aper megaphone longer than he was waddled out
almost to first base and levelling his trumpet at me, thundered out in a
sudden silence:

"Hello, Foxy Grandpa!" That was too much. I got rattled, and when there
were three men on bases and two out, a swift grounder came to me, I
fell--catching it--and threw wildly to first from my knees. I heard
shouts of horror, anger, and distress from everywhere and my own heart
stopped beating--I had lost the game--and then Marston leaped in the
air--surely it must have been four feet--caught the ball with his left
hand and dropped back on the bag. The sound of his foot on it and the
runner's was almost simultaneous, but the umpire said Marston's was
there first. Then bedlam! One of my brothers was umpire and the captain
of the other team walked threateningly out toward him, followed by two
of his men with base-ball bats. As I started off myself towards them I
saw, with the corner of my eye, another brother of mine start in a run
from the left field, and I wondered why a third, who was scoring, sat
perfectly still in his chair, particularly as a well-known, red-headed
tough from one of the mines who had been officiously antagonistic ran
toward the pitcher's box directly in front of him. Instantly a dozen of
the guard sprang toward it, some man pulled his pistol, a billy cracked
straightway on his head, and in a few minutes order was restored. And
still the brother scoring hadn't moved from his chair, and I spoke to
him hotly.

"Keep your shirt on," he said easily, lifting his score-card with his
left hand and showing his right clinched about his pistol under it.

"I was just waiting for that red-head to make a move. I guess I'd have
got him first."

I walked back to the Blight and the little sister and both of them
looked very serious and frightened.

"I don't think I want to see a real fight, after all," said the Blight.
"Not this afternoon."

It was a little singular and prophetic, but just as the words left her
lips one of the Police Guard handed me a piece of paper.

"Somebody in the crowd must have dropped it in my pocket," he said. On
the paper were scrawled these words:

"_Look out for the Wild Dog!_"

I sent the paper to Marston.

VII. AT LAST--THE TOURNAMENT

At last--the tournament! Ever afterward the Hon. Samuel Budd called it
"The Gentle and Joyous Passage of Arms--not of Ashby--but of the Gap,
by-suh!" The Hon. Samuel had arranged it as nearly after Sir