. "I tell the others what to do and how to do it; but I can't seem to use the information for my own good."

"Never mind," consoled Bunny. "You've helped as much as the best player on the team. It looks bad now, I'll admit, but maybe we can stage a rally in the last of the ninth."

Now, accidents will happen with the best of regulated batters. After Bunny had fanned the boy who could not hit a ball around his knees by feeding him nothing else, and added a second strike-out to his credit by scorching three sizzling pitches to the one who was not on batting terms with speed, the next fellow, who crowded the plate, upset all precedent by taking one backward step and meeting an inshoot flush on the nose.

The minute the ball was hit, Bonfire groaned. "That's good for three bases," he said positively, without even turning to watch its flight over right field.

Prissler chased dutifully after the ball, but it was far over his head. The best fielder in the world could never have reached it in time, and Prissler laid no claims to that title. Before he could pick it up, after it had rolled nearly to the fence, and line it to Jump, via a relay to S. S., the runner was squatting comfortably on third.

"Well! Well!" shouted some Belden fan who thought he was funny. "There goes your old ball game. Look who's up now—'Home-run' Hogan!"

The batter was squat and broad of shoulder. Already he was credited with three hits in this game, and Bonfire had confessed to Bunny that he seemed to have no weakness.

"You just pitch to him," he had laughed, "and then throw up your hands to keep from getting hit by what he slams back at you."

Bunny measured this dangerous opponent a long time before he pitched. But when he finally shot over the first delivery, it was a clean strike. Out in left field, Bonfire nodded approvingly.

"No use to pass him," he agreed. "That Belden captain, Bonner, who is up next, is nearly as dangerous. No, the play is to make Hogan hit to save fielder." Aloud he called, "Get him, Bunny!"

Hogan watched disdainfully as the second pitch zipped past, wide of the plate. You couldn't fool that fellow. But the third, waist-high, straight over, was exactly to his liking. With a hunch of his powerful shoulders, he swung his mighty bludgeon of a bat hard against the ball.

It was a fly to left field, as long as the one that had baffled Prissler a moment before, but much higher. At the crack of the bat, Bonfire wheeled abruptly and began to run, picking a little tuft of grass, yards and yards away, as the target toward which the ball was speeding.

Head down, arms chugging, he ran as he had never run before. Even so, his hope of smothering the fly seemed utterly forlorn. In the first place, he was not a great sprinter; he probably could not reach it in time. But granting that his legs carried him over the ground fast enough, he had not gauged the course of the ball with his eyes; he could never hope to turn at the last instant, and find the falling ball in his very path. The Belden fans jeered his amateurish efforts, and shouted encouragement to the circling Hogan.

As he lifted a foot to plump it down on the little tuft of grass, Bonfire jerked his head around and flung up his hands. Into them, as accurately as if he had been watching it from the first, dropped the ball. He had made the catch over his left shoulder, almost at his neck.

At first, the Belden fans were disgruntled. "Horseshoes!" yelled one in disgust; and, "You lucky fish!" wailed another. But, in the end, they applauded the wonderful play.

In a way, of course, as Bonfire readily admitted to himself, it was luck: the same type of luck that makes a pitcher fling up a gloved hand to shield his face from a screaming liner, only to have the ball hit his palm and stick there. But it was something more than mere luck in Bonfire's case; it was the result of a whole season of observation and experiment.

The secret of the catch was buried deep in the boy's peculiarly inquisitive and analytic mind.

Big-league fielders did not wait till the ball was high in the air before running to get under it. At the crack of the bat, they were off. In the few professional games Bonfire had seen, he decided these star fielders estimated the force of the drive from the sound of crashing wood and horsehide, and the direction from the first glimpse of the rising ball. It was a knack of determining the spot where the fly would land; a kind of baseball instinct that could be developed only by infinite patience and observation.

At the beginning of the Lakeville season, Bonfire set himself the stint of training his eyes and ears. Day after day, while the nine practiced or played games, he tested his own powers. Sometimes he sat on the bench, alert to hear and see; sometimes he wandered out toward the fielders. But always, when a fly was hit, his ear registered the crack of the flailing bat, and his eye followed the ascending ball. Then, abruptly, he turned away. It would fall on that spot, he guessed, picking a target in the outfield; or there; or there. At first, naturally, he was often yards and yards astray in his calculations; but as the season waned, with no lessening of his tense study, he came gradually to guessing closer and closer, till finally the accuracy of his snap decisions was almost uncanny.

"Bonfire," beamed Bunny happily, slapping the hero of the play on his back, after the Lakeville team had come in for the last of the ninth inning, "that was the most wonderful catch I ever saw. Honest, it was. I didn't know you had it in you. Why didn't you try for the team this spring?"

Bonfire stared at him quizzically. "Too big a coward, maybe," he said. "I was such a dub in track events and football and basketball and in baseball, too—last fall, I mean—that I didn't want to run the risk of being jeered and laughed at any more. Next season—" He allowed the sentence to remain unfinished, but his quick smile was more a promise than any words could have been.

With Belden leading by one run, and the game almost over, Lakeville began the ninth inning with a do-or-die energy. Roundy, up first, singled cleanly. Ordinarily, that hit would have stirred the team into ecstasies; now it called forth only a few half-hearted cheers. For Roundy was the last regular player on the batting list. After him, as Specs put it tersely, came nothing. "Nothing", in this case, meant the four substitutes.

Nap fouled out to the catcher. S. S. fanned; he always fanned, it seemed; if he had done anything else, the others would have thought it the end of the world. This brought Bonfire to bat, which is only another way of saying that the game was apparently lost; for every player on the Lakeville bench recalled his ludicrous attempts to connect with the ball when they had tested him at Molly's picnic.

But Bonfire was undismayed. Accidents might happen. Hadn't he knocked a home run that first day of school? And hadn't he studied batting as assiduously as he had studied fielding through the long season?

He knew how to grip his bat, six or eight inches from the knob, and how to take a choppy swing with his wrists, body and arms, stepping forward and sidewise to meet the ball. His older brother, who was something of a celebrity in college baseball, had drilled him in these technical points. During almost the whole of the Christmas holidays, when Bonfire had visited him, the two had repaired to the baseball cage of the college gymnasium; big brother pitching and explaining, little brother batting and—more and more frequently as they progressed—hitting. Later in the spring, two other loyal friends, sworn to secrecy, had thrown and thrown to him in the seclusion of the Cree backyard. At the outset, as in the fielding stunt, he had been chagrined over his failures. Little Jimmy White had fanned him; Molly Sefton had fanned him. But the time came when neither could fool him, when his bat lashed hard and true against their best offerings.

It was with these memories in mind that Bonfire stood facing the Belden pitcher. In the earlier innings, he had flied out once, walked twice, and missed a twisting third strike on his other trip to the plate. Bonner had him tabbed as a weakling with the bat; even his own team mates did not expect him to hit. Bonfire's lips set in a straight, firm line.

He waited unmoving as the first ball sped past. It was the usual coaxer, a bit wide of the plate. But when the pitcher wound up again, Bonfire braced himself, breathing quickly. The straight, fast ball was due.

"I'm going to hit it," he told himself in a matter-of-fact way. "I'm going to hit it—hard."

The pitch began. From the coil of whirling arms, the ball leaped toward the plate. At the same instant, Bonfire tensed the muscles of his arms and began the swing of his body. Ball and bat met exactly above the center of the plate.

"Over left-fielder's head," Bonfire exulted, trained ears and eyes determining the end of that parabola to be marked by the soaring ball, half liner, half fly. "Two-bagger, sure; maybe three."

He rounded first at full speed. Ahead of him somewhere, Roundy was tearing around the bases. A coacher waved excited arms to Bonfire. "Go on!" he shrieked. "Keep going!"

Just before his leg hit the sack at second, Bonfire stole a glance toward left field. The ball was rolling along the ground now, far beyond a youth who was frantically chasing after it. Bonfire swept on to third.

Roundy scored. Bunny, coaching off third, was threshing his arms wildly toward home, as if he were intent upon sweeping the runner over the plate. "Go on, Bonfire!" he yelled. "You can make it!"

Legs pounding like flying piston rods, Bonfire began the last lap of his race against the ball. For half the distance between third and home, he ran without hearing a sound from the Belden fans. The silence spurred him on. But suddenly they waked into rustling hope. The ball was coming in. They murmured. They rumbled. They roared. They thundered like madmen. High above the din, Bonfire caught Specs' excited treble.

"Slide!" the voice vibrated. "Slide!"

Bonfire threw himself forward in a magnificent headlong dive. His hand ploughed toward the plate. Pebbles scratched his palm. Dust swirled up in clouds. And then, as his groping fingers found the cool rubber, he heard a thud above him, and the catcher clamped the ball hard on his protruding arm.

Bonfire leaped to his feet. The play had been close, very close. For an instant, he could see nothing but a cloud of dust. But as it cleared, his eyes found the umpire.

The man was leaning forward, arms flung wide, palms down. And he was saying, "Runner is safe!"

Lakeville had won the game and the State interscholastic baseball championship,—Lakeville and its substitutes.

The score: