FAT DAY was captain and pitcher. He was captain because, if he was not, he wouldn’t play, and inasmuch as he owned the ball, this would have been disastrous; and he was pitcher because he was captain.

In the North Stars were other pitchers—seven of them! The only member who did not aspire to pitch was Billy Lunt, and as catcher he occupied a place, in “takin’ ’em off the bat,” too delightfully hazardous for him to surrender, and too painful for anybody else to covet.

The organization of the North Stars was effected through verbal contracts somewhat as follows:

“Say, we want you to be in our nine.”

“All right. Will you lemme pitch?”

“Naw; Fat’s pitcher, ’cause he’s captain; but you can play first.”

“Pooh! Fat can’t pitch—”

“I can, too. I can pitch lots better’n you can, anyhow.” (This from Fat himself.)

“W-well, I’ll play first, then. I don’t care.”

Thus an adjustment was reached.

A proud moment for you was it when your merits as a ball-player were recognized, and you were engaged for center-field. Of course, secretly you nourished the strong conviction that you were cut out for a pitcher. Next to pitcher, you preferred short-stop, and next to short-stop, first base. But these positions, and pretty much everything, in fact, had been preempted; so, after the necessary haggling, you accepted center-field.

Speedily the North Star make-up was complete, and disappointed applicants—those too little, too big, too late, or not good enough—were busy sneering about it.

The equipment of the North Star Base-Ball Club consisted of Fat’s “regular league” ball, six bats (owned by various members, and in some cases exercising no small influence in determining fitness of the same for enlistment as recruits), and four uniforms.

Mother made your uniform. To-day you wonder how, amidst darning your stockings and patching our trousers and mending your waists, she ever found time in which to supply you with the additional regalia which, according to your pursuits of the hour, day after day you insistently demanded. But she always did.

The uniform in question was composed of a pair of your linen knickerbockers with a red tape tacked along the outside seam, and a huge six-pointed blue flannel star, each point having a buttonhole whereby it was attached to a button, corresponding, on the breast of your waist. And was there a cap, or did you wear the faithful old straw? Fat Day, you recollect, had a cap upon the front of which was lettered his rank—“Captain.” It seems as though mother made you a cap, as well as the striped trousers and breastplate. The cap was furnished with a tremendously deep vizor of pasteboard, and was formed of four segments, two white and two blue, meeting in the center of the crown.

All in all, the uniform was perfectly satisfactory; it was distinctive, and was surpassed by none of the other three.

Evidently the mothers of five of the North Stars did not attend to business, for their sons played in ordinary citizen’s attire of hats, and of waists and trousers unadorned save by the stains incidental to daily life.

The North Stars must have been employed for a time chiefly in parading about and seeking whom they, as an aggregation, might devour, but as a rule failing, owing to interfering house-and-yard duties, all to report upon any one occasion. The contests had been with “picked nines,” “just for fun” (meaning that there was no sting in defeat), when on a sudden it was breathlessly announced from mouth, to mouth that “the Second-street kids want to play us.”

“Come on!” responded, with a single valiant voice, the North Stars.

“We’re goin’ to play a match game next Tuesday,” you gave out, as a bit of important news, at the supper-table.

“That so?” hazarded father, who had been flatteringly interested in your blue star. “Who’s the other nine?”

“The Second-street fellows. Spunk Carey’s captain and—”

“Who is Spunk Carey? Oh, Johnny, what outlandish names you boys do rake up!” exclaimed mother.

“Why, he’s Frank Carey the hardware man’s boy,” explained father, indulgently. “What’s his first name, John?”

“I dunno,” you hurriedly owned; “Spunk” had been quite sufficient for all purposes. “But we’re goin’ to play in the vacant lot next to Carey’s house. There’s a dandy diamond.”

So there was. The Carey side fence supplied a fine back-stop, and thence the grounds extended in a superb level of dusty green, broken by burdock clumps and interspersed with tin cans. The lot was bounded on the east by the Carey fence, on the south and west by a high walk, and on the north by the alley. It was a corner lot, which made it the more spacious.

The diamond itself had been laid out, in the beginning, with proportions accommodated to a pair of rocks that would answer for first and second base; a slab dropped where third ought to be, and another dropped for the home plate, finished the preliminary work, and thereafter scores of running feet, shod and unshod, had worn bare the lines, and the spots where stood pitcher, catcher, and batter.

A landscape architect might have passed criticism on the ensemble of the plat, and a surveyor might have taken exceptions to the configuration of the diamond, but who cared?

“We” had promised that “we” would be there, ready to play, at two o’clock, and “they” had solemnly vowed that “they” would be as prompt. Tuesday’s dinner you gulped and gobbled; in those days your stomach was patient and charitable almost beyond belief in this degenerate present. It was imperative that you be at Carey’s lot immediately, and despite the imploring objections of the family to your reckless haste, you bolted out; and as you went you drew upon your left hand an old fingerless kid glove, which was of some peculiar service in your center-field duties.

Your uniform had been put on upon arising that morning. You always wore it nowadays except when in bed or on Sundays. It was your toga of the purple border, and the bat that you carried from early to late, in your peregrinations, was your scepter mace.

At your unearthly yodel, from next door rushed out your crony, Hen Schmidt, and joined you; and upon your way to the vacant lot you picked up Billy Lunt and Chub Thornbury.

The four of you succeeded in all talking at once: the Second-streets were great big fellows; their pitcher was Doc Kennedy and it wasn’t fair, because he threw as hard as he could, and he was nearly sixteen; Hop Hopkins said he’d be “empire”; Red Conroy was going to play, and he always was wanting to fight; darn it—if Fat only wouldn’t pitch, but let somebody else do it! Bob Leslie could throw an awful big “in,” etc.

The fateful lot dawned upon the right, around the corner of an alley fence. Hurrah, there they are! You see Nixie and Tom Kemp, and Hod O’Shea, and Bob Leslie, and Spunk, and Screw Major, and Ted Watson, and Slim Harding, and the redoubtable Red Conroy (engaged in bullying a smaller boy), and others who must be the remainder of the Second-streets.

“Hello, kids,” you say, and likewise say your three companions; and with bat trailing you stalk with free and easy dignity into the crowd.

“Where’s Fat? Who’s seen Fat?” asked everybody of everybody; for Captain Fat was the sole essential personage lacking. However, even without him, pending his arrival the scene was one of stirring animation.

Thick and fast flew here and there the several balls on the grounds, each nine keeping to itself, and each boy throwing “curves”—or, at least, thus essaying.

You yourself, brave in your splendor of blue star and red stripe, endeavored, by now and then negligently catching with one hand, to make it plain that you were virtually a professional.

The Second-streets were as yet ununiformed, even in sections. But they were a rugged, rough-and-ready set, and two of them had base-ball shoes on, proving that they were experts.

“Here’s Fat! Here comes Fat!” suddenly arose the welcoming cry; and appareled in his regimentals, his cap announcing to all beholders his high rank, panting, hot, perspiring, up hustled the leader of the North Stars.

It was time to begin.

“Who’s got a ball?” demanded Umpire Hopkins, sometimes called Harry, but more generally known as Hop or Hoptoad.

The query disclosed a serious condition. Balls there were, but not suitable for a championship match game. They were ten- and fifteen-centers, as hard as grapeshot or already knocked flabby.

“Where’s your ball, Fat?” you asked incautiously.

“In my pocket,” admitted Fat—a bulging fact that he could not well deny.

“What is it? Le’ ’s see, Fat,” demanded Captain Spunk.

“It’s a regular dollar league,” you informed glibly; and Fat, with mingled pride and reluctance, extracted it from the pocket of his knickerbockers,—peeled it, so to speak, into the open,—and handed it out for inspection.

“Gee!” commented Spunk, thumbing it, and chucking it up and catching it. “It’s a dandy! Come on, kids; here’s a ball!”

“But if you use my ball, you’ve got to give us our outs,” bargained Fat, dismayed.

“G’wan!” growled Red Conroy. “Don’t you do it, Spunk. ‘Tain’t goin’ to hurt his old ball any.”

Awed by the ever-belligerent Red, Fat submitted to the customary lot by bat. Spunk tossed a bat at him, and he caught it, with an elaborate show of method, about the middle; then with alternate hands they proceeded to cover it upward to the end.

The last hand for which there was space was Fat’s; by no manner of means could Spunk squeeze his grimy fist into the two inches left.

“We’ll take our outs,” majestically asserted Captain Fat; whereat whooped shrilly all the North Stars, and quite regardless of their affiliations whooped shrilly the spectators also, composed of small brothers and a few friends about equally divided between the contestant nines.

Some preliminaries were yet to be gone through with. Doc Kennedy was protested because he pitched so swift.

“Aw, I won’t throw hard,” he assured bluffly.

“Of course not! He’s easy to hit,” chorused his companions.

Then, in view of the fact that Billy Lunt had a sore finger, as evidenced by a cylinder of whitish rag (which he slipped off, obligingly, whenever solicited), it was agreed that he be allowed to catch the third strike on the first bounce.

A foul over the back-stop fence was out; a like penalty was attached to flies over the boundary walks.

And now, turning hand-springs and otherwise gamboling exultantly, the North Stars scattered to their respective positions.

Away out in center-field you prepared to guard your territory. You bent over, with your hands upon your knees, and ever and anon you spat fiercely, sometimes upon the ground and sometimes into your kid glove. This was the performance of the players upon the town’s nine, the Red Stockings and evidently greatly added to their efficiency.

Besides, on the edge of the walk just back of you were sitting and swinging their slim legs two little girls, whom it was pleasant to impress.

Overhead the sun was blazing hot, but not to you; underfoot the dust from a long dry spell lay choking thick, but not to you; a “darning-needle” whizzed past, and you scarcely ducked, although he might be bent upon sewing up your ears. Your work was too stern to admit of your noticing sun, or dust, or mischievous dragon-fly. So you spat into your glove, replaced your hands on your knees, and waited. “Hello, Johnny!” piped one of the little girls; but you deigned not to make answer.

To right and to left were the Kemp boys, with their hands upon their knees; and before were the infielders, with their hands likewise upon their knees; that is, all except the pitcher.

“Play ball!” gruffly bade the umpire.

Captain Spunk advanced to the slab.

“Gimme a low ball,” he ordered, sticking out his bat to indicate the proper height that would meet his wishes.

Captain Fat rolled the ball rapidly between his palms, and thus having imparted to it what he fondly believed was a mysterious twist, hurled it.

“One ball!” cried the umpire.

Captain Spunk banged the slab with his bat.

“Aw, gimme a low ball over the plate!” he urged.

Again the pitcher rubbed twist into the sphere, and out in center—field you hung upon his motions.

“One strike!” declared the umpire, and a great shout of derision arose from the North Stars and their adherents.

Captain Fat smiled wickedly: the unfortunate batter was being fooled by those deceptive curves.

“What did you strike at that fer—’way up over yer head!” censured Red Conroy, angrily.

“Darn it! gimme a good low ball! You’re ’fraid to!” challenged Captain Spunk.

Whack! He had hit it. Right between Short-stop Chub’s legs it darted, and you and left-field together stopped it, but too late to prevent the runner’s reaching first.

Chub came in for a tongue-lashing from all sides; and then Spunk stole second, and Billy threw over Bob’s head there (at the same time throwing the rag cylinder, also, half-way to the pitcher’s box), and you desperately fielded the ball in, and Fat got it, and threw over Hod’s head at third, and to the wild cries of “Home! Home! Sock her home!” Nixie got it and threw it at Billy; but nevertheless Spunk, spurred on by the frantic exhortations of his fellows, panting “Tally one!” crossed the slab.

Triumphantly cheered the Second—streets, and busily flashed the jack-knife of each spectator as he cut a tally-notch in a stick.

Billy ran forward and reclaimed his precious rag.

Ten more tallies were recorded before the half-inning closed. The whole North Star nine was red from running after the ball and disputing with the umpire—disputes into which everybody on the ground had earnestly entered. Red Conroy had threatened to “smash” several North Stars, you among them; Catcher Billy had long since witnessed his cylinder trampled into the diamond and ruined; Captain Fat had tried all the most deadly twists in his repertoire; when, finally, hot and irritated, you and yours had come in.

And now, reminding Pitcher Doc that he had promised not to throw hard, Billy stepped to the plate, to hit, to reach first, daringly to steal second, foolishly to be caught between bases, successfully to dash past Red, who endeavored to trip him, and out of the confusion safely to attain third, whence soon he galloped home, and tallied.

“’Leven to five!” declared the sprawling spectators, every one a score-keeper, to each other, as at last in scampered the Second-streets and out lagged the North Stars.

You had not batted, and you were relieved, because batting was a great responsibility, with your critical fellows advising you, and castigating you whenever you missed.

In this their next inning the Second-streets made fourteen! Notwithstanding Fat’s utmost art, as signified by his various occult motions, they batted him only too easily, and kept infield and outfield chasing all over the lot. Yet he angrily refused to “let somebody else pitch.” Bob Leslie even attempted to take the ball away from him and forcibly trade places—a mutiny which called forth an “Aw, g’wan an’ play ball, you kids!” from the waiting batter, Screw Major.

“Why don’t you fellows stop some of them grounders, then?” retorted Fat to derogatory accusations. “Gee whiz! You don’t stop nothin’!”

Thus it resolved into a question of whether ’t was not stopping, or having o’ermuch to stop, that brought disaster.

It was your turn. You faced the mighty Doc. He threw, and the ball came like a cannon—shot, you thought.

“You’re throwin’ swift!” you remonstrated.

“Shut up!” sneered Red, from third. “Who’s a—throwin’ swift? Give him one in the head, Doc!”

Blindly you struck, and the condemnations of your mentors squatting anear raked you fore and aft.

Quite unexpectedly you hit it. You did not know where it went, but you scudded for first.

“Second! Second!” gesticulating frantically, bawled all your companions, coaching you onward.

“Second! Second!” bawled with equal fervor your opponents, coaching the fielder.

You grabbed off your cap,—it is strange how much faster a boy can run when thus assisted,—and madly dug for second. Praise be! There you were, beating the ball, which appeared from a mysterious somewhere, by a hair’s-breadth.

You stuck to second, meanwhile dancing and prancing to tantalize the pitcher, until another hit forwarded you to third, for which you slid, not because it was absolutely necessary to slide, but because the slide was a part of the game.

Here, at third, while you were dreaming of the home slab, and the honor of admonishing, hoarsely, for the information of the world, “Tally me!” Red, the ruthless, abruptly gave you a shove, hurling you from position.

“Quick, Doc!” he cried.

Doc responded with the ball.

“Out!” decreed the umpire.

“But he shoved me! He shoved me off the base!” you shrieked.

“Who shoved yer? I didn’t, neither! G’wan! Yer out; don’t you hear the empire?” snarled back Red.

“You did, too!” you asserted.

“He did, too! No fair! He shoved him like everything!” vociferated all the North Stars and their supporters.

“You’re out! You’re out!” gibed the Second-streets, from catcher to farthest fielder.

“Out!” majestically pronounced the umpire again.

Slowly, obedient to the higher authority represented in the freckled-faced Hoptoad, you walked down the base-line. In some way, apparently, you had disgraced your blue star, begrimed from your manful slide, for “Why did you let him touch you?” accused your comrades.

The idea! How could you help it, you’d like to know.

---

It was the first half of the fifth inning. The score, according to the notches on the sticks, was fifty to thirty-one, in favor of the Second-streets. Those spectators who had exercised the forethought to start with long sticks were in clover, while those with short sticks were having hard work to find space for all the runs.

The sun was not so high as when the game began, neither were your spirits. Much excited chasing, and much strenuous yelling, had told upon you. Your face was streaked; your hair was in dank disorder; your blue star flapped, and your waistband sagged behind, mourning for departed buttons. You were what mothers style “a perfect sight.”

The air had been rent by incessant wranglings. Tom Kemp and Screw Major had indulged in a brief rough-and-tumble, because Screw had thought that Tom had purposely trodden upon his sore toe, Screw injudiciously being barefoot.

Every member of the North Stars had committed egregious errors, and had been tartly excoriated by all hands. You yourself had muffed, and had thrown the ball seven ways for Sunday.

Fat was still doggedly clinging to pitch, and Doc was throwing swift. The two little girls, once your admirers, had gone away in disgust. And the score, as remarked above, was fifty to thirty-one.

Tug McCormack it was who picked out one of Fat’s wonderful twisters and batted it over your head. After it you raced, deliriously discarding, of course, your sadly abused cap, that you might gain in speed. Behind you bellowed friends and enemies, and around the bases was pelting Tug.

Where was the ball—oh, where was it! It must have struck a can or stick, and bounded crooked.

“Hurry! Hurry!” exhorted the Second-streets to Tug.

“Home! Home! Home with it!” exhorted the North Stars to you.

“Pick it up now and look for it afterward!” yelled second base.

“What’s the matter with you? It’s right there!” yelled Captain Fat.

“Darn it! Ain’t you got eyes?” yelled left-field, and “You darned fool!” yelled right-field, converging from each side.

“Lost ball!” you screamed, tramping hither and thither to show that you spoke truth.

“Lost ball!” screamed the Kemp brothers.

“Lost ball! Lo-o-ost ba-a-all!” chimed in the North Stars generally.

But Tug had scored.

“No fair!” objected Billy Lunt. “He’s got to go back to second. Lost ball! Don’t you hear? Lost ball!”

“I don’t care. ’Tain’t my fault,” confuted Tug.

“Course not!” said Captain Spunk, scornfully.

“But you can’t come in on a lost ball; can he, Hop?” appealed Billy to the umpire.

“Shut up! What yer talkin’ about? Course he can,” affirmed Red.

“Shut up yourself!” hotly bade Billy. “You aren’t runnin’ the game. Can he, Hop?”

“I dunno!” confessed Umpire Hop, digging with his toe at a mound of dirt.

“Ya-a-a-a-ah!” sneered Red at the discomfited Billy.

“Well, he can’t just the samee!” resolved Captain Fat. “It’s my ball.”

“Just the samee, he can!” contradicted Captain Spunk. “It’s my father’s lot.”

“Lost ball! Lo-o-ost ba-a-all!” you and Nixie and Tom had been calling as unceasingly as the tolling of a bell; and continuing the discussion, which abated never, the members of both nines, and the spectators, who also were the score-keepers, scattered over the ground to assist in the search.

It seemed that no effort or artifice, even to lying down and rolling where the weeds were thick, could bring to light that ball, until suddenly piped little Jamie Watson:

“Red Conroy’s runnin’ off!”

“He’s got it, I bet you! Hey! Stop, thief!” hailed Tom, quickly.

“Drop that ball! Stop, thief!” swelled the chorus.

But down the alley legged Red, and disappeared over a fence. Evidently he had “got it.”

“Wait till I catch him!” promised Fat, in deep, wrathful tones.

---

You ought to have been very tired that evening at the supper-table, but you were not, for in those days you never were tired, save momentarily. However, you still were green and brown in spots that your hurried washing had not touched, and dusty in other sections that your equally hurried brushing had omitted. Your face was as red as a setting sun, and you were full of experiences—a fulness that did not in the slightest impair your appetite.

“Who beat?” had inquired mother, as you had come trudging in.

“We only played four innin’s, and they were fifty and we were thirty-one, and then Red Conroy stole the ball,” you explained.

“Well, who beat?” asked father, at the table.

“Nobody did,” you stated, this solution having occurred to you. “We didn’t finish, ’cause Red Conroy he ran off with the ball.”

“But what was the score when this happened?” pursued father.

“Fifty to thirty-one—but it was only four innings,” you answered, with a wriggle.

“And who made the fifty?” persisted father, ignoring mother’s warning frown.

“They—they did,” you blurted; and then you hastened to add, “But they’re lots bigger’n us.”