it you. (Oh, robber! That wasn't a strike!
Say, Mr. Umpire, give us a square deal, will you?) Walk right into it,
Dink, and if it happens to hit you on the wrist rub above the elbow
like the mischief."

"Above the elbow?" said Dink in a hollow voice.

"That's it. You've got a chance to square yourself with the House.
Step right into it. What? Three strikes? Say, Mr. Umpire, you're not
taking Nick Carter's word for it, are you?"

Amid a storm of execrations Stuffy Brown retired, appealing
frantically to the four quarters of the globe for justice and a judge.

Impelled by a resounding whack, Dink approached the plate as a balky
horse tries his hoofs in a pool of water. He spread his feet and
shouldered his bat, imitating the slightly-crouching position of
Cheyenne Baxter. Then he looked out for a favorable opening. The field
was thronged with representatives of the Cleve House. He turned to
first base--it was miles away. He looked at Nick Carter, savagely
preparing to mow him down, and he seemed to loom over him, infringing
on the batter's box.

"Why the devil don't they stick the pitcher back and give a fellow a
chance?" he thought, eying uneasily the quick, jerky preparations.
"Why, at this distance a ball could go right through you."

"Come on, Nick, old boy," said a voice issuing from the iron mask at
his elbow. "We've got an umpire that can't be bluffed. This is nothing
but a Statue of Liberty. Chop him right down."

Dink shivered from the ground up, Carter's long arms gyrated
spasmodically, and the ball, like the sweep of a swallow from the
ground, sprang directly at him. Stover, with a yell, flung himself
back, landing all in a heap.

"Ball one," said the umpire.

A chorus of taunts rose from the Green House nine.

"Trying to put him out, are you?"

"Mucker trick!"

"Put him out!"

"Good eye, Dinky!"

"That's the boy."

Stover rose, found his bat and ruthfully forced himself back to his
position.

"I should have let it hit me," he said angrily, perceiving Baxter's
frantic signals. "It might have broken a rib, but I'd have showed my
nerve."

Clenching his bat fiercely he waited, resolved on a martyr's death.
But the next ball coming straight for his head, he ducked horribly.

"Ball two--too high," said the umpire.

Stover tightened his belt, rapped the plate twice with his bat, as
Butsey had done, and resumed his position. But the memory of the sound
the ball had made when it had whistled